Free Game of Patience by Susanne Alleyn Page B

turned to Montereau.
    “May I?”
    Montereau nodded. Aristide took a ring of false keys from his pocket and forced the simple lock. He could have as easily opened it with a hairpin, he thought, eyeing a small porcelain jar of them on the dressing table; why did women assume their darkest secrets would be safe in such fragile coffers?
    No secret letters, no compromising notes lay inside. He lifted out a colorful bead necklace, judged it to be glass, and replaced it. A pair of tarnished silver earrings, a cameo on a black velvet ribbon, a cloisonné brooch, and a few hair ornaments studded with glass gems completed the inventory.
    “Did your daughter have much jewelry?” he asked Montereau, after prodding the lining to be sure Célie had hidden nothing beneath the sky-blue silk.
    “A few valuable pieces. A diamond brooch that was a gift from her godmother, and I’d given her a pair of pearl bracelets for her sixteenth birthday. She also wore some of my late wife’s jewelry now and then, on special occasions, when we entertained.”
    “I see no pearl bracelets or diamond brooches here.” Aristide stepped aside so that Montereau could peer into the jewelry box.
    “Bless me—what has become of it all?”
    “I saw her take away some things,” piped a voice. Aristide turned to the boy, startled.
    “She was going out of the house and she had a little packet wrapped up in a handkerchief and she dropped it and a ring fell out.” Théodore stepped up to the dressing table and solemnly eyed the near-empty jewelry box. “It’s not here, and it’s—it had a green stone in it. Célie said it was our mamma’s.”
    “What did your sister tell you she was doing with the ring?” Aristide asked him.
    “She didn’t say anything. She just took the ring and told me not to tell anybody I saw her going out.”
    “When was this, Théodore?”
    The boy shifted from one foot to another, pulling at his lower lip. “I don’t know. This summer.”
    “That’s very helpful. Thank you.”
    Théodore grinned. A handsome boy, with traces of Célie’s delicate features, Aristide mused, though he favored his stocky father not at all.
    “But what does this mean?” Montereau demanded after sending Théodore back to the nursery. “Why would Célie have disposed of her jewels? To give to Saint-Ange? Why would anyone coerce Célie?” He sat heavily on the nearest footstool and patted his wig more askew than ever. “I know nothing that could be held against my daughter. She is … she was a lovely girl. She was modest and virtuous and a man couldn’t have wished for a dearer child.”
    “You’re sure she had no—forgive me—no entanglements with any young men?” Aristide asked him, wondering whether Montereau had been as observant as had Madame de Laroque.
    “Certainly not. She scarcely looked at young men. I’d spoken of marriage to her, of course, but only to mention a few suitable young gentlemen who had approached me regarding her hand. She only said she was not yet eager to marry, and I respected her wishes. She never gave me any reason to think she had already given her heart to another.”
    “Nevertheless, it seems Saint-Ange had some sort of hold over her.”
    “I cannot think what,” said Montereau, shaking his head.
    “We’ll know more when they’re done searching his apartment,” Brasseur said. “We’ll be as discreet as possible. Meanwhile,” he added, glancing at his notes, “perhaps you could call your daughter’s maid, and give me the addresses of her friends. We’ll need to question them.”
    Pierrette arrived in answer to the summons. Pierrette was most distressed. Her mistress had been such a sweet young lady, so pretty and gentle. It must have been some horrible bandit who had killed her, for no one would want to kill a lovely young creature like ma’m’selle who didn’t have an enemy in the world.
    At length Brasseur broke through the torrent of words and inquired about the last time she had