“Yes, I suppose you love everything about Henrietta, such as . . . her feet.”
“What a strange thing to say, Madame Brand.” Up went the newspaper.
Well, that was the end of their cozy chat, then.
*
“Thank you for your punctuality,” Monsieur Cherrien said to Gabriel across a gleaming expanse of desk. “My time is valuable.”
Cherrien spoke in French, and his voice was only just past the yodeling stage. If Gabriel had seen him on the street, he would have gauged him to be not more than twenty years old. Yet that couldn’t be right. Not unless he had taken up studying the law while still in short pants.
“Please”—Cherrien gestured to a chair—“sit.”
Gabriel sat. The chair had evidently been constructed for an elf, because once seated, Gabriel found that his chin was scarcely higher than the edge of the desk.
“Now then.” Cherrien steepled his hands. “I suppose you are wondering why I have summoned you here this morning.”
“The thought has flitted through my mind, yes. But first—your secretary did tell you that I called here yesterday morning? Yes? Good. I wished to speak with you regarding the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau. She is a client of yours, I have been led to believe, and she wished for a divorce—”
Something flashed in Cherrien’s eyes. Alarm? Then it was gone.
“—and now, as you are doubtless aware, she is missing. What do you know of this affair, Monsieur Cherrien?”
“Know? Nothing.”
He was lying. But Gabriel had no means to make him talk.
Cherrien waved his hand. “I do not have much time. Now. I have learned through certain avenues that you are well aware of the existence of a certain . . . item. An item that holds great significance as a historical relic, a significance that surpasses even its monetary value, which is not to be sneezed at, as I believe you English are fond of saying.”
“Are we?”
Cherrien made a chilly little smile. “Cendrillon’s stomacher. I see in your face that you know of it. My client wishes to have it.”
“And your client is—?”
“That is confidential.”
“But your client is aware that it is a priceless relic. That it belonged to Cendrillon, and that some say it is imbued with magical powers.”
“As a gentleman of the law, it is beyond my capacity to assess the magical attributes of items, although I am willing to believe that it did indeed belong to a real lady who came to be known as Cendrillon. My opinion on the matter is neither here nor there. My client wishes for the stomacher, and it is my job to procure it for—”
Gabriel held his breath, waiting for Cherrien to slip up and say him or her.
But Cherrien caught himself. After a pause he said, “I require you to perform the legwork in locating the stomacher. I am a very busy man, and I understand that you are experienced with such things.”
“Who told you that?” Lady Cruthlach. This had to be her doing.
“Bring me the stomacher by no later than ten o’clock on Saturday morning.”
“Why Saturday?”
“Do not worry yourself with details.”
“Why would I do this for you? Or for your client?”
“Because if you do not, I will be forced to go to the police and inform them of an American actress who has, in an exceedingly bizarre fashion, insinuated herself into the household of the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau. It has a certain—what is it?—a romantic element, does it not? The actress and the earl, scheming to steal Cinderella’s diamond stomacher. Alas, my client grows impatient.”
Gabriel stood. “Good day, Cherrien.” He went to the door.
“Get me the stomacher, Lord Harrington,” Cherrien called after him, “or I shall be forced to have your little confidence trickster of an actress arrested.”
Gabriel attempted not to slam the door as he left.
*
Just as Ophelia was gathering her Baedeker and reticule—it was almost time to go meet Professor Penrose—there was a knock at her bedchamber door.