The Art of Seduction (14 page)

Hugo's face flushed scarlet. He cast a glance back toward his employer's domain, then gave a quick, nervous nod.

“Good. Now go find us a cab.”

M
ason and Lisette stood on the sidewalk and stared up at Garrett's fourth-story window. Beside them, holding hands with Lisette, was one of her coworkers from the circus: Bobo the Chimpanzee. It was ten o'clock. The area would be fairly deserted until the opera let out an hour or so later.

For most of this past week, Mason had been trying and failing to gain access to Richard's suite under the theory that any man who lived in hotels had to carry his important papers with him. She'd tried to bribe a maid into giving her a key, but had been rebuffed. Once, she'd allowed Richard to lure her into his lair, only to claim a recurrence of her illness and, on exiting, had slyly left the door unlatched. But when she tried to open it the next morning, when she knew he'd be gone, she discovered that it had been firmly relocked.

Nothing seemed to work.

For his part, Garrett was forging ahead with his campaign to make Mason Caldwell a household name. Besides all his other initiatives, he was now planning a gala reception next week on the site of their rising pavilion on the fairgrounds, which was occupying much of his time. Despite all this, his attentions toward Mason had increased. In fact, her backing away from him seemed to have whet his appetite. He was unfailingly solicitous. He fussed over her health, giving her brandy to kill whatever germs she might have. But the warm intoxication only weakened her defenses, so she pushed it away. He told her—in the intimate intensity of his eyes, the firm grip of his hand on her back as he helped her out of the coach, the increasing unwillingness to be put off at her door—that he was ravenous with desire for her.

Once, in her sitting room, he'd come up behind her, nuzzling the back of her neck, as his fingers had played along her spine. Without realizing just how it had happened, she discovered that the buttons along the back of her bodice had been undone. He began to slide the dress down her shoulders, kissing them in a way that made her rebellious body stir. She'd only been saved by claiming a recurrence of her convenient illness.

Another time, noticing her tension, he'd begun to rub the knotted muscles in her shoulders. “Why don't you let me give you a massage?” he'd suggested. It had felt so good that she'd had to forcibly jerk away. It was becoming increasingly difficult to be with him. Despite her secret fear and loathing, in the wake of his overwhelming charisma and charm she felt like a butterfly in the path of a hurricane.

After another week of looking into Garrett's past, Dargelos had come up with nothing new. She'd felt bitterly frustrated, at the end of her rope, when, out of nowhere, Lisette had appeared at her door in the company of her simian friend.

“He's a second-story monkey,” she'd beamed. “His first owner was a burglar who trained him as an accomplice. After they put the burglar in jail, Bobo was given to the circus.”

“The one I've seen standing with you on the back of a galloping horse.”

“The same. It wasn't his fault that his owner got caught. Bobo is really talented. He can walk the tightrope, fly on the trapeze, all sorts of things.”

At Lisette's signal, Bobo held out a hand for Mason to shake. “I'm happy to make his acquaintance, but why is he here?”

“Come on. I'll show you.”

Now, on the darkened sidewalk below Garrett's suite, Lisette crouched down next to her friend and whispered some instructions in his ear. He scratched his head, showed her his teeth, and then began scampering up the side of the building. With the iron balconies on every floor, he was able to swing himself from room to room and floor to floor as if he were scaling a coconut tree. Once he reached the fourth floor, he looked down at Lisette, who raised her hand to point to the window she wanted.

As the chimp made his way toward the window, Lisette explained, “It so happens that very few hotel balconies above the second floor have a latch on their doors. So Bobo was trained to climb up and enter the rooms from the outside. There! He's done it.” Mason looked up to see Bobo open the French doors, grin and salute at Lisette, then vault inside. “Let's go.”

Hugo was waiting for them in the lobby. As they passed him to go upstairs, Lisette instructed him, “Garrett is at dinner with some important people. He shouldn't return before midnight. But if he does, you're not to let him step into that elevator. Whatever it takes to stop him. Understand?”

The big man nodded. Leaving him to stand guard, they took the elevator upstairs and hurried down the hallway to Garrett's suite. Its door was open and Bobo stood there grinning at them. “Good boy, Bobo,” Lisette cooed. She leaned and gave him a hug. When she'd straightened, Bobo took her hand and led her inside.

The French doors were still open where Bobo had entered. A single lamp had been left on in the sitting room. As Mason followed Lisette inside, she could feel the sweat trickling down her ribs. The space was so silent that she felt her nerves prickle. Once again, as she moved through the room, she could detect the slightest trace of Richard's scent. It amplified her agitation and made her feel that he might come in at any moment.

Where to begin?

