CHAPTER 16
The sun was setting the next evening as Charlotte paused in the courtyard of Somerset House’s North Wing, home to the Royal Society, one of Britain’s most respected scientific institutions. The gala reception for the delegations attending the international conference on transportation had already begun, but she took a moment to look up at the oversized grandeur of the architectural detailing.Soaring pilasters, elongated windows crowned with pediments. . .
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Cordelia with a half-mocking smile.
“It’s meant to be,” she answered after dropping her gaze to the arched entrance. “A reminder that the gentlemen who congregate within these walls are doing important work.” The sonorous notes of a cello concerto drifted out of the open doors, accompanied by the mellifluous sounds of people enjoying fine food and wine. “And for the most part, they are.”
“But even the most exemplary organizations have their share of scoundrels,” remarked Cordelia. Her expression turned pensive. “As we both have good reason to know.”
Genius and madness. Sometimes the two went hand in hand.
“Money can corrupt the soul,” observed Charlotte. “As can the lust for fame.”
On that note, they passed through the entrance portal.
Given that Mademoiselle Benoit was already wary from their previous encounter, Charlotte had decided that she and Cordelia, aided by the dowager, would have better luck in trying to elicit information from her without the presence of the earl.
Instead, Wrexford and Sheffield intended to confront Garfield, for thanks to Tyler’s sleuthing earlier in the day, they had discovered what secret passion could have driven the man to betray his fellow society members for money.
It had also been decided that the Weasels would follow Mademoiselle Benoit back to her residence after tonight’s reception and arrange with a cadre of their urchin friends to keep the Frenchwoman under surveillance round the clock in order to report on any visitors and where she went during her daily activities.
“This way,” said Charlotte, indicating an elegant reception hall decorated in muted shades of cream and taupe.
Once she and Cordelia had greeted the Royal Society dignitaries who were hosting the reception, Charlotte needed only a moment to spot their quarry. However, Mademoiselle Benoit was just as sharp-eyed and quickly sought refuge among a circle of men near one of the soaring windows overlooking the river.
“Drat,” she muttered under her breath.
“Flighty little thing, isn’t she?” intoned Alison, as she appeared from behind a display of potted palm trees. “Never mind—I have an idea.” The dowager gestured for Charlotte and Cordelia to follow her into one of the side alcoves before continuing.
“Mademoiselle Benoit doesn’t know of our family connection. So Sir Robert and I shall contrive to draw her away from her present companions for a private conversation. I daresay she won’t dare risk giving offense by refusing,” explained Alison. “Then, when you two come over to join us, we shall make an excuse and withdraw.”
The strategy proved successful, and although the Frenchwoman fixed Charlotte and Cordelia with a mutinous scowl, she made no move to quit their company.
“Alors, I have told you all zat I know,” said Mademoiselle Benoit in a low, tight voice. “Je ne comprends paswhat you want frommoi.”
“The truth would be an excellent start,” responded Charlotte. “And by the by, you may cease the charade of mangled English. Lady Peake happens to know that your grandmother was the younger daughter of a British diplomat posted to Paris before the Revolution.”
A look of anger—or was it fear—flickered for an instant in her eyes, but then the Frenchwoman quickly regained her sangfroid. “Just because I speak excellent English doesn’t mean that I’m a criminal.”
“Nobody is accusing you of a crime,” assured Cordelia. “We simply want your help in finding Oliver Carrick.” She drew in a breath and let it out in a shaky sigh. “He is my cousin, and I wish to help him. I fear that he may be in grave danger.”
“I—I wish I could help you, madame.” The quiver in Mademoiselle Benoit’s voice betrayed a hint of raw emotion . . .
Which was, decided Charlotte, the first glimmer of honesty from the Frenchwoman, and she reacted quickly to take advantage of it.
“You can trust us—” she began.
“Isabelle!”
A tall man with a beaky nose and a shock of unruly auburn hair curling over his forehead hurried over to join them. Charlotte guessed that he must be Jean-Paul Montaigne.
“Excusez-moi,madame, my apologies, but I must ask my colleague to come with metout de suite,” he added brusquely to Charlotte, though he didn’t look the least repentant. “A governor of the Royal Institution wishes to speak with the officers of our scientific society in one of the side salons.”
“Mais, Jean-Paul . . .” Mademoiselle Benoit bit her lip, but after a flicker of hesitation, she accepted the man’s arm and allowed him to hustle her away.
“Hell’s bells,” muttered Cordelia. “I think she was about to tell us something.” A sigh. “And so did her colleague. But I doubt that he will allow us anywhere near her after this tête-à-tête.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure he won’t,” agreed Charlotte. “Based on Raven’s description of who he saw last night negotiating with Garfield, and the fact that mademoiselle just called him ‘Jean-Paul, ’ we can now be sure that Jean-Paul Montaigne, the president of the French scientific society, is mademoiselle’s co-conspirator.”
