“That's between you and her,” Hugo said, standing. “Now, if we're still speaking frankly, I could use a drink.”
Roussillon picked up two boxes containing cufflinks and made his selection. “I am a terrible host, Monsieur Marston. Word will spread at the embassy about such rudeness. Forgive me for not offering before.”
“No problem. I can find my way downstairs.”
“I will be right down, monsieur. I trust we will have a rewarding evening together.”
Hugo nodded. Rewarding? And a look in Roussillon's eye told Hugo that their conversation, one way or another, would be continued.
Chapter Fourteen
He found Claudia beside the walk-in fireplace, a glass of champagne in her hand and a worried look on her face. When she saw him, she started forward. “Hugo, I'm so sorry, are you angry?”
“I haven't decided,” he said with a frown. “But I'm sure as hell thirsty.”
Claudia glanced over his shoulder and, with a slight inclination of her head, summoned a waiter. “Champagne?” she asked Hugo.
“Scotch,” he said, then looked at the waiter and spoke in French. “Large. I do not have to drive myself home tonight.”
“Oui, monsieur.” The waiter smiled. “We have Laphroaig, fifteen years old, or a Talisker, I think twenty-one years.”
“Either will do fine. Perhaps whichever is fastest. And no ice.”
“Right away, monsieur.”
The waiter turned and slalomed his way through the room with his head down, avoiding eye contact with, and thereby interruption by, the other guests. Nice work — shame the French don't tip, thought Hugo. He turned back to Claudia.
“So Ms. Roussillon, were you going to tell me?” He kept his voice light, amused rather than annoyed.
“Hugo, of course.” She was having trouble meeting his gaze. “I should have told you right away, I am sorry. I want to know if you are upset.”
“For humble roots, I wasn't expecting this,” he said, gesturing to the room. Forty men and women, mostly middle-aged or older, stood holding drinks and napkins, some nibbling delicately at the corner of various hors d'oeuvres that Hugo couldn't recognize. Mostly things wrapped in pastry. All of the men wore bow ties, and most in tuxedoes, but a few wore tails. The women, as rich women do, looked comfortable in their tight-fitting dresses and heavy jewelry. But this wasn't just the rich set, Hugo saw, it was the rich and beautiful set. The conversation bubbled all around them and Hugo was aware that Claudia kept her distance from him. Roussillon's friends may know about his homosexuality, they may even keep it secret, but Hugo guessed that they'd still love to gossip about his daughter and an American.
“Believe it or not, this place is humble to some of these people,” Claudia said, as if reading his mind. “And I think you'll like them, too.”
“I have no reason to doubt it. I'm curious about your father, though. He could have stopped by my apartment to give me his little speech.”
“That's not his style.” Claudia shook her head, smiling. “And yes, he is a good man, too. But he does like to impress. I think he wanted you to know that he is important.”
“Influential, you mean.”
“That too. You know, Hugo, he's only protecting me.”
“Because you can't do that yourself?”
“He's my father, reality doesn't enter that equation.” Claudia looked at him, serious. “I would like to talk about it,” she said, “sometime soon.”
“We can. We will.” Hugo's drink arrived on a silver tray. He took it with thanks and downed half the glass. The burn was less than expected, always the trouble with good whisky. “So did your gendarme friends find anything out today?”
“My…? Oh, that.” She looked disappointed. “You want to talk about that now?”
“Of course,” Hugo said. “Seems like a safe topic, no?”
“Bien.” Her smile was thin. “Well, they talked to Chabot and said they were pretty firm, pressed him for a while.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, but he told them the same thing he told you: he didn't know Max.”
“Did they ask how he came into possession of the stall?”
“I don't know, probably. They didn't tell me what his response was, though. If any. I'm sorry, they did try.”
Hugo frowned into his drink. If you want something done right, do it yourself. And he'd do just that tomorrow.
“So,” he said, nodding toward the busy room, “how does this work? Should I be meeting your friends?” The idea was less than attractive. He knew he had little in common with these people, none of whom probably worked for a living. He watched as a well-preserved woman in her fifties clinked glasses of champagne with a lookalike, their noses almost touching, an amusing secret just shared. The men in their black and white, the plumage on the women, and the little zookeepers in their white coats stopping to feed and water their charges all made Hugo feel claustrophobic.
But he was just a little bit curious. Curious about the relationship between Roussillon and his daughter, about the guests themselves. Claudia had said they were nice. Heck, maybe they were.
A handsome couple approached. The man was tall and strong, with black hair combed straight back, the confident smile of someone who knew that others wanted to meet him. His wife had once been beautiful but now wore the slightly stretched face that comes with cosmetic surgery. But the blue eyes were clear and the smile more genuine than that of her husband. Perhaps because of the sparkling rock on her wedding finger. Claudia made the introductions.
“This is Hugo Marston, head of security at that US Embassy. Hugo, meet Alain and Marie Mercier.”
Hugo shook hands with them both. “Enchanté.”
Claudia turned to Hugo and spoke in French. “The Merciers are old friends of mine. Somewhere along the line Marie and I are cousins, but I'm not sure how far back.”
“That's true of most Europeans, isn't it?” Hugo said.
The couple laughed gently. “Alors, Hugo,” Alain Mercier said, “how do you know Claudia?”
Good question.
“The truth,” Claudia said, and leaned in close to Alain. Both he and his wife cocked their heads expectantly. “The truth is, I caught him fucking your wife.”
The French couple snorted delightedly and Marie put a hand on Hugo's arm, squeezing playfully as she looked at her husband. “If that were true, Alain, I would boast of it myself.” Alain smiled indulgently, a man confident that his wife would never do such a thing. In these circles, that was his role. Despite his reservations, Hugo warmed to the couple, enjoying their easy banter.
A gong rang out from the other end of the room and the crowd started to shuffle through a pair of double doors to the dining room. As they were siphoned through, Hugo stood aside to let a portly couple pass, and he lost contact with Claudia and the Merciers.
Inside the dining room he saw that place cards had been set up, the guests floating around and bumping into each other as the discovery process began. He was looking for his own card when a hand took his. It belonged to a redhead, a young lady of no more than twenty-five. Large blue eyes met his look of surprise, but any innocence in them was undone by her smile, replete with intent.
“I believe we are seated together, Monsieur Marston,” she said in English, her accent from somewhere south of Alabama. “My name is Jenny Reye.”
“Nice to meet you,” Hugo said, instinctively looking for Claudia. “Call me Hugo. And how do you know who I am?”
“I asked,” she said, as if it were a stupid question.
“Of course.” Hugo smiled. “I have no idea where we are, so I'll follow you.” Following was a pleasure, even though her dress was less fitted than that worn by most of the women there. There was a subtlety about the way she moved her hips, not enough to draw attention from the men around them, but just enough to let Hugo know that she knew he was watching. They rounded the head of the table where Claudia stood by her chair, waiting for her father. Hugo was surprised to see a look of puzzlement on her face, a look she transferred from the girl to Hugo with a raised eyebrow. Hugo smiled and shrugged as he passed. Don't ask me.