Right away she saw something interesting. A copy of
Le Figaro
lay on the coffee table, open to the society page. In ink, he'd scrawled a crude border around one of the articles. It told of how Count Dimitri Orlaf, the celebrated Russian art connoisseur, had arrived in Paris for next week's opening of the Universal Exposition. The story was accompanied by a head sketch of the debonair nobleman. But Mason couldn't make out his features because, for some reason, Garrett had scratched a violent X through the drawing.

She couldn't question it now. There was work to be done.

“These look like they could be important papers,” Lisette said from the writing desk.

Bobo had helped himself to an apple from a fruit bowl on a table and was happily strutting about the suite chomping on it.

“No,” Lisette amended, “these are just bills and invitations.”

Mason joined her at the desk and began rifling through the drawers on the other side. Nothing significant. Finally, in the bottom drawer, she came across a leather pouch stuck in the back under some writing paper. She opened it, reached inside, and pulled out a tintype. It showed a smiling dark-haired young woman who couldn't be more than eighteen.

“She's pretty,” Lisette observed over her shoulder. “Who do you think she is? A lover?”

“This is a tintype. They haven't made these in twenty years.”

“His mother, then?”

Mason reached inside again and pulled out another tintype. This one showed a man in his thirties and a young boy. The man was Hank Thompson. And though she couldn't be sure, the boy looked as if he could be Richard. Though he couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old, he glared at the camera with a gaze that was so cold, so hard, that it sent a chill up her spine.

Lisette was scanning the room. “Now, where's that Bobo?”

As she wandered off looking for him, Mason reached into the file again and removed the only other thing in it: a small billfold. She flipped it open and saw his badge. It showed a huge single eye and the ominous Pinkerton slogan:
WE NEVER SLEEP
.

She suppressed a shudder.

Stuck into the other side of the billfold were several folded papers, his official credentials. As she read through them, the only thing of interest was the fact that he was a U.S. citizen and his place of residence at the time of joining the agency was the state of Colorado.

He was an American! From the West.

Before this had time to register, Lisette's voice called from the bedroom, “Mason, come here. You have to see this.”

Quickly, she put everything back into the pouch and returned it to the bottom drawer. Then she went into the bedroom.

Standing propped on a chair next to his bed was her self-portrait. Seeing it there, so reverentially displayed, jarred her.

Lisette, holding Bobo in her arms, was staring at it as well. “Why do you think he does such a thing?”

Mason shook her head, too stunned to speak. Was it possible that, as determined as he was to trap her, he wasn't pretending his affection for the paintings?

Suddenly, Bobo patted Lisette's face and gave a tiny wail of warning. A second later, they heard the key turn in the lock. “He's back!” Lisette hissed.

Mason doused the light in the bedroom and they crouched by the door to see Richard and Hank enter. “Get out the bourbon, boy. I need me a drink. I've been to some boring shindigs in my time, but this takes the cake.”

“Perhaps if you'd ever taken the trouble to learn French you'd know what was going on,” Richard said mildly.

“I didn't send you to Oxford so
I
could learn French.”

“In any case, it was a successful night. I was able to put a bug in President Carnot's ear about the Caldwell Collection. He's dying to see it.”

“And what's been eating at you all night, Buster? You've been as prickly as a cactus. Is that filly gettin' under your skin?”

“It's Orlaf. What is that bloody bastard doing here?”

“Like everyone else in the world, he's coming to the fair.”

“I don't believe that for one minute. Like Emma, the publicity we've created for the paintings has drawn him out of the woodwork.”

“So what?”

“So what? As far as I'm concerned, the man is the devil incarnate. I don't want him anywhere near this operation.”

“You ask me, boy, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. You been driving yourself too hard. What you need is some rest. Go to bed. Get some sleep.”

“Perhaps you're right.”

Go to bed?

Mason and Lisette glanced at each other from their crouched position behind the bedroom door. How were they ever going to get out of this?

As if getting an idea, Bobo began patting Lisette on the head. Lisette's eyes brightened and she whispered some instructions in his ear. Then, with absolutely no hesitation, the chimp darted into the sitting room like an arrow and threw the lamp to the floor, breaking it and casting the room into darkness.

As Mason and Lisette silently crept toward the front door, Bobo began shrieking like a banshee and leaping around the furniture. They heard Hank's voice cry out, “Good lord, boy! It's some sort of damned pygmy!”

“No, it's a bloody ape,” Garrett said. “He must have come through the window.”

“Careful. Don't touch it. The cursed thing might bite.”

“I have no intention of touching it.”

But Bobo knew when it was time to leave. Seeing that his partners had made their escape, he leapt through the still-open French doors to the balcony and was gone.

Mason and Lisette raced down the stairs, Lisette muttering, “I'm going to have that Hugo's head on a platter!”

