Dangerous to Know

join our party.”

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said, confused and a bit frightened, unsure what to say or do.

“You know how it is when you’re having trouble with household staff. I shall make sure Marie is disciplined firmly,” she continued. “She must have neglected to send my note.”

Cécile and I exchanged baffled glances while Monsieur Leblanc stared at his plate.

“You must, however, give me the name of your newfound dressmaker,” Madeline continued, her voice light and happy. “You did promise and I can’t have you keeping secrets from me.”

George entered the room, his mother-in-law conspicuously absent, and the moment Madeline saw him, her manner changed. But it wasn’t simply her manner—the light in her eyes altered conspicuously. “Apologies,” he said. “In the end I thought it best Madame Breton not join us.”

“Should I go to her?” Madeline asked, her pretty lips pressed together, her face pale. The transformation unnerved me. She looked entirely different than she had just moments ago and showed no sign of being aware of what had happened.

“She’s settled, but I’m sure would enjoy some company,” George said. “I was afraid talk of an intruder might upset her.”

“Of course,” Madeline said. “You’re so considerate, my dear. Will you excuse me? I’ll go sit with her.”

When she’d gone, George took her untouched douillon and scooped up an enormous bite. “It’s terrible, this trouble with her mother. She’s been ill for as long as I’ve known her, but it’s got much worse in the past few years. It used to be she was just a bit batty, but her forgetfulness was almost entertaining. Now, though, it’s as if the charming, refined woman she used to be is disappearing entirely.”

“How dreadful,” I said, wondering if it would be appropriate to mention his wife’s apparent lapse in sanity. “And there’s nothing to be done?”

“Apparently not.” He swallowed another bite of pastry. “I’ve researched the matter thoroughly. It’s wrenching to watch her. Would break the heart of the strongest man.”

“Je suis desolée,” Cécile said.

“You’re very kind,” he said. “We did not, however, bring you here to earn your pity. Maman’s condition is something we must bear, but expending too much focus on it will serve to do nothing but depress us. Have you finished your tea? I want to show you the painting.”

“Monsieur,” Cécile said. “Unless I am drinking champagne, I am always finished.”

“An admirable policy. I think I should adopt it myself.” He ushered us out of the room and down a long corridor. “As you can see, this part of the château is much more livable than the rest. It’s almost modern.” We entered a grand hall, this one done in shades of green, from the darkest forest to pale lime. In the center, standing on an easel, was Monet’s painting.

“Rouen,” Cécile said. “One of my favorite cathedrals.” Golden tan hues dominated the canvas, the building seeming to soar from the street, the brushstrokes easy and loose.

“I’m afraid I couldn’t tell whether it was Notre Dame de Paris or Notre Dame de Rouen. Churches aren’t my specialty,” George said, continuing forward, a curious look on his face. “This was not here before.” He picked up an envelope resting against the canvas, glanced at it, frowned, and handed it to me. My name was scrawled across the front. With shaking hands, I opened it and pulled out the note it contained:

It is good of you to come back to me.

4

Sebastian’s arrival excited me more than a little. He amused me, and I rejoiced at having something other than all things tragic to think about. Colin’s response, on the other hand, might be less than rhapsodically enthusiastic, and this caused me no small measure of concern. As soon as Cécile and I had returned to his mother’s house, I gave the envelope to him. His dark eyes danced when he read Sebastian’s missive. “I knew it,” he said. “Am I to have a rival, Emily?”

“Far from it,” I said, taking the note back from him. The afternoon had turned chill as a bracing rain began, and we gathered in a timbered sitting room in front of a hulking stone chimneypiece to take champagne tea, a concept introduced by Cécile and embraced at once by my husband. He had opened for us a bottle of Moët, and Cécile was inspecting the bubbles in her glass.

“You know, Monsieur Hargreaves, that I much admire our clever thief,” Cécile said. “But his every quality pales in comparison to you.”

“I do appreciate the vote of confidence, Cécile,” my husband said, inspecting an array of hors d’oeuvres on the table before him. Oignons blancs farcis, stuffed with herbed roast pork and Gruyère cheese, poached truffles, and a spectacular pâté de campagne. “I’m not surprised in the least, now that we know your old friend is behind this, Emily, that he should have found you. No doubt when he learned you were in France he set about manufacturing a circumstance to bring himself back to your attention. He could have easily determined that my mother is friends with George Markham—it’s reasonable to assume two expats living in such close proximity would keep company.”

“So he stole a painting to get my attention?”

“I think he stole it to ward off ennui,” Cécile said. “His life has undoubtedly become tedious since he’s stopped following Emily.”

“An excellent point,” Colin said. “But now that he—”

“Who is following Lady Emily?” Mrs. Hargreaves asked, entering the room and sitting next to her son.

“An old nemesis, mother,” Colin said. “And the man who put the painting in the Markhams’ house.”

“Sebastian is far from a nemesis,” I said. “If you remember, he turned out to be quite good.”

My mother-in-law coughed. “Sebastian? You are on a first-name basis with a thief?”

“He’s not simply a thief. In the end, he agreed to protect—” I began.

She raised a hand to silence me. “I’m afraid we haven’t time for it now, Lady Emily. I’ve come with business. Are you well enough to speak to Inspector Gaudet? I worried that perhaps this gallivanting about the countryside might have set your recovery back, so I’ve left him waiting in the corridor while I inquire.”

“I’m much better, thank you,” I said. “But I do very much appreciate your touching concern for my health.” Now it was Cécile’s turn to cough, and I caught a wicked glint in Colin’s eyes at my ironic tone. His mother disappeared only for a moment, returning with the inspector.

Gaudet nodded sharply at us as he entered the room. “I understand you believe you’ve identified our thief?”

“He’s someone familiar to me, yes,” I said.

“Has this man a history of violence?”

“No,” I said. “None at all. He’s more likely to protect someone than harm him.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “I do hope you’re not operating under the misapprehension that your limited experience has rendered you capable of judging the criminal mind.”

“Emily is more than capable,” Colin said. “She knows this man—Sebastian Capet, he calls himself—as well as anyone.”

“Do you consider him dangerous, Monsieur Hargreaves?” the inspector asked.

“I would hesitate to consider him in any way until I learn where he was at the time of the murder.”

“We are searching for him now,” Gaudet said. “Although it seems a hopeless business. He’s left no clue as to his whereabouts.”

“Have you identified the murdered girl?” I asked.

“Oui,” he said. “Edith Prier. An inmate who’d escaped from an asylum outside Rouen nearly six months ago. Her family lives in the city and her father identified the body.”

Nausea swept through me at the thought. To have found the body of a stranger in such a condition was bad enough. Seeing a loved one so brutally slain would be beyond anything I could tolerate. Plagued with thoughts of the baby I’d lost, my senses all began to swim.

“Have you any leads in the case?” Colin asked.

“None. We’ve found no evidence, no suspects, no witnesses. But that’s why I’m here, Lady Emily. I need you