The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel Page 4

  Her reliance had been misplaced. A sex scandal too rich even for the French had undone her credibility and sent her financial backers scattering for cover. Lake was obviously recalling the details and pondering her fate, too.

  “You know, I’m surprised she’ll be there. I’d heard she was off at a convent or something.”

  “Like I said,” Hugo said mildly, “you can ask her over dinner.”

  Dinner was at eight but everyone gathered for drinks soon after six, when two waitresses carried around trays of champagne, hors d’oeuvres, and then more champagne. The drawing room was as elegant as it was large, and Hugo suspected that most of the furniture had been there longer than he’d been alive; it was the kind of house where antiques and art settled into place, where their beauty and value was appreciated as a whole such that occasional additions or removals by chateau’s owners went all but unnoticed by family members and staff, unless a table had been swapped for a vase when someone wanted to put down his cognac. The living room was bright, though, the antiques polished, and its two sets of French doors and several large windows let in the low evening light, while the wall sconces added their sparkle and glow.

  There were about two dozen guests, all approved by Ruby and Rousek, but only half of them were of interest to Hugo because only half of them would spend the following day talking international politics. The others, well-dressed and no doubt well-heeled, were Tourville’s fillers brought in to make sure the main players had people to talk to, drink with, and didn’t rattle around the old chateau unamused.

  Hugo tucked himself in the corner, wedged between a bookcase and a curtained window, watching the evening unfold with interest because it had been a while since he’d attended a function like this, wary political opponents playing nice as they slowly got drunk. The Guadeloupe Islands were on the agenda for tomorrow, this was just the ice-breaker, but Hugo suspected that the important people in this room had been too long in the game to not play some of their cards tonight, so he watched their interactions closely.

  Henri Tourville was the easiest to spot and didn’t look unlike his American guest. Taller and heavier, though, with the kind of figure you’d expect from a wealthy man who enjoyed throwing dinner parties and whose only exercise came from wandering his estate with a shotgun in the crook of his arm. His size seemed to be magnified by a large and very bald head. He smiled a lot and was an expert host, moving around the room like a ship broken from its moorings, bumping elbows with this couple for a minute or two before drifting past a chintz-covered sofa to find himself nestled into a different couple for a few minutes more.

  Also there, as expected, was Felix Vibert, who was a little shorter than his friend Tourville and considerably paler, but with the same soft figure. Hugo had the impression that the unlit pipe in his hand, the moustache, and the eyeglasses were welcome barriers to strangers, and it was clear that Vibert became more comfortable the closer he found himself to his friend and host. His interactions with others, as best Hugo could tell, consisted of listening rather than talking, his face set in an unreadable mask. Occasionally, he’d eye the crowd, keeping track of his and his friend’s personal secretaries, elegant middle-aged women who could take shorthand or serve drinks as required.

  Lake’s interest, unsurprisingly, was in Alexandra. In many ways, she was the exact opposite of her brother. She had his height, not too far from six feet tall, but was slender and wore a slightly closed look on her face, though that could have resulted from Lake’s attentions. She had thick brown hair pulled into a broad ponytail held with a glittering clip. Elegant in a burgundy-colored dress, she seemed to attract a lot of glances from the men in the room, though Hugo had the sense she wasn’t trying to.

  Hugo turned as a figure appeared at his elbow: a woman in her late twenties, a sharp nose and even sharper brown eyes. He’d seen her at Alexandra’s side earlier, the less glamorous assistant—but up close she had a certain confidence of her own, which always appealed to Hugo. Her dress was black, neither sexy nor dowdy, and her short brown hair was loose and sported a streak of pink that should have been too young for her, but wasn’t.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur. I’m Natalia Khlapina.”

  “Bonsoir.” Hugo extended a hand and they shook. “Hugo Marston.”

  She switched to English, her accent light. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Maybe in a little bit, for now I’m fine just—”

  “People watching?”

  “Yes.”

