Then, suddenly, she heard a loud buzz.
“Why don’t you come up?” he said. “Top floor.”
Sixty-five
?LE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
NOVEMBER 2001
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a pretty girl show up unannounced on my doorstep,” the man said.
Annie stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.
He was tall, over six feet, and thin, almost awkwardly so. His eyes were dark, his features sharp, and he had a tangle of curly black hair. The man was attractive, in a goofy sort of way, but his looks were not what left her stupefied. He was familiar. Annie had met him before.
“Hello,” she said.
Where? Where had Annie seen him? Was this Win? Or some other person?
“You don’t know me,” she went on. “But I know you. I think. You see…”
“You must be Annie. Come on in.”
“Um, what?”
Despite her confusion, or because of it, Annie stepped through the doorway. If she ended up hacked to pieces it would be her own damned fault. She’d not mention this in her next e-mail to Eric. That is, if she made it out alive.
“Yes, I am Annie,” she said. “Annie Haley.”
“Haley. Really?”
“Yes. And … how did you know who I was? I’m … I honestly feel like I’m about to pass out.”
The man laughed. Even that was familiar.
“My brother,” he said with a grin that also somehow rung bells. “I’d been informed there was a chance you’d show.”
“Your brother told you I was coming? Who’s your brother? No one knew about this, not even me. The trip was very spur-of-the-moment.”
“Welp, somehow he knew. The old tosser said that a pretty American had my address and might try to make an adventure out of it. He never imagined you’d go through with it, mind you, but felt I needed due warning.”
Perhaps it was the smile, or the laugh, or the use of the word “tosser,” but suddenly it struck Annie. She had seen this man before. He’d been at the George & Dragon, talking to Gus.
“And that, my dear,” Gus had said at the time, “was no friend. That was my brother Jamie.”
Jamie. Gus’s brother.
Jamie as in James as in James E. Seton. Annie felt for the luggage tag, her trusty good-luck trinket. All this time she’d been talking to the wrong brother. No wonder Gus was so dismissive of Win. Typical sibling rivalry, not that she knew anything about it.
“Well.” Annie exhaled and threw out a rigid, unpracticed smile. “You’ll have to tell your brother he misjudged my fanatical interest in the story. Though I suppose you’re acquainted with that level of zealotry. The chasing-down of Lady Marlborough, for instance.”
Jamie laughed again, same as before, same as Gus.
“Indeed I’m acquainted with that story,” he said. “Quite well as it happens.”
“I’m sure you’re busy, but if I could steal a few minutes of your time.”
“Not busy at all. I’m pleased to have you here. Come. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Annie nodded and followed him deeper into the apartment, trying to concentrate on the gleaming parquet floors and ornate crown molding. Better to appreciate the architecture than remember she was in a stranger’s home and that there wasn’t a person alive who knew where she was, or that she was even in France in the first place.
“Your apartment is beautiful,” Annie said. “Mr. Seton…”
“Jamie, please.”
“Jamie, you must wonder why I’m here. I don’t know what your brother told you. I don’t even have a sense of how much he knows.”
“He had a few guesses as to why you might appear,” Jamie said as they walked beneath one chandelier, and then another. “Then again, he scarcely knows his arse from a hole in the ground.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Annie said with a smile as her shoulders loosened.
They stepped into the kitchen.
“What can I get you?” he asked. “Café? Vin?”
“Coffee for now, thanks.”
“Espresso okay? Have a seat.”
He gestured toward the long, oak farm table as Annie lowered onto a gray linen chair.
“So,” Jamie said, grinding the espresso beans. The smell was sharp and warm. Annie’s shoulders relaxed. “Let’s get to it, shall we? Why are you here, exactly?”
He packed the coffee grounds into a sleek, silver machine.
“It’s about the book,” Annie told him. “The Missing Duchess.”
“Ah, the book,” he said. “The famous book. Only joshing on the famous bit.” He fiddled with something on the espresso maker. “Rather, it was the white whale. The fool’s errand of a lifetime. I presume you’ve read the dreadful tome.” He peered over his shoulder. “What did you think?”
“I enjoyed it. The writing is … excellent. Clever, funny at times.”
“Humph,” he said.
“But it’s not about the book. I mean, the book started everything, but it’s the story behind the story that I’m after now.”
“Always the best part.”