“What big words you use, sir,” Bushell said with a grin. Bragg’s demeanor did not significantly lighten. But for the fact that a large number of conversations were being carried on in French - and even a few in Russian - the rituals of the reception were remarkably similar to those at Governor Burnett’s residence in New Liverpool. Bushell made his way down the line of dignitaries, shaking hands and murmuring polite phrases as he did so. A small gap in the line developed behind him; the Russians had a way of lingering over Kathleen’s hand that surprised him not at all.
At the end of the reception line stood Duke Alexei Orlov, the Tsar’s ambassador to the North American Union. Orlov’s magnificent silver beard spilled halfway down his chest, concealing some of the decorations that he wore. Bushell sometimes thought that, if a Russian noble got out of bed on the same side three days running, the Tsar would pin a medal on his chest to celebrate the achievement.
“I am pleased to meet you, Colonel,” Orlov said in good English. “I have been following your exploits with great interest in the newspapers. I wish you the best of good fortune in recovering The Two Georges from the uncultured bandits who so wickedly stole it.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Bushell said. “Having met Russian guns, grenades, and gold during those exploits, making your acquaintance brings things full circle, in a manner of speaking.”
Sir Horace Bragg had already gone through the line, but was hovering not far away. He frowned. Duke Orlov laughed. The shining waves of his beard bobbed up and down. “It is a pleasure to complete your experience, Colonel,” he said. Bushell dipped his head, acknowledging the man’s unflappability. A servant came by with a tray of champagne flutes. Bushell took one and sipped. He made for the nearest table, to deposit the glass as unobtrusively as he could.
Behind him, a man spoke in French: “Ah, Colonel, I see you have a discriminating palate. That sweet Crimean swill the Russians lyingly call champagne is fit only for the fattening of hogs.”
Bushell turned, replying, also in French, “I think you have reason, monsieur,” as he did so. His eyes widened slightly. “Pardon me, but are you not - ?”
The Frenchman bowed. “I do indeed have the honor to be Comte Philippe Bonaparte, ambassador of His Majesty Francois IV Bourbon, King of France and Spain and their territories over the sea to your North American Union.”
Bushell bowed back. The count was a short, slim, swarthy man in his mid-fifties, with wavy hair dyed black as Sally Reese’s and a chin beard and mustaches whose points were waxed sharp enough to draw blood. He wore a white shirt with a stiff front, wing collar, and black butterfly cravat, and over it a jacket cut like an English tailcoat but, rather than being somber black, made of bright blue velvet embellished with gold thread. His flared trousers were also of blue velvet, his pointed-toed shoes of white patent leather.
As Duke Orlov had, Bonaparte said, “I tell you that I wish you a speedy recovery of your stolen treasure, Colonel.”
“That’s generous of you, monsieur, when your country would be better served if the Sons of Liberty managed to bring chaos to the British Empire.” Bushell stuck up a forefinger. “Wait. Because you tell me this does not mean it is true.”
Bonaparte bowed again, his eyes twinkling. “Few men discern subtleties even when their proper language is being spoken. It is the rare individual indeed who hears them in a tongue not his own. You are a gentlemen of considerable resource, Colonel.” He laughed in elegant, insincere self-deprecation. “And I, alas, am but a poor diplomat who has proved not diplomatic enough. I tell lies for politeness’ sake and I am found out.”
“Sometimes you may have to do things for reasons of state that you would not do in your own person,” Bushell said.
“If you understand this, Colonel, you understand a great deal,” Bonaparte said, more seriously than he had spoken till then.
Kathleen Flannery, having at last escaped the receiving line and the elephantine attentions of Duke Orlov, came over toward Bushell. Like him, she took a glass of sparkling wine from a passing servant; also like him, she found one sip more than sufficient. “That’s pretty bad,” she said in English, and then switched to French more fluent than Bushell’s: “Monsieur le Comte, I am pleased to see you again.”
‘‘Mademoiselle Docteur Flannery, I am always pleased to see you.” Bonaparte kissed her hand. He might have been a stock silly-ass Frenchman in a cinema farce, except he really did radiate the charm a comic Frenchman only thought he had. “I am given to understand you and Colonel Bushell have associated yourselves in the search for Les Deux Georges.”
“We have associated ourselves, yes,” Kathleen said.
Bonaparte glanced from her to Bushell and back again. “How am I to construe this, if I may make so bold as to inquire?”
“Why, however you like, of course,” Bushell said. “You will anyhow.”
“This is an excellent answer,” Bonaparte exclaimed, spreading his hands wide to show how fine it was.
“Excellent! How is it that you are a mere colonel of police, Monsieur Bushell, when you show wit in even your common utterances, when your commander - you will, I trust, forgive me - while he may be sound enough, cannot be described as anything but stodgy? Perhaps it is that in the British Empire wit is a hindrance rather than an advantage?”
“How is he supposed to answer that without getting into trouble?” Kathleen asked. The Franco-Spanish ambassador bared his teeth in what was not quite a light, amused grin. “I have not the slightest idea, Dr. Flannery. I leave it up to the colonel’s ingenuity.”
Bushell knew he was expecting a frivolous reply, and so answered seriously: “I think it is that we respect competence more than wit, monsieur. To us, wit seems dangerous, for it suggests solid abilities a man may in fact fail to possess.”
“Well said.” Kathleen nodded vigorous approval.
But Philippe Bonaparte shook his head. “I regret that I must disagree with you in particular and, if you are correct, with the British race as well. The competent man can be far more dangerous than the witty one. No one detects his malfeasance till too late, for nothing about him is worthy of notice. The wit, on the other hand, always draws attention to himself. Because he is under so many eyes, he has no choice but probity.”
Bushell rubbed at his mustache. “I’m going to have to think about that one before I decide whether I agree with it.”
“Colonel, I assure you that I have reason,” Bonaparte said. “Perhaps life has not demonstrated as much to you, but it shall, as it does to everyone.” He bowed. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must demonstrate to the wider world how charming and sociable I am. Do be certain I wish you my personal best in your efforts to recover your missing work of art.”
“Interesting fellow,” Bushell remarked thoughtfully. “More to him than you’d guess from that gaudy jacket. I wonder just how he meant that.” He chuckled. “You see? There I go again, putting substance ahead of sparkle.”
“You’d be a failure at the Court of Versailles,” Kathleen said.
“I do hope so,” Bushell said. “And speaking of failures -“ He glanced at the two abandoned glasses of sparkling wine. “They must have something better somewhere. Shall we investigate?”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Kathleen answered.
The investigation was hardly one to go down in the annals of the Royal American Mounted Police. A red-faced Englishman came out of the next room holding a tall glass with whiskey in it. “I deduce the presence of a bar,” Bushell said happily.
“Astonishing!” Kathleen exclaimed. “A lesser mind would have been incapable of it.” They both laughed. Sure enough, in that next room three bartenders struggled mightily to hold thirst at bay tor a host of dignitaries. Bushell’s laughter dried up. There at the bar stood Sir David Clarke, talking animatedly with a Russian a head shorter than he was. As far as Bushell was concerned, Sir David was the triumph of surface over substance - he would have been a smashing success at Versailles or St. Petersburg or wherever flattery and fawning held the keys to advancement.