up with me. And Lilian had proved her determination more than somewhat. I’d not shake her off in a trice.
Lorela Chevalier on the other hand had definite possibilities. Lovely, attractive, feminine as a flower. But with the giant responsibility of her great Repository? And willing to offer heaven-knows-what for me to replace old Leon? To live with the glorious Lorela, in utter affluence, comfort, warmth, wealth, surrounded by the densest collection of perfect antiques the world could assemble? I’d die of ecstasy in a week.
No Paradise for the likes of me.
“Are you going to the hotel, Lovejoy?” I’d stopped at the square where me and Gobbie’d met. And Lysette.
“Well, aye.” I felt uncomfortable. I’d nearly said I’d nowhere else to go.
“Miss Danglass is waiting there, Lovejoy.” Lysette was standing close. The wind whipped our coats about us.
“Jodie Danglass?”
“Yes. She’s been waiting a while. She said she has urgent offers from a Big John Sheehan, about some glass replicas he wants you to market for him. He’s asking after some Carolean mica playing cards he bought from a young widow. It’s rather complex, Lovejoy.” Sherry Bavington, the bitch. She must have come calling, nicked the micas from my ever-open cottage. I’d strangle the thieving cow, after I got a lock for the door.
“Aye, it would be complex all right.” With Big John Sheehan it was never easy, cheap, or straightforward. Sending Jodie to France was his way of saying to the trade that he had nothing to do with the child labour—not that anybody’d ever believe he had. “She mention which? The Portland Vases?”
Lysette’s eyes were pure, that ultra-blue you get in Greek paintings.
“Lovejoy. I don’t think you should become involved in something new, not just yet. Not with Monsieur Pascal’s team still investigating.” Pause. “Do you?”
“No,” I tried, cleared my throat. “No,” I said, firmer.
“Darling, I have an idea.” She smoothed my lapel. I hardly felt her hand. “Paris can become rather crowded. Would you like to stay somewhere else? Only for a short while, not too long.”
“Stay?”
“Yes. Rest, read, have time to visit interesting museums.” She smiled, quite casual. The wind swooshed her hair across her face. She scraped it aside with a reproving tut. “Some antique shops aren’t quite played out. That sort of thing.”
“What about Pascal and Lilian, the rest?”
“Need we tell them where we are going, darling? I think not.”
“We’d never make it.”
She smiled. “Oh, yes we would, Lovejoy.”
“You’re not an antiques hunter too?” It was a joke, but came out despairing. What had I thought, those epochs ago: that too many people were paid but loving eyes.
“Not yet.” Her reply started out serious, emerged as a joke. I felt her smile.
“Let me think.” I stood there. She slipped her arm into mine, and we sat on the curved bench beneath the tree. “Hang on,” I said. She’d put her arm round my shoulders, pulled my head gently down on to her shoulder. It was the wrong way round. I’m the masterful all-caring protective provider. She was the weaker vessel. “If Jodie Danglass is here from home, and Lorela Chevalier is offering…”
“Shhh,” she went. Her fingertips pressed my cheek, turning me to her. She touched her mouth on mine, very soft.
Applause sounded. The cafe windows were crowded, grinning faces and salutations everywhere. She broke away, scarlet.
“Look,” I said. “How about we try that, then? Might as well, eh?”
Took me less than ten minutes to talk her into it. One thing, I’d not lost the knack of persuasion.
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[scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]
[December 9, 2003—v1 html proofed and formatted by AnneH for Shakespeare's Typing Monkeys]
