“Formally introduce, you mean—you spoke to him at the ballet class.”
“Yes. I can only hope that does not impede the plan. Grant might be suspicious of me. If I am able to convince him, despite our first meeting, that I am a potential client and obtain something in writing regarding the transaction, that might be something to take to the police. Unlike the knowledge we gleaned by unlawfully entering Grant’s apartment today.”
“Do you think Inspector Foucher will care what Mr. Grant does? Is it illegal?”
“Grant merely makes introductions, and there are innumerable ways he could mask financial transactions. I would assume he simply takes cash. Still, it will be something. I am to meet Lord Dutherbrook in Prince Rupprecht’s box.”
“I suppose once again it’s no place for a lady?”
“Yes. Well. I purchased a ticket for you.” Penrose passed Ophelia a yellow paper ticket. “I shall join you back here at the first interval.”
“Why am I here? I might have stayed in and kept Prue company.”
“Because I wished to speak to you of this matter in person. It would not do to send detailed messages about these sorts of things. Anyone might read them. Which reminds me—I asked the concierge at my hotel to make inquiries regarding Henrietta at hotels and steamship offices.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Which is meaningless. Henrietta could have used any sort of alias, and she is an actress, so if she wished to remain anonymous she could have easily done so. If she left Paris, or even France, she might’ve gone by railway or stagecoach. She could be staying at one of the myriad less reputable hotels and boardinghouses in the city, which the concierge did not check. Or she might”—Penrose ahemed—“have taken up residence with another, ah, gentleman. I could not discover, either, a convent orphanage that is named something to do with stars. Miss Pinet’s landlady must have been mistaken on that point.”
Ophelia stared at the ticket in her gloved palm. She suddenly felt weary and irritable, and the notion of that Miss Ivy Banks, perched at home in England somewhere, embroidering hankies or painting china bunny rabbits, or whatever it was that a real lady did, made her feel as cross as two sticks. “I don’t like charity.”
“The ticket is not charity, Miss Flax. I was under the impression that you dislike being left out of things. We are aiding each other in a joint investigation, as it were.”
“That does sound better than gallivanting about in Paris with a person you don’t know from Adam.”
She knew she’d really irked him, because a lock of hair had come lose over his neatly combed hairline. “Miss Flax,” he said in a rough voice, “what I—”
“Oh, do look!” Ophelia twiddled her fingers. “The Count de Griffe!”
Griffe plowed his way through the crowd, his gaze fixed on Ophelia. When he drew close, he ignored Penrose and swept up Ophelia’s hand for a juicy kiss.
“Mademoiselle Stonewall,” he murmured, “how ravishing you look in green. Like a budding plant, eh?”
Ophelia said hello, batted her eyelashes, and gently laughed in the coy way she’d perfected for her role in The Serpent’s Sting: A Melodrama. As she did so, she happened to notice that Penrose had crumpled his ballet programme in his fist.
17
Ophelia viewed the ballet’s first act by herself from the lowest balcony. Penrose had lent her the opera glasses and, after escorting her to her seat, had curtly left. He was jealous of the Count de Griffe, all right. However, he’d given her a box of chocolate-raspberry opera bonbons.