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Hibbert sent her home to her husband.
The second arrival—an incensed man who introduced himself as Monsieur Blanc and then called Hibbert every French obscenity he was able to recognize, and a few he couldn't—swore that his wife was faithful and that if Lord Hobson ever contacted her again, he would shoot him.
Hibbert sent him home to his wife.
He then ordered a brandy, collected his three written messages, and took them upstairs to his room.
He tore open the first message.
It was written by an insolent butler, who informed Lord Hobson that the Due had received his note, but had elected not to reply for personal reasons. He added that it would be highly indiscreet for Lord Hobson to press the matter, as it would offend the Due, his wife, and his mistress, for whom the perfume was purchased.
Hibbert contemplated the butler's meaning for only a minute before putting aside the reply. It didn't warrant further attention. His instincts told him it rang true. Besides, the specifics would be easy enough to check out.
He turned his attention to the other two replies.
One was from a Mademoiselle Chenille, who regularly purchased the perfume for her grandmother, most recently as a Christmas gift. She expressed regret at not being able to provide Lord Hobson with the answers he sought, and wished him the best of luck. She added that she was leaving Paris the day after tomorrow, first to visit her grandmother in the hospital, then to return to the convent at which she'd soon be taking her vows to God. But if Lord Hobson had any further questions, he was free to contact her there. She closed her letter by blessing him, and providing him with the name and address of her religious order.
Hibbert winced, and refolded the note. It was replies such as these that made one feel guilty about using deception as a means to get at the truth. Then again, it was decent young women like Mademoiselle Chenille whom he and Lord Royce were trying to protect through their actions. So in the end, it was worth it
He would, of course, verify the story—if it came to that. But he had little doubt she was telling the truth.
Which brought him to the last reply.
This note was penned in a flowery, feminine hand, and Hibbert's discomfort vanished, his instincts roaring to life when a hint of the fragrance he was searching for drifted to his nostrils.
The recipient had taken the time to dab her letter with a provocative touch of the perfume he'd mentioned. That meant she was interested.
The question was, was he?
Slipping his finger under the flap, Hibbert opened the letter, and read:
Lord Hobson, I'm fascinated by your letter. We should meet. I'll be at the front steps of Notre-Dame at seven o'clock, wearing your perfume.—Maurelle le Joyau.
Maurelle Le Joyau.
Hibbert reread the name and the note, then glanced at his timepiece. Half after five. That gave him enough time to catch Girard before he left the office, find out more about the lady in question
After which, he'd be on his way to the cathedral.
* * *
Maurelle Le Joyau was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—every bit as beautiful as she'd been described.
Her thick black hair was swept off her face, emphasizing her fragile, fine-boned features and wide, dark eyes. Her costly silk gown and fro-lined pelisse cloak were the height of fashion, and her diminutive height and build made her look like a china doll swathed in expensive material. She looked young, vulnerable— the kind of woman a man would want to protect and, at the same time, to possess.
Hibbert studied her impassively as he approached the front steps of Notre-Dame, thinking that all the information he'd been given didn't do her justice. She was breathtaking. Without a doubt, she could pass for a woman a decade younger than her thirty-two years. She had an untouched quality to her beauty that was unmistakable.
Except that she happened to be the owner of a very elite, very expensive Paris
brothel.
“Lord Hobson?” She gave him a dazzling smile, inclining her head just so as she stepped toward him.
Hibbert played his part, scrutinizing her with an element of longing, and an equal amount of regret. “Miss Le Joyau?”
“Yes.”
He bowed, brought her gloved fingers to his lips. The perfume—he could smell it even in the crisp evening air. “I'm as disappointed as I am entranced,” he confessed. “I wish I could say we've met. But as we both know, we haven't.” A charming smile. “Although, to be honest, I wish it was you I was searching for. The young woman I recall was wearing your exact scent. Still, she doesn't come close to matching you in beauty.”
