The clerk smiled and nodded, but as Ophelia was marching away he muttered, “Dame folle.”
Didn’t sound too flattering.
Penrose’s eyes widened when Ophelia plopped down in the chair opposite his in the hotel dining room. He set aside the newspaper he’d been reading. He looked clean and pressed and combed, and he had a plaster on the top of one of his ears.
“Seems like we’re back to square one again,” Ophelia said.
“Square one? What do you—ah. You refer to the stomacher. To Miss Bright.”
“What else could I be referring to?” Ophelia knew exactly what else she could be referring to, but she’d made up her mind to pretend it had never happened. “This is a fine scenario, isn’t it? Here we are dining in a hoity-toity hotel while Prue and her mother are who knows where, and a mad velocipede rider might pedal in at any moment, bandying a revolver about, or the police might come rushing in to arrest me, supposing Malbert—or Madame Fayette or that nasty lawyer—told them I’m an impostor, or the police might come for you, Professor, after our interlude in Colifichet’s workshop last night—”
“We will tend to each obstacle as it arises.”
How could he be so calm?
“I have given it some thought,” Penrose said, “and I feel I must visit the lawyer Cherrien again. Alone. Perhaps at his home.”
“You mean to squeeze something out of him?”
“No one is talking—or if they do, I fancy they’re lying. The police are useless. Yet Henrietta and Miss Bright are still missing, and learning the identity of Cherrien’s client seems to be the key to it all. By the way . . . Mrs. Brand again?”
“Would you please pass the butter?”
“You needn’t keep yourself in such a state of discomfort.”
“One never knows who one might meet.” Ophelia’s eyes fell on a large form lumbering towards them. “You see?”
“Lord Harrington!” the Count de Griffe said.
Penrose stood. “Please, join my aunt and me,” he said to Griffe. He threw Ophelia a dark look.
Ophelia took Griffe’s proffered hand. “Count! How delightful to meet you again.”
“And you, madame.” Griffe kissed her hand. “I trust that you have not met with any more trials dangereux since we last met at the exhibition hall, eh?” He pulled up a chair.
“No, thank heavens. When I told my niece, Miss Stonewall—”
Penrose stirred his coffee noisily.
“—how you had rescued me, Count, she was most captivated. She thinks highly of you, very highly indeed.”
“That is flattering, madame, for your niece is a sparkling diamond, a rare flower, among women.” Griffe cleared his throat. “What did she say about me?”
“Oh, it has simply flown from my mind. My memory, dear young man, is not what it once was.”
Penrose took a loud sip of coffee.
Griffe studied Ophelia’s face. She prayed her cosmetic crinkles were holding up.
“Madame,” Griffe said, “they say that when one regards a young lady’s elder kinswomen, one peers, as into an enchanted mirror, into the future. It seems that Mademoiselle Stonewall’s future is bright.” His voice dropped a half octave. “Even, may I say, très belle.”
Penrose’s cup clattered in its saucer.
“Oh! Well, I cannot even think what you mean,” Ophelia said in a fluttery, matronly way.
The ma?tre d’h?tel whispered something in Penrose’s ear. Penrose frowned. He stood, threw his napkin on his chair, and said, “Excuse me Mrs. Brand, Count de Griffe. It seems I’ve a visitor in the lobby.”
“I am greatly anticipating Prince Rupprecht’s ball,” Ophelia said to Griffe, as she watched Penrose’s retreat. “Have you been to his chateau before?”
“Oui. It is a beautiful estate. You will enjoy it very much.”
“And you have known the prince for many years?”
“Ten years. Perhaps more. We met in Rome. When he arrived in Paris several months ago, he looked me up.”