Chapter One Paris, 21st May, 1927 "I know Monsieur will have a most enjoyable evening." The young woman who'd shown him to his seat offered him a smile at once shy and knowing. She held out her hand for his tip and slipped it swiftly away with a murmured word of thanks. The solitary Englishman hesitated, eyeing the pair of gilt chairs snuggling cosily together in the empty box with sudden misgiving. "Mademoiselle!" He detained her with his call as she turned to dart away, and offered his ticket stub again for her inspection. "Some mistake, I think?" The girl took the ticket and looked with exaggerated care at the number. She was an ouvreuse--yes, that's what they called them over here, he remembered. Though what they actually "opened" was a mystery to the Englishman . . . unless you counted the opening of those little bags into which their conjurer's fingers made the notes and coins disappear. "No, there is no mistake, monsieur. This is indeed your box number." She tilted her head and the smile appeared again, this time without the softening element of shyness. "You have the best seat in the house." Her eye ran over the handsome features, the imposing figure, taking in the evening dress, correct and well-cut. She remembered his generosity and paused in her scurrying to cast a glance, amused and complicitous, at the second chair. "A little patience!" she teased. "I'm sure it will not be long before monsieur has company." She took the time to add: "There are ten minutes to go before the curtain rises. And it is no longer fashionable to be late. Certainly not for this show." She whisked away in a flutter of black silk and a tantalising trace of rather good perfume, leaving Sir George Jardine standing about in something of a quandary. He had an increasing feeling of unease. He was displaced. He ought not to be here. But the momentary touch of vertigo was chased away by a stab of impatience with himself. With the man he had become over the years. Would he ever be free to lay aside the burden of his training? Years of forethought, political skirmishing, and--yes--out-and-out skulduggery, had imbued him with a watchfulness that was not lightly laid aside, even when he was thousands of miles away from the arena of his intrigues. Here he was, in the pleasure capital of Europe; it was time to let go the reins and leave the bloody Empire to look after itself. For at least the next six months in fact. George had gone on working after many would have retired, the guiding force, the continuity, behind the last two Viceroys of India. He'd been looking forward to getting away from Delhi, leaving behind the heat, the scandals, the undercover chicanery. It had been a good idea to break his journey at Marseille and take the Pullman up to Paris. Yes, no doubt about that. A week or two of relaxation and stimulation, before he did his duty by his ageing family back home, had been hard-earned. A summer in Surrey. He needed to fortify himself. Experience the latest sensations . . . work up a few stories . . . bank a few topics of conversation. At home in England one couldn't go on for long talking about India. It pained him to see eyes glaze over when anything other than a passing reference to the subcontinent was made. At the mention of Delhi, people started to twitch and to look anxiously over your shoulder for rescue, but just let drop that you'd been in Paris and they clustered round for news. George determined to have fascinating things to report. Before taking his seat, he patted his pockets with a familiar sensation of expectation. His opera glasses, cigar-lighter, wallet, spare handkerchief and a roll of currency were present and correct. Along with a folded envelope. Bit of a puzzle, this. It had been handed to him the morning after his arrival in Paris--an envelope addressed to him in a careful English hand, care of the Excerpted from Folly du Jour: A Joe Sandilands Mystery by Barbara Cleverly All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