They found their bodyguard dozing in an overstuffed chair in the lobby. Lisette hauled back and smacked the back of his bald head with all her might. “Imbecile!”

He jerked up. “I'm not asleep.”

“Garrett walked right past you, you fool. He surprised us in the room.”

“But I only closed my eyes for an instant,” he wailed.

Mason stopped this, saying, “We'd better get out of here. They may be coming down to make a formal complaint to the manager.”

Lisette began to giggle.
“‘Monsieur, we have a monkey in our room…'”

Mason couldn't help it; she, too, began to laugh. Soon even Hugo was joining in.

“What are you laughing at?” Lisette snapped at him, and he instantly assumed a sheepish stance.

Outside, Bobo was waiting for them. Lisette held out her arms and he climbed into them to receive her grateful kisses. “You're such a good boy, Bobo. You saved our lives.”

As she continued raining kisses on his face, Bobo looked at the sulking Hugo and grinned.

A
s April turned into May, the realization hit the city with a jolt. In a mere six days,
L'Exposition Universelle Internationale de 1889
would finally be under way. The finishing touches were being put upon the enormous glass and castiron exhibition halls that filled the Champ de Mars and the Esplanade des Invalides. Hotels were filling up as visitors from all over the world descended on the city like Muslims on a pilgrimage to Mecca. The restaurants and cafés, dance halls, parks, and squares—everything was crowded with tourists. The streets were alive with anticipation and a heady sense of self-importance.

Paris had reclaimed its position as center of the world.

But while the rest of the city was counting down the hours to the May 6th opening, Garrett was totally involved in his reception three days earlier on the site of the partially completed Caldwell Pavilion. Mason had no more illusions that he was doing this for her benefit, but he'd still thrown himself into the project with the zeal of a master impresario. It was important, he told her, “to steal some of the thunder” from the much larger displays of fine art that were about to open all around them, and give art patrons a taste of the excitement to come and afford them an opportunity to donate to the cause.

An outdoor event in the spring was always a risk in Paris, but the weather cooperated. The night of the reception proved to be a splendid May evening, warm with clear skies and no hint of rain. Colorful Japanese lanterns had been strung all about the area. A chamber orchestra provided a gracious atmosphere with the sweet strains of Mozart and Haydn. A canopy sectioned off tables laden with gourmet treats and champagne. A regiment of waiters in smart red uniforms were poised to serve the needs of a guest list that Richard made sure included the crème de la crème of the city's cultural, financial, and political elite, as well as the critics, dealers, and glamorous patrons of the international art world. The Prince of Wales and President Carnot were both expected to make appearances. But the focal point of the evening was a selection of Caldwell paintings displayed around the perimeter of the cordoned-off area, where the company could wander about and appreciate them at their leisure.

Richard was in an especially gregarious mood. As the guests began to appear, he turned on the full force of his charm, amiably greeting the arrivals, making the introductions, presenting the artist's sister. As the champagne flowed freely and the music drifted on the evening breeze, he joined the more important guests at the paintings, discussing them so subtly and eloquently that they never realized he was making a sales pitch. He made certain the guests understood the paintings' aesthetic value, their place in art history, and why he felt they rated their own pavilion.

It was a glittering assembly. Actresses and socialites mixed with captains of industry and Italian nobility, maharajas with South American cattle kings and owners of African diamond mines, critics, playwrights, and poets with Salon painters, sculptors, explorers, army generals, and inventors whose creations would soon be featured at the fair. The conversation was lively, intelligent, and spiked with the excitement generated by the upcoming Exposition. All in the shadow of the Tower—this astonishing eighth wonder of the world—with a panoply of electric lights that made it gleam like a beacon in the darkening night.

As Mason stood in the middle of this enchanted setting, watching Richard go through all these elaborate motions, his devotion to Mason Caldwell's cause seemed so touching and authentic that she had to remind herself it was all part of his carefully laid trap.

You bastard! Do you think I don't see through you? How you're doing all this for yourself? Because the more famous you make me, the more spectacular your success when you unmask me. Well, the evening isn't going to be as successful for you as you might think. With a little luck, you have a surprise in store for you!

It happened just minutes later. A tall, blond man with a formal, aristocratic bearing and sharply defined features was making his entrance.

Count Dimitri Orlaf.

As he entered the party, smiling and bowing to people he knew, Mason felt a stab of malicious anticipation. Two tigers in a cage. Now all she had to do was stand back and watch the fun—and see what kind of weapon she might gain from it.

Richard was completely unaware of the new arrival. He was at the other end of the party, talking to the author Émile Zola, pointing to a detail in one of the paintings. How long would it take him to notice the unwanted intruder in his midst?

