“Oui, the older Devere lad was here last night,” the proprietor said, after I’d introduced myself. He hadn’t opened up until I’d explained my connection to the Deveres. “In a foul temper, but didn’t do much of anything but imbibe wine. More sulky than anything else.” The bulbous-faced man peered at me. “You say your daughter is marrying young Emile? I thought he was wedding Auberge’s daughter.”
“Mademoiselle Auberge is actually my daughter,” I said. “It is difficult to explain.”
The proprietor gave me a wise nod. “Not so difficult. A Frenchman understands. You are English, but …” He spread his hands.
He obviously believed I’d been Carlotta’s lover in the past, and Gabriella was our illicit offspring. Perhaps he thought Major Auberge was being very understanding in allowing me to attend Gabriella’s wedding.
As divorce was ruinous, and in the eyes of Auberge’s church, unthinkable, I’d agreed to let Carlotta’s previous connection to me be vague. Both Auberge and I had kept quiet about the divorce, though I’d obtained one all the same, thanks to the assistance of James Denis.
I did not correct the proprietor’s assumptions. “Was Claude with anyone last night? Or was he sulking by himself?”
The proprietor’s grizzled brows rose. “He was with that man killed on the bridge, wasn’t he? Just outside my door, arguing with him.”
I carefully set down my cup. “Signor Gallo? Are you certain?”
“Mais oui.” The proprietor nodded with confidence. “They were already arguing when they arrived. Not a violent quarrel, just words. Signor Gallo sneering—he was like that. Monsieur Devere said something about Comte Lejeune I could not hear, and Gallo lost his temper. He slammed himself away, and then young Claude came inside and took to his wine.”
“What’s he saying?” Brewster asked me impatiently.
I quickly repeated the information, and Brewster frowned. “Sounds like Claude told Gallo that his signora was heading up the hill to see the comte,” he offered.
“Possibly,” I said. “Though how would Claude know?”
“Mayhap the signora told him. Mayhap she didn’t forget about young Claude as much as everyone claims she did.”
I could imagine Claude rubbing Gallo’s nose in the fact that Signora Ruggeri had confided in him what she’d planned. Gallo, growing incensed, dashed from the tavern and across the city to burst into the courtyard just as Signora Ruggeri was being led through the ballroom by the comtesse.
“Claude didn’t follow him?” I switched to French to ask the proprietor.
The man shook his head. “No. Ordered another bottle and made his way through it. Oh, shared it with his cousin, of course.”
I stilled. “Cousin?”
“Oui, young Emile. He came in maybe a half hour after Claude arrived. They drank their way through the bottle and left together. That is, Claude drank most of it, and Emile had to help him stumble away.” A smile flitted across his mouth. “Your daughter has no cause to worry. Emile is not much for being in his cups.”
I tried to return the smile, but my heart hammered. Emile had never mentioned the fact that he’d been with Claude in La Guillotière last night, either when I’d spoken to him at the ironworks or in his hasty note this afternoon.
Claude had spoken about dishonoring someone by giving me his name. Had he meant Emile?
“When did they leave?” I asked.
The proprietor frowned at my question. “You’d better ask them, hadn’t you?”
“It is important,” I said sternly.
The man sighed. “Ten, maybe? Not late. They went that way down the lane.” He pointed to the left. “Home, most like, unless they stopped at another tavern. Emile seemed anxious to get his cousin out of La Guillotière. Wise. Rich boys don’t belong here after dark.”
Had Emile hunted for Claude, fearing what he’d do if he found Gallo, and escorted him home? Emile hadn’t told me he’d taken Claude under his wing last night, only stated that Claude couldn’t have killed Gallo and never would.
Blast the lad. If he’d been with Claude, and neither had been anywhere near Gallo at the time of his murder, why hadn’t Emile simply told me?
“Damnation,” I said out loud.
The proprietor’s scowl deepened. “What is this word?”
“What an Englishman says when he is vexed,” I said in French. “I beg your pardon.” I put coins on the table for what we’d drunk, plus a few extra.
The proprietor whisked the payment into his pocket, gave us a final frown, and moved off, irritably waving at other patrons who were calling for more wine.
