glasses in preparation for the locals, who’d gather later to drink cassis and play dominoes.
Henri paused in his task long enough to shoot an appreciative glance her way. “An American. She arrived last night.”
“She’d reserved a room here?”
“No, she just showed up unannounced and asked if I could accommodate her. She’s lucky the man you were expecting canceled at the last minute, or I’d have had to turn her away. Too bad he broke his leg, eh?”
“For him, and me both. I’m going to have to find someone to replace him pretty quickly.” Again, Anton looked at the woman, observing her from the corner of his eye. Not just watchful, he decided, but nervous, too. Drumming her fingers lightly on the tabletop as if she were playing the piano. Keeping time by tapping her foot on the dusty paving stones. “What do you know about her, Henri?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Not much. She speaks very good French, the high society kind. And she’s in no hurry to leave here. She’s taken the room for a month.”
“A month?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Did she happen to mention why?”
“She did not.”
When Marie-Louise died, reporters had descended on the area within hours, posing as innocent tourists to disguise the fact they were sniffing out scandal, real or imagined, with which to titillate their readers. In less than a week, Anton had been front-page news throughout France and most of Europe. COMTE’S WIFE’S MYSTERIOUS DEATH, the tabloid headlines screamed. MURDER OR SUICIDE? POLICE QUESTION HUSBAND.
Although public appetite for sensationalism eventually found other victims on which to feed, having his private life exposed to malicious speculation had been a nightmare while it lasted, not just for him and his immediate family, but for everyone in Bellevue-sur-Lac. Since then, he’d been mistrustful of strangers who chose to linger in such a backwater village, content to live in a small inn where they’d be sharing a common bathroom with other guests. And with the third anniversary of his wife’s death coming up, he was especially wary. Like those which had gone before, it promised a burst of renewed interest in the whole tragic mess.
“One has to wonder how she plans to occupy her time,” he remarked.
“Perhaps she’s an artist.”
She, and a hundred thousand others—would-be Cézannes, Van Goghs, Picassos, sure if they breathed the golden light of Provence, genius would ooze from their pores. They came looking suitably tormented by their muse, right down to their disheveled appearance and the paint under their fingernails.
Not this woman, though. She wouldn’t allow a speck of dust to settle on her shoe.
Anton did not, as a rule, patronize the inn. Tonight, though, he was inclined to make an exception. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something about the woman—the set of her slender shoulders, perhaps, or the tilt of her head—seemed vaguely familiar. That alone was enough to increase his suspicions. Had he seen her before? Was she one of the rabid reporters, come back for another helping of empty speculation?
“Pour two glasses of whatever the lady is drinking, Henri,” he said, arriving at a decision.
Although Henri knew better than to say so, his face betrayed his surprise. Much might have changed since feudal times, but the people of Bellevue-sur-Lac and the surrounding area had been under the protection of the de Valois family for centuries. Whether or not he liked it, Anton reigned as their present-day seigneur.
They came to him to arbitrate their differences, to seek his advice, to request his help. That Monsieur le Comte would choose to sit among them at the L’Auberge d’Olivier, drinking the same wine they drank, would do more for Henri’s reputation than if he’d been awarded the Legion of Honor.
As far as Anton was concerned, being the object of such reverence was nothing short of ludicrous. When all was said and done, he was just a man, no more able than any other to control fate. His wife’s death and the reason behind it was proof enough of that. But tragedy and scandal hadn’t been enough to topple him from his pedestal, any more than his disdain for his title relieved him of the obligations inherent in it.
“I should serve it immediately, Anton?” Henri wanted to know, still flushed with pleasure.
“No,” he said, turning away. “I’ll signal when we’re ready.”
The square was deserted now. No faces for the stranger to scrutinize. Instead she stared at her hands where they rested on the table.
“A beautiful woman should not sit alone on such a night, with only an empty glass for company,” he said, approaching her. “May I join you?”
Startled, she looked up. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, and he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, only that they were large. He’d addressed her in English, and she replied in kind. “Oh, no…thank you, but no.”
It was his turn to be taken aback. Her slightly panicked rejection smacked more of propriety than guile. Hardly the response of a seasoned scandal-hunter, he thought. Or else, she was very good at hiding her true identity.
Covering his surprise with a smile, he said, “Because we haven’t been formally introduced?”
She spared him the barest smile in return. “Well, since you put it that way, yes.”
“Then allow me to rectify the matter. My name is Anton de Valois, and I am well-known in these parts. Ask anyone. They will vouch for me.”
He thought she blushed then—another surprise—though it was hard to be sure, with night closing in. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. She had a low, musical voice, refined and quite charming.
“Nor did you. It pays to be cautious these days, especially for a woman traveling by herself.” Then, even though he already knew the answer, he paused just long enough to give his question the ring of authenticity before suggesting, “Or perhaps I’m mistaken and you’re not alone after all, but waiting for someone else. Your husband, perhaps?”
“No,” she replied, far too quickly, and lowered her eyes to stare at her left hand which was bare of rings. The lights in the square came on at that moment, glimmering through the branches of the plane tree to cast the shadow of her lashes in perfect dusky crescents across her cheeks. “No husband. Not anymore.”
Again, not quite the attitude or the response he expected. Rather, she seemed lost, and very unsure of herself. On the other hand, he knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving. That being so, he led into the subject she’d surely latch on to with a vengeance, if she was indeed, as he suspected, a brash journalist with a hidden agenda.
“Then we share something of significance in common,” he remarked, sliding into the chair across from hers without asking permission this time. “I also lost my spouse several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m not a widow!” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze again. “I’m…divorced.”
She uttered the word as if it were something of which she was deeply ashamed. A clever ploy, perhaps, designed to deflect attention from her true motives.
“What
