but that’s the rub,” the chemist said. “He isn’t exactly available. Let’s say he is unhappy where he is.”
“Which is where?”
Morris glanced at Evelyn Clary, then at Lydia. “I don’t know if you are going to like this, Mrs. Nightsong, but he’s with P.M. Cosmetics.”
“Peter MacNair?” Lydia groaned. “I should have suspected he’d be involved in some way. Why is it every time I turn around that man is standing in my way?”
Mrs. Clary said, “Perhaps because he enjoys placing himself there.” She gave Lydia a knowing grin. “He certainly has spent a great deal of his time trying to speak with you, Lydia. I remember....”
“That will do, Evelyn.”
Lydia remembered without any help how persistent Peter had been when she had been almost destitute and laden under debts she thought she’d never be able to pay. Peter’s attentions, she’d learned, were not for her; they were for what she’d taken out of China. She could close her eyes and still feel the cat that brushed against her, frightening her half to death that dark, horrible night when she’d stolen into the Dragon Empress’s vault and taken her personal perfume, a perfume created exclusively for the dowager’s imperial use. Peter MacNair knew as well as Lydia that whoever succeeded in duplicating that fragrance would corner every perfume market in the world.
“Nightsong,” she mused, as she turned back toward the windows. That was the name she intended to give the duplicate perfume when it was marketed, a name she’d chosen for herself when she’d immigrated.
She frowned as it occurred to her that even the name she’d chosen—Nightsong—had originated with Peter MacNair. That night in Peter’s hut, when he’d made her get out of her wet clothes and dressed her in a silk robe, was suddenly clearly etched at the backs of her eyes. She could see the wall of his rough bedroom where some artist, centuries before, had done a painting—a branch of a plum tree in full blossom and a bird on a branch, singing to the slightly curved rim of the moon as it started to rise above the horizon. It was little more than a few deft strokes of the brush, really, in the manner of the Chinese artists, and yet it seemed to capture the scene in all its eloquence. Lydia remembered, too, vividly gazing at the exquisite painting and fancied that she had only to listen to hear the nightingale’s song to the moon, that she could actually catch the fragrant scent of the pale blossoms.
“I call it Nightsong,” Peter MacNair had said, coming to stand behind her. Taking hold of her....
With a shiver she threw off the memory of that night, not really knowing whether the shiver was one of pain or pleasure.
Nightsong. It had given her so much trouble, it had caused deaths and on more than one occasion attempts on her own life and the life of her daughter. The Empress had never forgotten her transgression and Lydia knew that even today that evil woman still wanted her dead. And all because of a perfume, a perfume that seemed to be cursed, as if within its haunting fragrance lay some power for evil, the blossoms of some dark flower as destructive as it was intoxicating. Perhaps that was the secret of its desirability.
For a brief moment she was tempted to turn and tell Morris to forget this Nez, this Raymond Andrieux, to let him stay with Peter MacNair’s company. But that would be foolish, she told herself. In one devious way or another Peter would succeed in getting the perfume away from her. If Raymond Andrieux was the only man capable of duplicating it, then he had to be on her side, in her employ.
“When do I meet this Monsieur Andrieux?” she asked, turning to Morris.
“Perhaps dinner together. I could arrange....”
“No,” Lydia said, cutting him off. “This is a business matter not a social one. And I think the fewer people who see us together, under the circumstances, the better. You’re sure you’ve checked him thoroughly?”
“Thoroughly,” Morris assured her.
“Then arrange for him to come to my home late Thursday morning when I know most of the business people on Nob Hill will be in their offices.”
* * * *
Raymond Andrieux came as a complete surprise. He was an extremely good-looking man, tall and young and well-built, with deep green eyes, chiseled features of perfect proportions and a wide, agreeable smile. Like so many Frenchmen, Raymond had a thick head of deep black hair that waved down across his forehead. He had a sensual look about him. His masculinity was overpowering, yet it was toned by smooth delicate olive skin and graceful eyebrows as dark as his hair.
His eyes laughed when he took Lydia’s hand and touched it to his lips. “Enchanté, Madame.”
He was as charming as he was handsome, Lydia noted after chatting for half an hour. She liked his friendly nature. She admired his self-assurance. She didn’t think him callous or brazen, but she was certain he was the type of man who did whatever he set out to do, regardless of who got hurt in the bargain. She was not sure she liked that, but she respected it.
“And your obligations to Mr. MacNair?” Lydia asked.
Raymond shrugged. “But what obligations, Madame Nightsong? There are none. I feel he brought me to America under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses?”
“He represented to me that he had a scent that was incapable of diagnosis, a scent he claimed would revolutionize the perfume industry. Unfortunately, he has nothing but ordinary essences that are, forgive my bluntness, commonplace, très de deuxième qualité, very second rate.”
Lydia hesitated, then got up. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Monsieur Andrieux, I have something that may interest you.” She started out of the room just as April appeared in the doorway.
April said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t know you had company.”
“April,” Lydia said, smiling as she turned to Raymond. “My daughter, Monsieur Andrieux.”
“Mademoiselle,” he said, letting his eyes move slowly over this ravishingly beautiful young woman.
He looked at her in a way that made April frown. It was as if he were thinking impure thoughts as he undressed her with his eyes. She blushed and managed, “How do you do.” Even the touch of his lips on her hand made her want to pull back.
Raymond smiled at Lydia. “Very beautiful,” he said. “So like her mother. But I must confess it is difficult to believe that you are mother and daughter.”
April didn’t care much for the fake smile. And she hardly looked anything like her mother. There was something false about the man, she decided, as she turned to her mother. “I was just going out.”
“Very well, but try to be home early. I’m not going into the office today. Perhaps you’d like to go to the theatre this evening. Bernhardt is appearing as Camille at the California Theatre.”
Raymond said, “Magnificent performance. You will not regret seeing it.”
April said, “We’ll see. I must hurry, Mother. Very nice meeting you, Monsieur.” She let him kiss her hand again but disliked it intensely.
“Charming girl. Charming.”
There
