“Only, he believes I’m an heiress from Cleveland.”
“A trifle. I once told a fellow my family owned a million acres in California. That tale was worth a Mediterranean yacht cruise.”
Ophelia gulped more of Henrietta’s wine. Was this what she’d become? Simply another opportunistic actress? Ugh. “I want a full story about where you’ve been, and why,” she said.
“You’ve always been such a schoolmarm, Ophelia. Why don’t we simply enjoy ourselves? This ball is magical! I—”
“Now,” Ophelia said. She took Henrietta by the elbow. Henrietta swiped another glass of wine from the table, and Ophelia steered her through the mob and onto the terrace.
“Start at the beginning,” Ophelia said.
“I met Malbert in New York. He swept me quite off my feet.”
“Hard to picture.”
“Well, you know. His title. And he mentioned a mansion in Paris.”
“Did you know he was already married?”
“Goodness! You don’t beat about the bush, do you?”
“No.”
“At first, Malbert told me his wife was dead. When I pressed him for details, he confessed. I was rather relieved, because once we’d actually arrived in Paris it became quite, quite clear that he’s broke, and those daughters of his did not take a shine to me. Nor I to them. I did, alas, make the error of confessing to that devious little couturière, Madame Fayette, that I was not truly a marquise, and that I had a daughter in the corps de ballet at the opera house, for which I paid a pretty price.”
“Your diamond bracelet.”
“My, you’ve been busy, Ophelia. Yes. At any rate, playing at marquise provided me with a splendid vantage point to scout out new opportunities.”
“Is that where you’ve been for the last week and a half? Scouting a new opportunity?”
“Well, it didn’t start out that way. I was simply visiting my dear friend, the authoress Artemis Stunt, at her chateau in Champagne.”
Artemis Stunt? Now why did that . . . ? “Did Artemis Stunt happen to pen a book entitled How to Address Your Betters?” Ophelia asked.
“Ingratiating drivel, but she’s earning buckets from it.”
“And do Artemis’s friends call her Arty?”
“Yes. But more important . . . we were in Champagne, darling. Do you understand what they’ve got locked up in their cellars? Champagne as far as the eye can see! It’s like paradise. It just so happened that Artemis’s new husband—some old Frenchman who looks like a scarecrow—had a gentleman friend—”
“All right,” Ophelia said. She could guess the rest. “Back up a little. What about the lawyer, Monsieur Cherrien?”
A crease appeared between Henrietta’s eyebrows. “How do you know of him?”
“You are his client? But surely not for divorce—”
“Obviously not. I shall tell you, but you must keep mum. Promise?”
Ophelia crossed her fingers. “Promise.”
“Cherrien wrote me, out of the blue, three or four months ago, and offered to pay a staggering sum for an ugly diamond stomacher kept in Malbert’s bank box.”
“You sold it to the lawyer?”
“It’s a hideous thing, Ophelia. Only grannies would wear it.”
If only that were true.
“The sum from Cherrien has tided me over quite nicely, since Malbert cannot afford me. Cherrien wrote to me last week and asked if there were any other antique items I would be willing to sell. It seems his client is excessively interested in the Roque-Fabliau estate. Inexplicably, of course. Those mice! All the droppings.”
That explained the half-burned envelope Ophelia had found in Henrietta’s grate. But Ophelia wouldn’t tell Henrietta just yet that Prince Rupprecht was Cherrien’s client. She didn’t wish to stem the flow of Henrietta’s confessions.
“I’m done with Malbert,” Henrietta said. “And selling off one piece of jewelry seemed my due. But two?”
“Malbert thinks you’re dead, you know.”