Free A Proposal to Die For by Vivian Conroy Page A

his pride that compelled him to ask a payment for taking her along. ‘Theseller sprinkled it liberally with cigar ashes as he was cleaning it so you are most welcome to it.’
    Dubois grinned. ‘It will be sprinkled with other things when I am done. I know how to prepare fish.’ He waited a moment. ‘Will you eat some with me here when we are back from the countess? We need a little lunch before we tackle any new leads Oksana Matejevna may have provided us with.’
    Alkmene hesitated a moment. She had told Cook she wouldn’t lunch at home so she might as well have some with Dubois.
    Dubois jutted his chin up. ‘Unless this is too lowly for your taste.’
    â€˜That is not it, and you know it.’ She pulled back her shoulders. ‘All right. We see Oksana Matejevna and find out what we can about the brooch, and about Oksana’s secret meeting with that bellboy at the hotel. Then we come back here, and you make me a lovely fish dish where we discuss our next steps. But you’d better understand I am used to haute cuisine and I expect a lot from you. Especially as you are half French.’
    Dubois’s expression softened a moment. ‘My mother made a great apple pie that was baked upside down. A traditional French recipe.’
    â€˜She learned from your father? Or his mother?’
    He shook his head. ‘Your deductions were wrong, Lady Alkmene. My mother was French, not my father.’
    â€˜But your name is Dubois, right?’ Alkmene was puzzled. ‘I thought that meant that your father had to be…’ She faltered. If his mother was French, and Dubois bore her name, that suggested he had been…born out of wedlock? Had he perhaps travelled to England to look for his father? It would make a compelling reason for him to be here.
    Dubois had walked away to get the dark blue jacket that belonged with the pants. Returning, he swung it on and handed her the brooch. ‘You handle the subject. I will just observe Oksana’s response and if she is not yielding, I will find a way to make her confess what is up.’
    The countess lived in one of those grand city homes that have stood the test of time and have not faded but only increased in beauty. The stone was a soft yellow, the windows painted a dull beige, the door broad and dark green with a little grille in it through which the butler could see who was at the door.
    He was a tall dark man with little grey in his neatly combed and pomaded hair. He stood very tall like a soldier on duty. His English was polished with a vague hint of an accent that Alkmene could not quite place.
    She wondered if the man had come from Russia with the countess or was the count’s loyal servant, brought in from Luxembourg. She explained they wanted to speak with Oksana Matejevna. He seemed puzzled by the request, but said she was in the kitchens getting food for the countess’s songbirds. ‘You can wait in the sun room for her return.’
    He went ahead of them at once, leading them upstairs.
    They were brought into a large room, decorated with countless icons on the walls and several cages with colourful canaries singing to their heart’s delight. The left wall was dominated by a big painting of a village among a pine forest. The cute little cottages were covered with snow, and a troika – a sledge drawn by three horses – came across the road towards it.
    Looking more closely, Alkmene kept spotting details like girls going to the well, a wolf lurkingbetween the trees and birds of prey dabbing the skies above. Father would know which ones just by their silhouette.
    A small dog with a very flat snout ran for Dubois and circled him, sniffing his trouser legs and yapping excitedly. The long brown silky hair looked so soft to the touch.
    â€˜Pick up Pushkin,’ Alkmene said. ‘He likes to be carried.’
    Dubois looked as if he was about to decline, but when he caught Alkmene’s