She recognized that even though he was driving their small carriage, he was also keenly observant of everything around them, including the military units. Wellington had chosen his spy well.
Saint-Denis was about a hundred fifty miles from Brussels, and traveling at a relaxed pace, they reached their destination in the middle of the fourth day. As they entered the compact town on the northern edge of Paris, Simon said, “This road we’re traveling on is actually where Morel’s office is. Shall we stop by and set up an appointment with Monsieur Morel?”
“We might as well. If we’re lucky, he might even be available to talk to us,” she replied. “I must admit that I’m impatient to hear what, if anything, he has to say.”
“I’m curious, too.” Simon smiled at her. “It’s time to turn on your aristocratic charm and beauty again.”
“And you must return yourself to being a wellborn senior officer.” To her amusement, he did just that, becoming more formidable under her gaze.
She must have successfully done the same, because when they left the carriage and horses at a livery across the street, Simon said, “Come,ma belle. You will have every man in the office, including thenotairehimself, rushing out to gaze at you.”
She laughed. “I don’t think he’s the susceptible sort. I’ll settle for his being polite and available.”
Thenotairewas housed in a substantial building with marble steps leading up to the entrance. The heavy brass knocker also spoke of discreet success.
When a clerk admitted them, Simon said in a voice that assumed he would be obeyed, “We are Monsieur and Madame Duval and we wish to see Monsieur Morel on matters pertaining to Jean-Louis Duval, the Comte de Chambron.”
The clerk’s eyes widened. “Come in, monsieur and madam. I’ll see if thenotaireis available.”
He led them to a comfortable reception room, then disappeared down the corridor beyond. He returned in only a few minutes. “He is pleased to meet with you. If you will come this way?”
They were escorted deeper into the house to a handsomely furnished office dominated by a massive desk of shining mahogany. The man behind the desk was in late middle age, and as handsome and well-furnished as his office. He rose as they entered. “Good day, Monsieur and Madame Duval. I have not heard the name of Jean-Louis Duval for a long time.”
His gaze moved to Suzanne, and he sucked in his breath with audible shock. “Madame la Comtesse, is that really you? I thought you were dead!” His eyes narrowed as he studied Simon. “You are not Jean-Louis.”
“No, I am not.” Simon took a seat alongside Suzanne as thenotairegestured for them to sit.
Morel signaled to his clerk, who was hovering by the door. “Refreshments, please. My guests have been traveling and must be hungry. Close the door behind you.”
He settled behind his desk again, clasping his hands before him on the embossed leather surface. “Madame la Comtesse, I do not doubt your identity, but I must verify that. Do you recall when we first met?”
She nodded. “Jean-Louis brought me from the house in Paris, saying there were certain legalities that must be performed. He didn’t bother to explain, of course. You were courteous to me but dismissive. I had the feeling you barely noticed my existence.”
“I actually noticed you with great pleasure, but I’ve learned it isn’t wise to pay too much attention to the beautiful young wife of an older husband, no matter how innocent one’s admiration is,” he explained wryly. “Then what happened?”
“I signed the documents like a proper and obedient young wife,” she said, trying to recall what it had been like to be so young. “Then you and Jean-Louis had important men’s business to discuss, so I was sent off to the library. The books were all legal tomes so there was nothing very interesting to read.”
She stopped, struck by a more pleasant memory. “But as you did today, you ordered refreshments for me. There was a lovely tea that smelled of . . . of jasmine, I think. And exquisite pastries. There was one ofchouxpastry with raspberry preserves and cream flavored with a liqueur. One of the loveliest things I’ve ever eaten. Do you have the same chef?”
Thenotairechuckled. “Indeed I do. Thank you, madam. I do not doubt your identity.” He turned to Simon. “The Duvals breed true and you certainly have the look of the family. Where do you fit in?”
“I was a second cousin of Jean-Louis.” Simon reached inside his coat and drew out a folded paper. “Suzanne and I drew up a family tree that shows what we know. We thought you might have additional information.”
Thenotaireunfolded the large sheet of paper, scanning it quickly and nodding. “Ah, there you are, Monsieur Duval. Your father, also Simon Duval, married the English lady and moved to England just before the Peace of Amiens ended. I know nothing more of your branch of the family, and I cannot verify your identity because you never visited my office and ate pastries.”
“I can verify it,” Suzanne said. “Simon and I first met when he and his parents attended my wedding to Jean-Louis. There was a grand fortnight-long house party for family members. Simon was one of the few guests who was close to my age and we became friends. After the wedding, we went in very different directions, then met again in London several months ago. There is no question but that he is the Simon Duval I knew.” She raised her left hand, where her gold wedding ring caught the light. “Finding each other led to the result you see.”
Thenotaireaccepted that. “Since you have remarried, I presume you know for a fact that Jean-Louis is dead?”
Her mouth twisted. “He died before my eyes. There is no doubt about it.” In terse words, she described what had happened.
Thenotairelistened quietly, then said, “Thank you. I’m sorry to have put you through that, but now I have confirmation for my records.”
There was a quiet knock at the door; then two servants arrived with trays of food and drink. Monsieur Morel had obviously decided his visitors were important because the trays contained savory bites like small sandwiches and hot cheese puffs as well as sweets including—oh, joy!—thechouxpastry with cream, raspberries, and orange flavored liqueur. Plus coffee, jasmine-scented tea, and wines.
As Suzanne and Simon took advantage of the refreshments, Morel returned to his study of the family tree, jotting notes in several places. He reached the bottom of the page and became very still. “You have included Philippe Duval. You know of him?”
“He and his wife are currently living in our house in Brussels,” Suzanne said. “Obviously you’ve also heard of him. Do you have a copy of Jean-Louis’s will? If so, does he mention Philippe in it?”
