A sob of horror fell out of her mouth.
Except for a glass jar the size of a small butter churn, filled with brownish liquid like a brining jar. Except there weren’t any gherkins or dills in this jar. No. In this jar, two fair, dainty feet bobbed inside. A lady’s feet. In a brining vat.
Ophelia slammed the cupboard door. She couldn’t breathe.
Henrietta. Were those Henrietta’s feet? Had she requested a divorce, and Malbert had retaliated with—with what? Murder? Or was Henrietta held captive somewhere, missing her feet?
Ophelia’s guts heaved. She hustled out of the workshop as fast as her own blessedly attached feet could carry her.
*
Gabriel breakfasted early in H?tel Meurice’s dining room. His night had been a torment of tangled bedclothes and twisting thoughts. He felt like he’d had too much wine but the truth was, he’d had too much Miss Flax.
Telling her of Miss Ivy Banks had seemed a brilliant antidote to the distraction that she, Miss Flax, posed. Obviously, Gabriel could not even begin to think of marrying Miss Flax (the very idea!) and he refused to become like that repulsive Lord Dutherbrook and take an actress for a mistress. Which, of course, was an utterly laughable idea in itself. Although Miss Flax was bold beyond all comprehension, she would never be any man’s mistress. Of that, Gabriel was certain.
However, Miss Flax’s antics yesterday had done nothing to ease the tug Gabriel felt towards her. The antidote had, somehow, already worn off.
When the waiter arrived with more coffee, he deposited two envelopes on the tablecloth.
“These were delivered to the front desk,” the waiter said. He poured coffee from a silver pot, and left.
One envelope was stark white, with a tidy, clerical hand that read Lord Harrington. The second envelope was damp and slightly crumpled. Professor Penrose, it read, and Gabriel recognized Miss Flax’s uneven handwriting.
There. You see? She even had flawed penmanship. Better to think of Miss Ivy Banks’s hand, which might’ve been in a schoolroom primer.
Gabriel tore open Miss Flax’s envelope with the butter knife.
Strange developments. Must speak with you. Will be waiting in the Place des Vosges at ten o’clock.—O.F.
Place des Vosges was a small park a few blocks from H?tel Malbert. Miss Flax had doubtless looked it up in that Baedeker she was forever lugging about. He was somewhat alarmed at her message, but surely if it was an emergency she would have said so.
Gabriel sliced open the second envelope.
An excessively grand letterhead, with a scrolled design of waves and dolphins, declared M. T. S. Cherrien (Avocat) 116 Avenue des Champs-élysées.
Ah. Perhaps Cherrien had found a spare moment before January, then.
The note was in English.
Lord Harrington,
I expect your presence at my office this morning at nine o’clock, regarding a most pressing matter. Your discretion is necessary.
—M. Cherrien
Oh-ho! He expected Gabriel’s presence, did he? Gabriel was accustomed to persons, if not scraping before him, at least addressing him as a respected equal. This Cherrien chap deserved to have his insulting summons crumpled and abandoned among the bread crusts.
Yet curiosity trumped pride. Gabriel glanced at his pocket watch. Eight thirty-seven. He downed the last of his coffee and stood.
*
Ophelia had been up since the crack of dawn. Once she’d sent off the note to the professor at his hotel, she’d fallen to pacing and fretting in her chamber. The vision of those white feet bobbing in the brining vat was just about enough to make her pack up Prue and their carpetbags and put them on the first train to anywhere.
But Ophelia had never been one to run from problems. They usually caught up to you again, anyway. And Henrietta was yet to be found.
Ophelia looked through the window into the sky. Gray clouds bulged. Another rainy day. She glanced down into the garden, and averted her eyes from the vegetable patch.