He held Jenny's chair for her and they sat down, Hugo suddenly grateful for the tedious lessons in etiquette the ambassador forced all of his senior staff to take when they joined the embassy. Faced with a dozen forks, knives, and spoonlike devices, plus four different glasses, the Texas Hugo would have been at once confused, irritated, and amused. The head-of-security Hugo, however, knew which glass was for what, and why he had a fork shaped like a spoon nestled among the knives. His new neighbor seemed less sure. He could see her eyes flicking around the table as other guests settled in for the meal, watching to see who touched what. Napkin unrolled now or later? Pour my own water? He could empathize.
“It's nice to be speaking in English,” he smiled. “Have you been here before?”
“No.” Her big blue eyes flashed and she waved a hand over the place setting. “And I can't figure out whether I'm going to end up gorging myself or starving to death from choosing the wrong tools.”
Hugo chuckled. “I know what you mean. I was always told to start on the outside and work my way in.”
“That so?” Jenny looked at him and smiled that way again. “Sounds like a good lesson.”
A young lady appeared behind them holding two bottles of wine, one red and one white. “Mademoiselle?” she said.
“Good,” she whispered to Hugo, “I'll let her figure out which glass I should use.” Jenny leaned into him, her bare arm brushing his jacket. She looked over her shoulder at the server. “Blanc, s'il vous plait.”
Hugo breathed in her scent and tried to place it, but couldn't. Soft and flowery, quite unlike the way she was behaving. He wanted to splash his face with water, grab Claudia, and get out of there.
Hugo's eyes trailed over the rows of silverware. Only one, two, three…six courses to get through. He felt a hand grip the back of his chair and he twisted to see a man of about eighty, as round as he was tall and with a giant moustache, tugging at the chair next to him. Hugo stood, pulled out the chair, and helped him sit.
“Merci,” the old man said. When Hugo told him he was welcome, the old man pointed to his ear, smiled sadly, and mouthed the word sourd. Deaf. Hugo smiled and nodded, then turned back to Jenny. “So what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“I work for the count,” she said.
“Doing…?”
“Books. I have a Masters in European Literature and worked for two years at Sotheby's selling musty old books. The kinds of books that he,” she thumbed toward the head of the table, “likes to pay way too much for.”
“I see,” said Hugo, noting another book connection. “That sounds interesting. Has he been buying lately? At auction?”
“Not that I know of, but sometimes he does his own buying without involving me. That's pretty rare, though. Why?”
“Just curious.” But Hugo didn't want her to be. “Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. You were saying that it's an interesting job.”
“Mostly, yes. I get to travel a lot, that's fun. I get paid well, too, and meet interesting people. What do you do?”
“I work at the US Embassy.” Hugo glanced down the table and saw Claudia watching them. “In the security section.”
Jenny ran a finger around the top of her wine glass and cocked her head. “American Embassy, huh? You carrying a gun?”
“Here?” He laughed. “I think we're all pretty safe here, don't you?”
“How about handcuffs?”
He was saved from having to reply by a sudden hush that ran around the table, the diners quieting themselves to a signal that Hugo had missed. Roussillon was on his feet, a relaxed smile on his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my daughter, my chef, and I welcome you. We see you all so very rarely and I'm sorry I don't get to sit and chat with you individually. I've been wanting to say something and…” He paused and looked down, his fingers moving to a polished knife, which he turned over. His mouth opened and when he raised his head Hugo saw a look of surprise on his host's face. Roussillon looked at them all, studied them, then turned as his daughter took his hand. They smiled at each other and she half-stood to guide him back into his seat, pressing a glass of water into his hand. She stood and addressed the party with a smile. “My father usually likes to give thanks for his food. So please.” Heads bowed around the table and she said a quick grace. Immediately after, the chatter resumed as though a dial had been turned and nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.
Throughout dinner Jenny continued to flirt with him, but the way a teenager would, full of innuendo and lingering looks, devoid of subtlety. Hugo didn't mind — after all, she was very pretty. And he was pleased, too, at the long looks Claudia was sending their way at increasingly frequent intervals, though she wasn't giving away much; her expression sat halfway between irritation and amusement.
The meal itself lasted two hours, and Hugo was experienced enough at the French table to pace himself and leave the bread well alone. Jenny fared less well, her sauciness diminishing as she filled herself with the quail, pastries, and cheese of the last three courses. At meal's end, via telepathy, it seemed, the men stood and excused themselves, moving back through the main room and into Roussillon's library, where three boxes of cigars lay on a table, flanked by decanters of port and brandy.
Hugo was wondering whether to indulge when Roussillon touched his elbow. “I'd suggest the port. It's a 1963 Croft; I'm not sure you'll find better.” He reached out and picked up a glass, filled it with the ruby liquid, and handed it to Hugo. “Try it.”
Hugo sipped obligingly and rolled it gently around his mouth, surprised at the difference between this and other ports he'd tasted. It felt like velvet, offering a perfect touch of sweetness and a fullness of fruit that kept opening up on his tongue. “I'm no expert,” he said when he'd swallowed, “but I can honestly say that I've never had port this good.”
Roussillon seemed genuinely pleased, clasping his hands together and flashing white teeth. “I shall have a glass myself,” he said. “Not much of this stuff left, half a dozen cases maybe. Then it's on to the 1970s, of which we were sensible enough to lay down aplenty. Of course, it's the '77s and the '94s we're really looking forward to.” He looked to the heavens, as if God himself were awaiting the ripening of those particular vintages. “Did you enjoy dinner?”
“I did, very much.”
“You met Jenny. I trust you enjoyed her company, too?”
“Thank you, yes.” Hugo took another sip. “I assume her…company will be waiting for me at the end of the evening?”
“Monsieur Marston, why would you ask me that?” Roussillon's look of shock was the same one that Hugo had seen on a thousand guilty faces.
“Oh, let me see,” Hugo said, smiling to let his host know he was not offended. “First there was the seating arrangement. I suppose that putting me next to her could have been pure chance, two single guests. But the deaf gentleman on my other side meant no distractions, no way to avoid Jenny's charms.”
“And charming she is,” Roussillon said.
“Oh yes. Charming, pretty, and intelligent. And when she's actually attracted to someone she probably flirts quite well.” Hugo waved away Roussillon's offer of a cigar. “But when she's told to do it, paid to do it perhaps, well, then she doesn't want her signals to be misinterpreted as mere friendliness, so she overdoes it. Which, ironically, makes her somewhat less appealing.”