“No butler?” he murmured to Claudia, who responded with a tight smile.
Hugo could see the main room through an archway ahead of him but Roussillon turned left, up a curved, wooden staircase. He followed his host up the stairs and down a long, wide hallway until they reached what he announced was his dressing room. He pointed to an ancient oak door, its iron hinges stretching like arrows across the broad panels.
“I'd like to show you my little turret,” Roussillon said. “It's my sanctuary, a sort of private place where I can meditate and exercise. No one may disturb me in there, and only Jean is allowed in.” He smiled. “My only house rule.”
“I see.” Hugo wasn't sure what else to say or where this was going.
“Maybe later, I should not ignore my guests for too long. Please sit.” Roussillon gestured toward an undersized chintz armchair. More for decoration than comfort, Hugo thought, but he sat anyway. Roussillon unpinned and slid off his cravat, then took off his sweater and dropped them both on his dressing table. He opened a mirrored closet and inspected two tuxedo jackets. “I do have a penchant for white tails. People never seem to wear those any more, I don't know why.”
“Monsieur.” Hugo knew little and cared less about the fashion habits of the elite. And he certainly didn't care to watch them undress. “I am a little confused as to why you invited me.”
Roussillon unbuckled and kicked off his pants, revealing plum-colored, silk boxer shorts over thin, white legs. He turned and looked at Hugo. “You Americans are known for speaking bluntly. We, and even more so the English, tend to say in a paragraph what can and should be said in a sentence. So you will not mind if I speak openly and honestly with you?”
“I would prefer it, actually.” And I'd also prefer you to be in pants, he thought.
“Bien. This discussion requires, I think, that we arrive at a clear understanding.” Roussillon turned back to his closet and pulled out a black tuxedo. “You are a behavioral scientist, yes? A profiler?”
“I was, yes. For the FBI.”
“You consider yourself good at reading people, then.”
“A misconception,” said Hugo. “I consider myself good at reading crime scenes.”
Roussillon turned and held Hugo's eye. “Then it will come as a surprise to learn that I am gay?”
“This whole evening,” Hugo said with a smile, “is turning into a surprise. That isn't one of them.”
Roussillon chuckled. “Monsieur Marston. My daughter is a desirable woman, attractive, and intelligent. All of her life I have guided and helped her, provided for her basic needs. Are you with me so far?”
“I think so.”
“What am I telling you, Monsieur Marston? I am telling you that I am very careful about who I let near to my daughter. I do not mind if she has boyfriends or girlfriends, but I do not like her to fall in love with any of them.” He looked at Hugo. “And I do all I can to discourage them falling in love with her.”
Hugo raised one eyebrow. “I thought Paris was the city of love.”
“Mais non.” Roussillon's tone lightened. “The city of loving is more accurate.”
“Either way,” Hugo said, stretching his legs out, “I have known Claudia for less than a week. Love is not an issue, believe me.”
“Good.” Roussillon slipped on a starched white shirt. “Understand that my protectionist concerns aren't merely those of a fussy father. Claudia is, in my view, particularly susceptible to a damaged heart.”
“How do you mean?” Hugo asked.
“Did you know she has been married before, yes?”
“Yes, she told me.”
“And did she tell you how it ended?”
“None of my business,” Hugo said.
“Maybe not. But I'll tell you anyway.” He turned his cool eyes to Hugo. “They were very much in love. He was a policeman, a young detective, handsome and clever and on his way up. On the way up until he was shot by the same type of people that Claudia is writing about now. They'd been married less than two years and she hasn't, to my knowledge, dated anyone since. Your name is the first she has mentioned to me, that much I can say.”
“I didn't know any of that. And I'm still not sure it's my business.”
Roussillon smiled. “And even knowing this, you think it strange that I vet the men in my grown daughter's life?”
“I am not a father, Monsieur de Roussillon. One of the reasons for that is my job, the things I have seen, the things I do, and the people I meet. If I haven't had children because of the way the world is, I can hardly fault you for protecting yours so carefully,” Hugo said. “And as I told you, we've known each other less than a week. You don't need to worry about it being love just yet.”
“You have been married before?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“Of course, you are from America, where marriage is like a fine suit. You wear and enjoy it for a while, then discard it when it becomes worn or uncomfortable.”
Hugo clenched his jaw but kept his tone even. “My first wife was killed in an accident. And my second decided she didn't like the French enough to stay married to me and live here.”
Roussillon turned and looked at Hugo. “Je m'excuse. I should not have assumed the worst. Forgive me.”
Hugo nodded. “As I said, you are a father. I don't blame you for being protective. Even if she is a grown woman.”
“Not to me.” Roussillon smiled, then turned and went back to buttoning up his shirt. “She didn't tell you about me, about being a Roussillon?”
“No. And I confess the name would not have meant much to me anyway.”
“That is often part of the problem, from where I stand. We do have to be careful, you know, because the name, the title, they can attract a certain sort of man.”
“I can imagine,” Hugo said.
“And forgive me for appearing to be rude, but I had imagined my daughter marrying a man of…well, a Frenchman, anyway.”
“A man of what?” Hugo knew the answer and was amused at this glance into social elitism. He also felt a slight jolt of surprise that marriage would even occur to Roussillon at this stage because neither he nor Claudia had broached the subject of exclusivity, let alone matrimony. And he doubted it was something she'd gone to her father about for discussion or advice.
“Of nobility. Of a certain class.” Roussillon grimaced. “Someone who recognizes the family name, at least. You find all this amusing?”
Hugo stifled his smile. “I'm sorry, really. But hearing you espouse a very traditional view of marriage is, you have to admit, a touch ironic. And, I have to say, a little preemptive.”
“Maybe, but such things are nevertheless important to me.”
“Are they as important to Claudia?”
“I can hope. I had thought so.” Roussillon turned to him again. “And since you touch upon the subject, you are not wondering how a gay man has a daughter?”
“Again, that's hardly any of my business.”
“No, it is not. But I want you to know that she is my flesh and blood. As a straight man can experiment, so can a gay man, especially when one is told that straight is the only way to be.” Hugo didn't respond, and Roussillon asked, “You will continue to see her?”
“Normally I'd say that it's none of your business. But since we are sharing…” He shrugged. “If she wants to, of course.”
“Yes? She will not be disappointed.”
“But you are.”
“We shall see. I suspect she will be disappointed with me for interrogating you.” Roussillon wagged a finger. “And that will not do at all.”