Mystery in Provence by Vivian Conroy

Author:Vivian Conroy [Conroy, Vivian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008549244
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

Chapter Thirteen

When Atalanta entered the bedroom followed by a maid with the refreshments, laughter rang out. Eugénie was sitting up, colour in her cheeks, holding up a necklace with shimmering stones. The maid gawked in awe as she carried in the tray and Atalanta took over before the girl could trip and drop the whole thing. ‘Merci,’ she dismissed her. The girl cast one last longing look at the glittering necklace and vanished.

‘Shall I pour?’ Atalanta suggested.

Madame Frontenac shook her head. ‘Come to the window, child,’ she commanded.

When Atalanta hesitated, she gestured with a beringed hand. ‘Come, let me look at you.’

Atalanta joined her reluctantly. What does she expect to see?

Madame Frontenac seized her shoulders and turned her this way and that, studying her profile. She frowned hard.

Atalanta’s heart raced. If Madame Frontenac was searching for a family resemblance, she’d look in vain. There wasn’t a drop of Frontenac blood in her veins.

What if she was exposed?

Could Eugénie persuade her mother to keep the truth under wraps in the interest of the investigation? Her new knowledge about DuPont confirmed he had known something vital. That he had died because he wanted to reveal this to Gilbert.

‘Yes,’ Madame Frontenac spoke at last, ‘you do have something of the Frontenac features. The nose, the earlobes.’

Relief washed over Atalanta, but she tried to hide it behind a polite smile.

Madame Frontenac added with a scowl, ‘Though you are really just a distant relation. I had never heard of you—and I know everyone.’

There you have it. Now she will question me and I won’t be able to answer to her satisfaction. Her mind raced to keep hold of the information Eugénie had provided her with. My father’s first name is Guillaume. My mother… I can’t remember.

And how many brothers do I have? Three or four?

This is a disaster!

Madame Frontenac let go and returned to the bed. ‘Pour the tea, will you? And what are those? Little delights.’

A narrow escape. ‘Yes, I assumed you would want refreshments after your long journey. I trust it was pleasant?’ Atalanta rushed to offer her tea and cakes and Eugénie showed off her new necklace once more. ‘Real diamonds. Papa sends it with all of his love,’ she explained. ‘He can’t be there for the wedding. Prior engagements and all that.’

But at the Frontenac home in Paris the cook told me a tailor had come to fit a suit for Monsieur Frontenac for the wedding. So, originally, he had intended to come.

‘He’s so busy with his affairs.’ Eugénie pouted but her eyes betrayed that the necklace made up for a lot. ‘He will be here later to see me, I’m sure.’ She held the necklace against her chest and pressed her chin down to see how it looked. ‘How do you like it, Maman? Is it not too ostentatious?’

‘It must be ostentatious,’ her mother declared with pomp. ‘The comte has a title bien sûr but we have more money than he will ever have, and I intend to let him know.

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