  “Paris has always been good for that.” She eyed the people in the room, too, then looked up at him. “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  She started to move off and Hugo suddenly thought he’d been rude. Or maybe he just wanted to talk. “You’re Russian?”

  “From Saint Petersburg. Ever been there?”

  “Once. I’d like to go back.”

  She laughed gently. “As I tell people, it’s a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.”

  “No?”

  “No. Too dark, too cold, and the politics are to die for. Literally. And look around, look where I live now, why would I want to go back?”

  “For the snow and vodka?”

  She shook her head. “I prefer champagne and sunshine. And working with Alexie, I get plenty of both.”

  “What exactly does she do? What do you do?”

  Natalia watched him for a moment, appraising. “You know about her history?”

  “I know what people have told me. I don’t know how much is true.”

  “It doesn’t matter at this point. What’s done is done and what people say, well, no one can control what stories go around or what people choose to believe.”

  “That’s true.”

  “We met at the university in Saint Petersburg. She was a guest lecturer, I was a PhD student in history. She ended up staying the whole semester, partly laying low, and we worked together on a couple of papers. When it was time for her to leave she asked me to come with her.”

  “I see.”

  She smiled, almost a tease. “You are wondering if we were lovers?”

  “Not really, no,” Hugo said. “None of my business.”

  “You think that stops people asking?” She looked away and frowned. “Men, mostly.”

  “We are pigs, no doubt. So are you working now?”

  “Yes. We have started a small business doing genealogical research. Family trees. We just got back from America, where people are obsessed with where their ancestors came from.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “Yes? I don’t understand it. It’s as if people don’t have an identity of their own, or as if it’s not enough. I’ve been there several times and whenever I meet someone they inevitably tell me they are English, or Irish, or German, even though they, their parents, and their grandparents were born in the United States. Even your senator, his website says he’s part Native American. Why does all that matter to people so much?”

  “America is a land of immigrants, I think it’s natural to wonder where your family originated from.”

  “What about you? Where’s your family from?”

  Hugo smiled. “Texas. Austin, Texas, if you want to get specific. As far back as I know.”

  “And how far back is that?”

  “My great-grandparents.”

  “For a few hundred Euros I can take you further back than that.”

  Hugo still couldn’t tell if she was flirting with him, he’d been too long out of the game. “Thanks. If I feel the need, I’ll call you.”

  “You should.” From nowhere she produced a business card and pressed it into his hand. “My number’s on there. You might find it interesting.”

  They stood in silence, watching the gentle ebb and flow of the room, everyone in there experienced at the art of small talk and momentary seduction. Glasses clinked and the hum of chatter never rose too high, apart from the occasional peal of laughter. With the yellow light and gold drapes, with the classic furn
iture and formal attire, Hugo thought of old-time movies, and this one he watched with his companion from the anonymity of their corner, a front row seat.

  Right now, they were both watching Charles Lake deep in conversation with Alexandra Tourville. He could tell from Lake’s body language that he was enjoying himself, but his companion was harder to read.

  “Does she need rescuing?” Hugo asked quietly.

  “I doubt it. She’s pretty good at taking care of herself.”

  There was a note of . . . something in her voice that made Hugo wonder. But it could have been admiration, envy, or even bitterness, so he didn’t ask.

  “Time for that glass of champagne,” Hugo said. “And maybe you can introduce me to your boss, whether she needs an intervention or not.”

  Senator Lake raised a glass as Hugo and Natalia approached. “Here come our invaluable assistants. Hugo, have you met Alexandra Tourville?”

  They shook hands, and once again Hugo had the feeling of being appraised. Peas in a pod, this woman and her Russian aide.

  “Please, call me Alexie. Everyone does.”

  “Thank you, I’m Hugo, nice to meet you.”

  She nodded and clinked glasses with him. “Welcome to my home, or should I say my brother’s home? I don’t get it until he shoots himself or gets savaged by a wild boar.”

