The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [99]
Yvette stepped over to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “This is my husband, Peter Wyles.”
With a shaking hand he set a tea cup on the table. He tipped his head forward. “Enchante,” he said, a clipped British accent bleeding through the French.
“I am Claire Badeau.”
“A friend of Thomas. L’Américaine,” the woman completed.
Claire was shown into a seat with a cup of tea set in front of her. Yvette disappeared then returned with a cup, pulled up another chair and sat next to her.
“You know our Thomas? Wonderful. How is he doing?” Peter asked.
Their kindness cut into her. She took a sip to give herself a moment before answering. She looked at Peter and formed a casual smile. “I was with Grey about a week ago. Outside of Paris. He asked me to check up on you.”
Peter turned to Yvette and smiled, as if to say I told you he was fine. Yvette played with her cup. She didn’t look convinced.
“Grey’s home is much grander than he spoke of,” Claire said.
Peter laughed, the sound died into a wheeze. “He can be rather circumspect. Can’t he, Yvette?”
Yvette only arched an eyebrow, sipping her tea.
Claire leaned forward in her chair. “You said the American. What did you mean?”
Peter chuckled, he glanced to Yvette.
She returned the smile. “Forgive my rudeness, Madame Badeau. Thomas has not remarked upon many Americans.”
“What did he say?”
The couple shared a glance and a small smile.
“Very little, actually,” Peter said. “Like I said. Circumspect.”
“I noticed your accent. Is Thomas your son?”
He chortled. “Oh goodness, no. Thomas is solid upper-crust British merchant wealth. My father was a tailor. I was a gentleman’s gentleman.”
Claire examined the room, her eyes seeking out open doorways, counting rooms in her mind. It was going to take a while to find Grey’s room or rooms, before she could even hope to search them. She noticed their stares. “This is an amazing house.”
Yvette smiled. “You are kind to say.”
Peter coughed and wiped his mouth. “This château was in Yvette’s family since it was built in the sixteen hundreds. Marie Antoinette walked these dusty halls.”
Yvette glanced around the room, her expression fond. “This place has seen better days.”
Claire looked around at the furniture. Obviously well cared for, it was a bit worn and faded. “Haven’t we all.”
Peter coughed, his thin form twisting in the chair.
Yvette stood. “Peter must retire to his room to rest. If you’d like, afterward, I will offer you a tour and we might speak.”
“That would be wonderful,” Claire said with a warmth she didn’t feel.
Yvette sturdied Peter as he pushed himself off the chair, said his good-byes and shuffled on her arm from the room.
“Please, finish your tea,” Yvette said. “I will only be a moment. I need to get him settled. He had a difficult summer.”
The sound of shuffling feet faded down a corridor. At the click of a door lock, Claire stood and peered down the long hall. She crept down the corridor, silently opening and closing doors. The rooms were musty with high ceilings, lightly furnished, the walls heavy with old paintings of landscapes and portraits. She heard voices and hurried back to the salon, returning to face the windows. Yvette joined her a moment later.
The estate was laid out like a dramatic painting framed by the château’s windows. They overlooked a grand parterre, coiling evergreen hedges inside two basins on either side of an extended central axis that led the eye all the way to the Marne River.
Yvette looked over to Claire. “You are interested in the gardens. You share Thomas’ passion?”
At Claire’s questioning glance, she continued. “For gardens?”
Claire remembered the long walks lost in Luxembourg garden. “Of course. I do. I am a florist