As it turned out, it took no time at all. As if by some osmosis or sixth sense, he stopped midsentence, turned, and spotted the man at once. In a flash, his veneer of cordiality vanished, replaced by a look of raw fury.

Mason watched with a delicious smile. What was he going to do?

With an angry glare, he shot toward the man like a bullet streaking toward its target. Mason moved closer, not wanting to miss a minute.

Orlaf saw him coming. He stood where he was, amusement lifting the corners of his mustache. “Well, if it isn't my host, Richard Garrett.”

“What are
you
doing here?” Richard growled.

“Why, my dear fellow, I was invited.”

“I wouldn't invite you to your own funeral.”

A number of the guests around them had caught the air of friction and turned to stare. Mason used them as a shield behind which to watch without being seen.

“But of course I was invited.” Orlaf reached into his pocket and removed the engraved invitation Mason had sent him.

Garrett glared at it. “I don't know how you got that, and I don't much care. But if you know what's good for you, you will turn around and leave.”

Garrett's raised voice aroused even more attention.

“Dear fellow, I have no intention of leaving. I'm positively itching to see these paintings I've been hearing so much about. I may even be interested in acquiring some of them.”

Richard's face had turned to granite. “I'm going to give you exactly one minute to get out of my sight.”

“And if I choose to ignore your little ultimatum?”

“I'll throw you out.”

Orlaf chuckled. “And make a fool of yourself in front of all these salon habitués? Create a public scandal? Cause a scene at a party where you're trying to raise funds? I hardly think so.”

“You think I won't create a scene?” Richard flared. The words hardly left his lips before he hauled back and slugged the Russian in the face.

The crowd gasped as Orlaf reeled into those closest to him. Mason was as shocked as everyone else. She'd never seen Richard like this. He was literally trembling with anger and hatred. The guests backed up, alarmed by the frightening intensity that radiated from him.

“I suppose you want satisfaction for that?” he snarled. “I'll be happy to meet you any time, any place, with any weapon you might desire. Name it, Orlaf.”

Shaking himself off, a taunting smile returned to the Russian's face. “Oh, I'll get satisfaction, all right, old friend. But in my own time and in my own way. And I think I will leave your little soiree right now, because I don't need to see the paintings tonight. I'll have plenty of time for that when I become their broker.”

Richard charged after the man, grabbed his jacket in both hands, and gave him a single, violent shake. With his face close, he rasped out, “You listen to me, you son of a bitch. I'll see you dead before you get anywhere near these paintings.”

Just then there was a commotion in the crowd and Hank Thompson came barreling through. He put his hand on Richard's shoulder. “Now, hold on, boy, that's enough. Get control of yourself. Where do you think you are?”

“If someone doesn't get him out of here, I swear to God, I'm going to kill him.”

Finally losing his temper, Orlaf steamed, “You British prick. I'm going to make you pay for this. I know just how to get you.”

As Hank wrestled Richard from the scene, he called out to the Russian, “You'd better get out of here, fella, while you can still walk.” To the crowd, he added, “Nothing at all, folks. A couple of young bulls having a pissing match. Happens every day. Nothing at all to get excited about.”

The crowd began to disperse, gossiping among themselves about the unprecedented confrontation. Mason heard a woman close to her sigh, behind her fan, “My, but wasn't that stimulating? I've never seen anything like that before. The Englishman…My heart is positively pounding!”

“I'm all aflutter,” her female companion replied.

Mason watched as Hank spoke softly to Richard, calming him down. She waited for Hank to leave, then took him a glass of champagne. “That was quite a scene.”

She could still see the anger simmering in Richard's eyes, but he reined it in, and said, “My apologies. The incident won't do much for our money-raising efforts, I'm afraid. But, as you may have noticed, the man is like a red flag in front of a bull to me. I can't imagine how he got an invitation.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“He's a blackguard. He disguises himself as an aristocrat and a connoisseur, but he makes his money as a broker for stolen art. When a painting is lifted anywhere in the world, the thief knows he can always find a home for it in Russia through Orlaf. Even for a legitimately purchased painting, the worst thing that can happen is for it to fall into Orlaf's hands. He'll sell it to the Russian aristocracy who don't believe in museums and will just horde it away forever. Orlaf represents everything evil in the world of culture, and I detest him.”

He spoke with such feeling, such passion, such wounded integrity that an unexpected guilt tugged at Mason's conscience. She'd provoked this confrontation to create a scene and see what it might tell her about Richard's past. But the genuine pain it had unleashed in him gave her no pleasure. And she'd learned nothing more than she'd known before.

The incident had only weakened her defenses against him.

She turned away. She had to fight this. If she was going to best him, she couldn't let her heart get in the way of her purpose.

She had to slam the door on the love she still felt for him.