  Natalia touched her arm and smiled. “Seriously, you need to stop saying that, someone will think you mean it.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m told it’s very hard to shoot yourself with a shotgun, and I believe wild boars are vegetarian.”

  “Actually, I think they are omnivores,” Hugo said. “But I’m pretty sure they’d leave your brother well alone, he’d be a little too much of a feast.”

  “You’re a hunter?”

  “He hunts bad guys,” Lake said. “Or used to. FBI—for how long, Hugo?”

  “A long time,” Hugo smiled. “Now life’s a little more sedate.”

  “No longer collect scalps?” Alexie asked.

  “Not sure I ever did. But no, nowadays if I collect anything, it’s books.”

  She turned toward him, more interested now. “Oh really? Like what? Which authors do you like?”

  “I have focused on French authors, actually,” Hugo said. “I have some first editions of Camus, Sartre, and the pride of my collection is a signed first edition of Le Petit Prince.”

  “Signed by Saint-Exupéry?” Lake asked. “How does a public servant afford that? I’m guessing it cost a pretty penny.”

  “Yep, it’s a 1943 true first edition, with his signature. But don’t worry senator, your tax money is safe, I didn’t pay for it. It was a gift from a friend with far greater resources than mine.” From Claudia, actually, to mark her gratitude at the conclusion of the bouquiniste investigation. Not only had he saved her life, but he’d done her father’s name and reputation a great deal of good. The book had come from his collection, and Hugo had been deeply moved when she presented it to him, Claudia herself giving in to a few tears. It had been a wonderful moment between them, each trying to express their thanks while waving away the other’s. As so often between them, seriousness had turned into laughter and pretty soon they’d shed their clothes and were competing to express their gratitude in other ways.

  “Who else do you like?” Alexie asked.

  “Well, he’s not French, but he died in Paris.”

  “Oscar Wilde?” Lake said.

  “Two out of two, Senator, I’m impressed,” Hugo smiled.

  “Don’t be, my first job was teaching high school English. Did that while getting my masters so I could teach political science at college level.”

  “I like Wilde, too,” Alexie said. “Not just his wit, but can you imagine being jailed for being homosexual? Poor man, and such a waste of his talent. How old was he when he died?”

  “Forty-six, I think,” said Hugo. “And I agree, a terrible waste of talent.”

  The specter of a reputation ruined by sexual indiscretion flitted amongst them, taking shape as Alexie held Hugo’s eye and said, “‘A kiss may ruin a human life.’”

  “What’s that mean?” Lake said, looking from one to the other as if he didn’t like to be left out.

  “It’s a quotation from a Wilde play,” said Hugo. “A Woman of No Importance. Said by Mrs. Arbuthnot, a respectable woman with a secret past.”

  “I see,” Lake said, and Hugo thought he colored a little at the obvious parallel.

  But confronting the specter had driven it away, though not too far, because there was a shadow to Alexie’s voice as she said, “Perhaps one day you will have a signed first edition of my book. I’m writing a mystery novel.”

  “You are?” Hugo asked. “Do tell.”

  “It’s part mystery and part magic realism. A lowbrow mix of Fred Vargas and Garcia-Marquez.”

  Natalia rolled her eyes. “It’s not lowbrow at all. Sexy and smart, I’d say. It’s wonderful. Really wonderful.”

  “Can we read it?” Lake asked.

  “Not yet. Not until it’s finished, and maybe not even then.” She held up a finger to silence Natalia. “And despite what my wonderful assistant was about to say, it’s not there yet.”

  “They say there’s a novel in everyone,” Lake chimed in. “Not me. I prefer to live in the real world.”

  Alexie cocked her head. “Meaning?”

  “No offense,” Lake said, “but novelists, artists, tend to be a little wrapped up in their own heads. Which is fine, I’m not saying otherwise. I just prefer to get things done in the real world.”

  “So, as a politician you wouldn’t support the arts with public money?” Hugo asked, genuinely curious.

