"When the Comtesse calls again, Louis," the Duc said in swift decision based on notorious experience, "I'm not at home."
"For how long, sir?"
"For the foreseeable future, Louis. Have the Chigi Cassétta she admired at Roussel's—the one painted by Raphael—sent to her with my compliments."
"Yes, sir."
"Put a necklace of those pink diamonds Chaumet delivered last week in the Cassétta with one of my cards."
"Very good, sir." Louis's response was without a shade of expression. The Duc meant, of course, the cards signed for anonymous recipients in advance: Affectionately, Etienne. Since Roussel had proudly pointed out at a private snowing for the Duc last week that the Renaissance cassétta was one of a kind, Raphael had designed for his patron, the Sienese financier, Agostina Chigi, the lavishness of the Duc de Vec's gift indicated a definite conclusion to his affair with the Comtesse.
The Duc's green gaze contemplated the sunshine-bright morning visible beyond the bank of windows illuminating his dressing room. "The sun came out," he mildly said, as if disposing of a mistress in a significantly expensive fashion was as prosaic an occurrence as his comment on the weather.
"Yes, sir, about an hour ago."
He hadn't noticed, preoccupied as he was with profligate sensation. "The ground should be drying out then." Walking the few steps over to the gold-footed tub ensconced on a museum-quality Shiraz carpet in the center of the room, he turned the taps wide open. Straightening, he asked, "Has Valentin called?"
"Twice, sir. I told him you were still… busy."
The Duc smiled. "Don't forget the pink diamonds now." Over the past weeks, Isme had given him considerable pleasure.
Louis showed the smallest affront at the reminder.
"Sorry." Etienne softly apologized for his gaffe. Louis was and always had been the epitome of efficiency. "Has Mr. Bouchart called yet?"
"No, sir."
Etienne frowned slightly. Bouchart was to have called at half-past nine with news of Germain Frères's selling price. Another brief look at the clock—five after ten—a deepening of the Duc's frown, then a shrug. The man Bouchart had been a curiosity from his first mysterious contact—perhaps some chicanery instituted by Germain, a ringer meant to delude or deceive, an unknown in any event, untrustworthy at best. He'd have Legere sell at 260, as previously indicated. About to send Louis off to see to Legere, the words half formed in his mind, he was about to speak when the phone rang. A feeling of exhilaration similar to that he experienced when winning extravagantly at Monte Carlo immediately seized him. He knew who it was, just as he knew before the dealer dealt him a card in baccarat he had a winning number.
"I'll take it," the Duc crisply said.
Reaching the phone set on a small table near the windows in three rapid strides, he answered, "de Vec here." His deep voice was softly muted, as if he knew Bouchart calling late was nervous and high-strung, needing to be steadied.
Standing with the light from the window limning his broad-shouldered frame, his dark hair touched with iridescence, he spoke softly into the receiver. "Yes. Yes. No, that won't be necessary. Tomorrow? Yes. Thank you." He didn't move; even his breathing seemed in abeyance as he briefly acknowledged the information being given him. "They're selling at 275," he said, setting the receiver back into the cradle delicately, his fine nostrils flaring in a deep, satisfying inhalation of air. Experience and instinct were essential in dealing with the market, but it never hurt to have a disgruntled employee in your camp. He hadn't known if he could trust Bouchart; he still didn't completely. But… The Duc's mouth curved into a grin. "Tell Legere to wait until 273 before selling," he instructed, moving over to the tub and stepping into the rising water.
Sitting down, he stretched out his long legs and lay back against the cool marble. "Mr. Bouchart will be round to the apartment here tomorrow for his fee." Submerging briefly, he came up out of the warm water, sleekly wet and smiling. "Set poor Legere's mind at ease now, Louis," he suggested, reaching for the unscented soap he preferred. "I'll dress myself."
Within the hour, the Duc de Vec had gained control of his newest railroad line. He'd also divested himself—with a suitably memorable gift—from his latest paramour—a not unfamiliar circumstance in the life and times of Etienne Martel. After lunch at his club, he was being driven now at a leisurely pace to one of the nearer Parisian suburbs to play his daily polo match. The dulcet spring air drifting in through the open windows of his carriage matched the tranquility of his disposition.
He was in extremely fine spirits.
Half a world away a scant day later, Daisy Black, ayoung Absarokee woman and one of only fifty female lawyers in America,1 stood in a courtroom in Helena, Montana, her expression composed, thinking for the countless thousandth time since trying this case before Judge Nott how the world would be a better place if he could be put out of his miserable ignorance and shot.
It was not a facetious thought.
Although two years ago Montana law had permitted women attorneys to practice in the state, Judge Ryan Nott, personally opposed to the new statute, had convened this trial by looking Daisy over with disapproval and saying, "Miss, what are you doing in my courtroom?"2
When Daisy had attempted to answer, Nott had sharply cut her off: "Miss Black, if you dare speak, I shall hold you in contempt."
Webster Drake, the opposing counsel, had had the grace to swiftly rise and intervene, pointing out the substance of the law as well as Daisy's substantial experience in court. Even then, overlooking Daisy's formidable record of successes in the
