I knew he assumed I’d want to turn the book over to Captain Vernet and the gendarmes, but I lifted it from the table. “We keep it safe. Once we find the letters and papers, we inform the people in this book that they are no longer in danger.”
Moreau nodded slowly, his relief plain.
“Then you’d better let me hide it,” Brewster said. “I can make sure no one ever finds the thing. If the signora tries to employ a thief herself, it won’t help her none. There’s no thief as good as me.”
“True.” I handed him the book. “I trust Brewster,” I told Moreau before he could protest. “He’s done me many a good turn, and he’s a burglar not a blackmailer.”
“Disgusting, they are,” Brewster said. “I’m an honest man, me.”
Brewster let himself out the front door with the ledger wrapped in a sack he’d found in a cupboard in the foyer. Once he was gone, I called down the backstairs to tell Madame Martin we were going.
She followed us to the front door, never changing expression when I explained that my man had gone ahead. Madame Martin watched us depart, arms folded, and remained on the doorstep until Moreau and I had rounded the corner.
“I can understand why Signora Ruggeri asked to be moved,” I muttered as we trudged through the narrow lanes.
Moreau acknowledged this with a grunted laugh.
He took me to another townhouse a few streets away that was as modest as the one we’d left, though a bit better kept. The paint looked fresh, and the wrought-iron grills on the upper windows and latches on the shutters gleamed in the sunshine. I wondered if the hardware had been made in the Deveres’ factory.
The door opened before Moreau could knock, revealing a housekeeper of the same age as Madame Martin but of much sweeter disposition. She curtsied politely to Moreau and me, told us the lady of the house awaited us in the sitting room upstairs, and led us there.
We ascended past wallpaper filled with flowers, birds, and pagodas framed in moldings painted a soft ivory. Gilded tables in niches bore vases of fresh flowers or objets d’art of exquisite porcelain. A year or so ago, I’d been privileged to look over the Prince of Wales’s collection, and these pieces appeared to be as fine as his.
More beautiful trinkets reposed in the sitting room, this chamber decorated in tasteful shades of blue. The walls held still-life paintings of flowers or landscapes of Lyon, rendered from the perspective of the nearby hills. I glimpsed the signature of Antoine Berjon on one of the flower still lifes.
This was a very feminine house, and I realized it must be owned by the lady who rose to meet us. She was no courtesan tucked away on a back street, but a matron who’d settled into this house long ago. I surmised that either her husband or father had willed the home to her, as France did not have the same primogeniture and inheritance laws as did England.
“Captain Lacey,” Moreau said, pride entering his usually neutral voice. “May I present Madame Paillard? Madame, Captain Lacey.”
“Enchantée, Madame,” I said with true sincerity as I made her a formal bow.
“My, such good manners,” Madame Paillard responded in flawless English. “How do you do, Captain Lacey?”
Madame Paillard was small and plump, the dark hair that peeked from under a lace cap just beginning to gray. Her gown was cut to flatter her, with flowing sleeves that eschewed the now-fashionable puffs. The skirt was devoid of ornamentation, nothing to mar the elegance of the striped lavender silk.
The entire costume made the rather plain woman lovely, as did her eyes, wide and thick-lashed, of a rich shade of brown. I wagered those eyes had ensnared Moreau on a moonlit night long ago.
“I do very well, indeed,” I responded. “I am honored to meet you.”
“You did not tell me he was so charming, Nicolas,” Madame Paillard said to Moreau. “Especially given your encounter with each other during the war. Forgiveness is a becoming trait, Captain, and one I am happy to see you have embraced. Though, if you did come here to exact your revenge on Nico, please do not do so on my sitting room carpet. It has just been cleaned.”
“I would not dream of it,” I said with another bow. “There are plenty of back lanes in Lyon for that.”
Madame Paillard’s smile widened, though Moreau blinked. I let him wonder whether I was joking.
Madame Paillard waved us to sit. I took a chair near the tall window while Moreau escorted his lady to a sofa and settled in beside her.
We spoke about polite things at first, such as my daughter’s upcoming nuptials, and what I had seen of Lyon and the surrounding countryside. Madame Paillard already knew where I was staying, and that Donata was an English earl’s daughter. She asked me pointed questions about Donata, without embarrassment.
I answered, also without embarrassment, while Moreau appeared to be uncomfortable with the entire conversation.
While we chatted, a maid pushed a teacart into the room. The plates surrounding the coffeepot contained sumptuous pastries that I did not refuse. One was lemon curd inside an envelope of flaky, buttery crust, with just the right balance between sweet and tart. This was followed by a torte of rich, heady chocolate.
“Your wife’s son inherited his father’s title and lands,” Madame Paillard continued as she served up these treats once the maid departed.
“He did,” I answered around bites. “Peter is a fine little chap, and growing rapidly. He’ll be a man before we realize.”
“And you have two daughters,” Madame Paillard went on. “One with Madame Auberge and one with your viscountess. Yes, Captain, I have heard all the tittle-tattle about you and Madame Auberge in your youth.” Her eyes crinkled with her smile.
