Brewster heaved an aggrieved sigh, his gaze going heavenward. “Here we go,” he muttered.
I managed to convince a farmer trundling his goods to the city to allow me a ride on the back of his cart the last half mile to Lyon. I had to give him coin and promise him a cup of wine at Beaumont’s shop, but he nodded and let me repose among his crates of onions. My aching leg eased, though my eyes watered a good bit.
Brewster trudged behind the cart, a scowl on his face. He was fed up with me putting myself in danger to find the answer to puzzles, but I ignored his disapproval.
Helping clear Emile’s cousin of this crime should not be too difficult, I told myself as we rocked along—unless, of course, the lad actually committed it.
I’d do what I could. I’d come to like the Deveres and did not want to see them distraught. Also, it would never do for Gabriella to begin her new life with Emile’s family locked in scandal.
The carter let me off at the end of the Pont Tilsit, now free of Gallo’s body and the blood he’d spilled. I returned to the wine shop for a bit of rest and a cup of earthy wine, then Brewster and I climbed the hill to the villa.
Donata had hired a house that she called too small, but it will do and I called a grand country mansion. The home had been built within the last century, and bore many windows and glazed doors to let in light and provide easy access to the garden. Crenelations and cupolas lined the roof, to bring to mind the medieval age of chivalry and the grand dukes that had once ruled this area.
I’d come to enjoy the place, though it had been decorated inside with a plethora of clouds, cherubs, and gilded plaster ribbons winding across the top of every room.
Donata was awake, Bartholomew informed me when I entered the echoing ground floor hall, though still in her chamber. Grenville, on the other hand, had arrived, and waited in the rear drawing room.
I joined him in that sunny chamber, the windows open to let in the cool breeze. The clouds that had gathered while I’d traveled to the ironworks had broken apart again, becoming puffy and picturesque.
“The entire city is agog with the news of this murder,” Grenville told me as I thankfully took a seat on the comfortable sofa. He imbibed coffee, which Bartholomew also brought me.
“They were still speaking of it in Beaumont’s wine shop,” I answered. “The men there favor the cutpurse theory.”
“The ideas are rather different on this hill. Anyone I encountered on my way up was avid to discuss it. Those who’d been at the comtesse’s soiree are certain that Signora Ruggeri hastened down to the city last night and killed Signor Gallo. Outraged at him, they say, for nearly ruining things for her with the comte.”
“Nonsense.” Donata floated in, waved off Bartholomew who approached with the coffee pot, and sank down next to me. “Signora Ruggeri spent the entire night as the comtesse’s guest. She is the one person in Lyon who could not have murdered Signor Gallo.”
“Her guest?” I asked in surprise.
Donata settled her summer-light gown and nodded in gratitude when Bartholomew presented her with a glass of sherry.
“This happened after the pair of you and Gabriella departed,” Donata said after a refreshing sip. “When the hour grew late, the comtesse declared that it would be too dangerous for Signora Ruggeri to venture home, with Gallo out there threatening her. So the comtesse put her in one of their many chambers with her own lady’s maid to wait on her. Signora Ruggeri could hardly refuse. You miss much when you retire early.”
I had indeed retired after Gabriella had gone home, though Grenville had departed to spend the rest of his evening with Marianne and her friends.
“Signora Ruggeri might have slipped out,” Grenville suggested. “Left after the household had gone to bed, met Gallo, and then nipped back before anyone missed her.”
“The chateau is well guarded,” I said doubtfully. “With only the one gate. It would be difficult for her to escape notice.”
“Chateaus like the comtesse’s are riddled with hidden doors,” Grenville said with the confidence of long experience. “Ways for tradesmen to come and go without disturbing the family. You’d be amazed at the many entrances in the cellars. A boon for thieves, if they aren’t sure to lose themselves in the labyrinth of old passageways.”
I wondered if Brewster had scouted these hidden entrances at the comtesse’s home, and made a note to ask him.
“I can discover whether anyone saw her slipping out,” Donata offered. “Though, if I had killed Gallo, I’d have flung the knife from the bridge and fled the city instead of creeping back into a house where I was not wanted in the first place. But who knows? From all reports, Signora Ruggeri is still at the chateau. The comte himself has retreated to his hunting lodge, Jacinthe tells me. Wise man.”
Jacinthe, Donata’s lady’s maid, would have dutifully reported the gossip on the matter while she’d helped Donata dress.
“It is an odd business,” I said with a welcome swallow of coffee.
“Comtesse Lejeune is rather fed up with them all,” Donata continued. “Her husband, his lover, the lover’s lover. But the comtesse will weather it. She has no choice, does she?” Her eyes tightened.
Donata had endured her first husband, Lord Breckenridge, parading his mistresses under her nose for years, and she’d had no option but to look the other way. She’d behaved wildly herself in retaliation, though her husband had never noticed. Donata had only been released from this unhappy situation by Breckenridge’s sudden death.
I slid my hand to hers where it rested on her silken gown, and squeezed it. Donata sent me a quick, but grateful smile.
“The comtesse is quite a lady,” Grenville said with admiration. “The comte deserves her not. On the other hand, Lejeune himself might have ended Gallo’s life, perhaps seeing Gallo as a rival. Or, he might have viewed the killing as doing his beloved mistress a favor. Lejeune is old enough to recall the days when lordships could be allowed almost anything.”
“True, but such a thing would be out of character for him,” Donata answered. “I find him a rather lazy man, with minimal imagination. I doubt the comte would do something so dramatic, even for passion. He prefers to avoid all difficulties, which is why he took himself to the hunting lodge.”