  “God, no. I’d let rich people like the Tourvilles do it.” It was meant as a joke, but no one in their little group was smiling. His tone changed, defensive now. “Look, I’m struggling with how to say this. I’ve lived an interesting life, and not an easy one. I’ve worked hard to get where I am and I have never had the time to sit in my garret and craft pretty prose.”

  “Whereas I,” Alexie said, “had everything handed to me on a plate and so can sit in my garret all I like.”

  Lake tried to be garrulous again. “We’ve all led different lives and had different opportunities. You’ve been luckier than most, there’s nothing wrong with that.” He shrugged. “I guess I don’t like the idea that writers shed some sort of revealing light on humanity because as far as I know, none of them have experienced what I have.”

  “You have nothing to learn from them?” Alexie said. “Even assuming what you say is true, that they can’t show you anything about yourself, maybe you can learn something about the mass of humanity that isn’t you.”

  “I doubt it. I have town hall meetings, office visits, and elections for that. What the hell can some stuck-up author in a tweed jacket and pipe tell me that my constituents can’t?”

  “Well,” Alexie said with a smile, “that assumes you listen to them, of course.”

  Lake bristled. “In America, a politician would do well to listen to the people who elected him. I’m well aware of your aristocratic ways here, your history of kings and earls and whatnot. And I’m well aware that you good people fared well in that system. But I prefer ours, where a man like me can work his way up from the middle of nowhere and the edge of nothing, and be a member of congress. That’s a system that deserves respect.”

  Hugo and Natalie exchanged amused looks but the tension was rising.

  “So a man is only worthy if he comes from nothing and works his way up?” Alexie asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I’m saying a system that rewards hard work and merit, rather than hand-me-downs and patronage is a better, fairer system of government.”

  “And that’s how you got your position?” Alexie pressed. “Through hard work and merit, not through a few rich people deciding you were electable and throwing money your way?”

  Lake lifted his hands, a partial surrender. “I’m not saying our system i
s perfect. Far from it. Perhaps there’s too much money in the hands of too few people, but what’s the alternative? Socialism?”

  “What if those few people, your rich friends, suddenly decided they didn’t like you any more, Monsieur Lake?” Alexie asked. “What would happen if they decided to take away their financial support?”

  “Why would they suddenly not like me?” He looked wary now and Hugo felt the ghost of Alexie’s past sweep around them again. She knew what it was like to be respected and appreciated, and then abandoned.

  “Who knows?” She smiled suddenly, as if that would dispel the ghost. “I can promise you that people are far more invested in their own reputation than they are yours, and they are quick to believe the very worst. What’s true, or what’s right and what’s wrong, well, they play a very secondary role. I’ve seen that myself, haven’t I?”

  Lake shifted uncomfortably but was saved from responding when movement from the far end of the room indicated a shift toward the dining room.

  “Good,” said Lake, “I’m famished.”

  They shuffled into the large room that was served by a fireplace at each end and was dominated by a long, teak table that flowered with crystal and colorful china. Hugo was supposed to sit between Felix Vibert and Natalia, with Lake on the other side of the Russian woman. Hugo delayed sitting down, though, knowing that French meals could be drawn-out affairs that would make his legs twitchy. He spent a moment admiring two antiques on the side table behind his seat. One was a Chinese porcelain moon vase, depicting a battle between grinning warriors, the effect enhanced by the pinks and yellows that adorned those fighting on the outside of the vase.

  Felix Vibert joined him as he was running his fingers over the second piece.

  “An old sailor’s chest,” Vibert said.

  “I was wondering.” It was slightly smaller than a case of wine, its wood burled and shining, the smell of polish faint but distinctive.

  “Lots of them around, very fashionable a hundred years ago. Two hundred, maybe.” Vibert was tipsy, his words just starting to run into each other. “Sailors had sturdy ones, but those who could afford it had them specially made.”