‘I have looked.’ This time my voice carried. It was foolish to draw attention to myself, but for my own honour, I couldn’t allow the Canary’s bad manners to go unchecked. ‘And I hope that if you ever must endure whatever that man went through, that you will be shown the compassion that you deny him.’
The lieutenant didn’t respond, maintaining his rigid posture, the beautiful side of his face showing no emotion. He saluted the tall man and limped to the door. Just before he exited, he looked at me. I met his eyes without flinching and smiled.
‘Well, if you didn’t have a reputation before, you do now.’ Julian’s droll voice sounded impressed. He pressed a glass of champagne into my hand. ‘You find all the wrong people all on your own.’
‘You don’t know how true that is,’ I murmured.
‘Don’t listen to Julian, my dear.’ A woman appeared, linking her arm in Julian’s. She leant her head against his shoulder and watched me with savvy eyes. She was a few years older than I, but pretty, with chestnut curls set off by a deep violet silk frock. ‘What you did was very brave.’
‘Why brave? He wasn’t going to attack me.’
‘No, my dear. Brave to antagonise our Spanish friend. Laura can be a right bitch.’
‘Claudine!’
‘She can, and you know it, Julian. Why her husband puts up with her, or her philandering, is anyone’s guess. It’s not as if she’s even subtle about it. He –’ she indicated the tall man – ‘is only the latest in a very long line.’
Claudine ignored Julian’s rude suggestion and tilted her head to the side, long earrings catching in the heavy jewelled torque at her neck. One hand idly released it as she stared at me.
‘I know you.’
‘I really don’t think so.’
Mild panic had me push away the thought of the tall man with the Canary, mentally flicking through the catalogue of my contacts. And coming up blank.
She tapped one fingernail against her teeth, dark eyes narrowing.
‘Yes, I believe it’s you. You moved in to the cottage across the way from me yesterday. I’ve seen the deliveries to your door all week. I meant to stop by earlier to introduce myself but completely forgot.’ She reached out a hand for mine, her ankle wobbling as she moved from Reilly’s arm. ‘I am Claudine Deschamps.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Madame Deschamps.’
‘No, you’re not,’ Reilly interrupted. The words were rude, but his tone affectionate. ‘She’s one of the people you really don’t want to know. Go away, Claudine.’
She made a little moue with her mouth. ‘Don’t be nasty, Julian. Christophe is losing at the tables again, and I will have an unhappy enough time when I get home.’
‘I fail to understand how that’s my problem.’
‘I can make it your problem, if you wish.’ She linked her arm back in Julian’s. ‘So how are you finding our city? Other than the obnoxious Spanish countesses, irritating Irish novelists and little German lapdogs, that is.’
‘That’s quite a list, Madame Deschamps,’ I smiled. ‘And despite that, Lisbon seems quite lovely.’
‘It can be catty as hell. Get used to it.’ Using her champagne flute, she gestured around the room. ‘Anyone who’s anyone is here. From all sides of the conflict, and some people representing more than what you’d first think. But good – I like you, Madame Verin.’ She shook my hand. ‘I’m about to collect my husband from the tables. It’ll be quite a messy scene for which I’ll apologise in advance, but if you’d like us to drop you off at home, do let me know.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
She blew a kiss at Julian and sashayed across the room with a deliberate grace, attracting enough attention that people might not notice how drunk she was. She paused once or twice along the way, kissing a cheek or shaking a hand before stopping at the blackjack table in front of the man with the pencil moustache and losing streak. Voices were raised as the man and woman stood nose to nose, animosity pulsing between them.
‘Foolish man,’ Reilly murmured, watching them over the top of his drink. ‘She’s a good girl, loves him desperately. He, on the other hand, loves the cards.’
Reilly reached into a pocket for a gold case and a monogrammed Zippo. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. The voices on the other side of the room rose, and Claudine’s hand flashed out to slap her husband’s face. She reached into her handbag and threw down a combination of chips and notes. Stormed away, brushing tears from her face. Her husband sat down. Piled the stack neatly in front of him, and slipped the notes into his breast pocket. Gestured to the dealer for another card. Julian jammed the cigarette into his mouth. He exhaled a great cloud of smoke and downed the rest of his whiskey.
‘Well, Madame Verin. There goes the rest of the night as I find myself once again your neighbour’s chaperon,’ he said. ‘You might just have lost your ride home, unless you’re willing to share a seat with Claudine?’
Matthew had suggested that I move in the German circles, but accessing them via the German-sympathising French would be more convincing. I tucked my clutch bag under my arm and smiled.
‘Why not?’
*
Julian’s car was a two-seater with an engine that roared like a Lancaster. The Portuguese valet dropped the set of keys into the Irishman’s hands and stood back. His gaze ping-ponged between Claudine and me, and I hoped he was more curious about the logistics of the drive home than what he thought would come
