Hugo had loved books since he was a child, but they were starting to give him a headache.
He considered calling Emma to get more background on de Roussillon but couldn't face the inevitable questions in her voice, so he dialed Claudia's number instead. Again no answer, and when he rang off he felt a little foolish. The last thing he wanted to do was chase her away by appearing overly eager.
Dating games. Jesus.
And that line, Dress for dinner. Where Hugo came from that meant jeans and cowboy boots, but in embassy-speak it meant black tie, though he could have guessed that a tuxedo was required just from the silken stationary. Still, he didn't own shiny black shoes and didn't feel obliged to rush out and buy any at such short notice, so the cowboy boots would stay.
Tom emerged from the shower and Hugo excused himself, having already seen too much of his friend. When he handed him hot coffee five minutes later, Tom also took the letter.
“Am I your date?” he said.
“Not the kind of place where excessive drinking and swearing is welcome, by the looks of the envelope.”
“Fair enough,” Tom said. “I got my list of things to do from you yesterday, anyway. Want me to look into this guy first?”
“No,” said Hugo. “I kind of like surprises.”
The car was there at ten minutes before seven, a black Mercedes chauffeured by a willowy man in his sixties wearing a gray suit and a white, neatly trimmed mustache. The driver opened the rear door for Hugo with the merest of bows and drove in silence, in a cautious but assertive way that told Hugo he'd received police or military training once upon a time. They headed west, gliding alongside the Seine, the water drifting in and out of view as the night's fog folded itself around it and them.
After a couple of miles they slanted northward, and Hugo's sense of direction was rewarded when they passed the Memorial to the Martyrs. They were headed to Nueilly-sur-Seine, one of the wealthiest areas in Paris, not far out enough to lose cachet as a suburb but not close enough to suffer the trials and tribulations of impermanence, which was the frequent result of tourist fluctuations. The families and some of the homes in the neighborhood had been there for hundreds of years and, God willing, would be there hundreds more.
The driver slowed and turned onto Boulevard D'Argenson, a boulevard in every sense, and not by chance did it intersect with Boulevard Chateau. Wide but quiet, the road was as straight as an arrow, perfectly spaced plane trees a first line of defense against traffic. The trees shaded the road and a broad cobbled sidewalk, on the other side of which ran a continuous stretch of bushes and shrubbery that provided color, and privacy, to the expensive homes behind. A minute later the car slowed again and crunched into the gravel driveway of one of the homes, a miniature chateau in stone that had a square, three-story tower at each corner. To his right, a pond lapped at the corner of the house, almost moat-like, deep green under the security lights. Impressive, Hugo thought, even for this street. He couldn't help notice the absence of gates on these driveways, a lack of security Hugo had observed ever since he'd taken the job in Paris. The French did not believe in preemptive measures, he'd found — an attitude that took some adjusting to, but that was also somehow reassuring.
Two other cars were in the driveway, parked as if they belonged there. An ancient but clean Range Rover and a spotless Bentley, also pre-1990s. Hugo wondered whether he was the only guest, but thought it more likely that everyone else attending had chauffeurs, all of whom were off somewhere smoking and grumbling about their bosses. His driver slipped out of the car and opened the passenger door for Hugo, who stepped out and thanked the man in French. Hugo turned to look at the house, admire really. The curtains were closed in all the windows and they glowed golden in the dark. He smelled wood smoke from one of the chimneys.
“This way, monsieur,” said the driver. They started toward the front entrance, two heavy wooden doors set back and atop three stone steps. As they got close, one of the doors opened and light from inside spilled out, the shape of a person momentarily just a silhouette.
Hugo saw that it was a woman and stopped in his tracks when he recognized Claudia. The driver, unsure, hovered. Claudia walked down the steps, high heels clicking on the stone. She wore a dress that was tight and simple — black velvet, Hugo guessed. A diamond necklace crossed her throat, and from it an emerald pendant nestled against her chest.
“Jean, merci,” she said to the driver. “You are excused for now. We'll call you when Monsieur Marston wishes to return home.”
You are excused? So she lives here, Hugo thought. Nice house for a journalist. Behind him, Hugo heard the heavy clunk of the Mercedes door and he turned to watch it pull through the circular driveway and into the street.
“Can't have a nice driveway like this cluttered with cars like that,” Hugo said.
Claudia started toward him but wobbled when her high heels hit the gravel. He put out an arm. “Damn shoes,” she said.
“Do you mind telling me what's going on?” he asked, glancing over at her. She was chewing her lip as they walked to the foot of the stairs, but didn't respond. Hugo turned to face her. “Claudia, was that invitation really from you?”
Claudia finally looked at him, and sighed. “I kept meaning to tell you,” she said. “But it never seemed like the right time.”
“Tell me what, that this is where you live?” Hugo waved an arm at the mansion. “Look, we've only known each other a few days, you are allowed to have secrets.”
“I know, Hugo. Tonight wasn't my idea, believe me. I mentioned you to my father and…” She turned to face him as footsteps approached from inside, and Hugo instinctively stepped back.
A man's silhouette appeared in the doorway, paused for a moment, then trotted lightly down the steps, a hand extended toward Hugo. The man had perfect white teeth and manicured gray hair, and when he reached the foot of the steps Hugo saw how slight he was, in height and build. Probably sixty, Hugo thought, maybe sixty-five. And not wearing the uniform of the evening, rather a pale yellow sweater, blue pants, and a light blue cravat held in place with a gold pin. Hugo shook his hand.
“Gérard de Roussillon,” the man smiled.
“Enchanté,” Hugo said.
“Welcome to my home; please come in and meet some of my friends.” Roussillon spoke in English, his accent almost undetectable. No doubt, Hugo thought, from years of tutoring, followed by vacations and social engagements, and maybe business ones, too, with his aristocratic counterparts from across the English Channel.
Roussillon sprang up the first two steps and then paused. “Monsieur Marston, I apologize for my attire, I have not yet had a chance to change for dinner. Perhaps you will accompany me upstairs while I dress?”
Hugo looked at Claudia and thought he detected the slightest of nods, but it might have been a trick of the light. “Certainly,” he said. “And I appreciate the invitation.”
“Of course, of course!” He waved away the thanks. “I do love to throw a party. Claudia, not so much, but she knows I am — how do you say it in America? Ah yes, a ‘party animal.’ No, it is I who should be thanking you, for coming at such short notice.”
Roussillon stood aside to let Claudia and Hugo enter the reception hall, which was circular, stone-flagged, and unfurnished except for a round table, teak maybe, right in the center. It bore a ceramic vase brimming with wild flowers. Looking down from the walls were four large paintings of rural scenes. To his immediate right a small door opened into a closet, now a cloakroom, and Roussillon disappeared inside for a second with Hugo's hat and coat.