“What has Miss Smythe told you this time?” Ophelia asked.
“Nothing,” Eglantine snapped.
“Beef lard face pack,” Austorga said. “For a dewy complexion. Only two more days till the prince’s ball.”
“Dewy complexion?” Ophelia said. “My dear girls, I’m afraid beef lard will give you nothing but spots.”
Baldewyn appeared and announced something in French. Ophelia only understood Mademoiselle Smythe.
Ophelia bolted to her feet. “Excuse me,” she murmured.
Eglantine looked quizzical. Ophelia patted her stomach in explanation. Didn’t dignified matrons always suffer from digestive afflictions?
Ophelia rushed past Baldewyn and intercepted Seraphina in the corridor.
“Good morning, Miss Smythe,” Ophelia said.
“Mrs. Brand. Good morning.” Seraphina’s spectacles were fogged. “Are the Misses Malbert ready? We are going to the shoemaker’s to fetch our dancing shoes for the ball. Mother is waiting in the carriage.”
Ophelia lowered her voice. “I won’t beat around the bush, young lady. Why were you speaking with the coachman a few minutes ago?”
“Did my mother instruct you to spy upon me?”
“I happened to notice your rendezvous with Henri from my window, and I demand an explanation for your subterfuge.”
“It was hardly a rendezvous, and I assure you there wasn’t a jot of subterfuge. I do not owe you explanations of any kind, Mrs. Brand, but since you are a dotty old woman with a passion for prying—Miss Eglantine was quite right about that—I shall tell you. I was simply asking Henri if he had found a dropped glove of mine in the carriage.”
“Oh.” Ophelia swallowed. “Well. The Misses Malbert are still at the table. I shall accompany you there.”
20
The stepsisters left the house with Seraphina a few minutes later, and Ophelia was alone with Malbert at the breakfast table. She wished to be alone with this doughy little monster like she wished for a splinter in the eye.
“My dear Monsieur Malbert, I am so glad we are at last able to speak in privacy.”
The newspaper lowered. “Pourquoi?”
Ophelia knew pourquoi meant why. In the circus, Madame Treminskaya had always asked her customers pourquoi over her crystal ball, in order to figure out what their fortunes ought to be.
“Why? Because I have two important questions to ask you.” Ophelia took a deep breath. “First, did the Marquise Henrietta ever see the diamond stomacher you keep in your lockbox at the bank?”
To Ophelia’s surprise, Malbert’s face dimpled in a smile. “Did my daughters tell you of the stomacher?”
“Indeed they did.”
“And I suppose one of them—Eglantine?—enlisted you to convince me to allow her to wear it to the ball?”
“If you must know . . . yes.”
“But what does my dear, darling Henrietta have to do with it?”
Ophelia thought fast. “It occurred to me that perhaps you had given the stomacher to Henrietta and that it was no longer truly in the bank box, and that is why you will not permit either of your daughters to wear it.”
“No, no, the stomacher is still in the bank. Oui, I showed it to Henrietta, but she preferred to keep for herself different, more fashionable pieces of jewelry instead.”
“When was this?”
Malbert blinked rapidly. “I cannot recall. Three or four months ago, perhaps?”
“Did Henrietta have a key to the bank box?”
“No, but I share everything with my dear wife.”
Mighty interesting.
“That was the last time you laid eyes on the stomacher?” Ophelia asked.
“Oui.”
“Monsieur Malbert, I don’t know quite how to put this, and I do realize it is indelicate, but as I have taken it upon myself to look after Miss Bright until her mother has been found, well, might I ask, did Henrietta wish for”—Ophelia lowered her voice to a whisper—“a divorce?”
“Good heavens, no! We were only married last spring! And we were—are—deeply amoureux.”