Duke of Scandal (10 page)

One of the ladies in the shop suddenly laughed uproariously, sharply slicing into their engrossed tête-à-tête. Olivia and the duke both looked around toward the sound, noting that the bigger, and louder, of the two women had leaned forward to whisper something to Normand, at which time the man slapped his palm against his ruffled shirt and chuckled, shaking his head as if these ladies were the most marvelously entertaining creatures to ever step foot in Nivan. Of
course they'd never know he charmed them all. It was one of the reasons Nivan sold so well.

Wearily, she returned her attention to Sam and said, “Perhaps it's time we experimented with a few samples.”

 

If it weren't for her—the glamourous perfection that was her face, the excitement in her features as she spoke of work she adored, the slight sway of her hips and curve of her breasts beneath her flattering yet totally conservative day gown, and yes, even the subtle scent she exuded—Sam thought he might burst into tears of absolute boredom. In truth he couldn't care any less about perfume and its history except where the information applied to Edmund and his relationship with his so-called wife. But being a man of intelligent mind, he realized he needed to listen to her explanations and to attempt to absorb at least some of it.

Actually, the more he listened, the more he found himself absorbed by her. She fascinated him in a manner he couldn't exactly understand. She took her work very seriously—too seriously, some might say, considering her sex—but he found that almost…alluring. She obviously had a deeply felt passion for perfume, its history, its function in society, its processing, which he certainly didn't care to hear about in detail, and she clearly possessed an astute business sense not usually found in females. Frankly, he was coming to admire her, and as Sam recalled now, he didn't think he'd ever—in his life—admired a woman for anything other than how she looked on his arm or in his bed. A strange sensation, indeed.

Olivia motioned for him to follow her to an ornately carved, white-painted desk, behind which stood a series of white wooden shelves attached to a wall, papered in textured red velvet. Golden tassels hung from the corners of the shelves to add ornateness to the look and to frame all the little bottles, dozens of them, some made simply of glass, clear and colored, some ceramic, some painted elaborately, some even appearing to be inlaid with gold or jewels, though whether real or paste, he couldn't tell. From the clientele, however, he assumed at least some of them were real. And the bottles, he guessed, contained all the various scents du jour. He groaned inwardly, hoping to God she wouldn't make him sniff them all. He supposed he should just be thankful his friends weren't here to witness this.

“Please be seated,” she said pleasantly, motioning for him to lower his large frame onto the tiny red velveteen chair in front of the desk. He did so without comment, only to wonder how French ladies with big bottoms and large hoops managed it. Then again, it was obviously not here for comfort but for appearances, as was the entire shop's decoration.

Olivia expertly moved her skirts to the side and sat gracefully in the same style chair behind the desk, opposite him, scooting it forward a little so she could rest her wrists on the edge.

“Now,” she began, “this is where we sample fragrances.”

“You're not going to make me smell all of those, are you?” he asked, motioning to the rows of fancy containers with a nod of his head.

Her brow creased for a second or two, then she
turned to view the bottles behind her. “Those?” She looked back at him. “Those are empty. We sell those to complement the distinctive fragrance created for each individual.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, unable to think of a better reply. He felt utterly ridiculous.

“That way,” she continued, “each lady, or gentleman, can not only choose a unique scent, but carry it in a personally selected
flacon
—the French word for flask, or for our purposes, perfume bottle—original only to the House of Nivan. All the good houses do the same.”

Sam wiped a palm across the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortably warm. He looked at her again, noting how relaxed she seemed in her domain, sitting beautifully upright in her velveteen chair. And he had to give her high credit for not making him feel stupid.

“I see,” he remarked.

She gave him a genuine smile of pleasure, not one of derision or haughtiness, and it boosted his opinion of her another level.

“Now,” she started once more, “I have a few”—she leaned to her side and pulled a small drawer out from beneath the desktop—“samples here. At least enough to give you an idea of what we offer in the basic scents I was telling you about a few minutes ago.”

She gingerly placed a small wooden tray in front of him. Inside, in compact, specially designed inserts, lay a row of miniature square glass jars, approximately one inch by one inch, labeled with each individual scent. With nimble fingers she lifted one out of the tray and carefully pulled off a corklike top.

“This is sandalwood.” She waved it two or three
times under his nose. “You can easily detect the warmth in it, but it's not necessarily sweet—until you add the floral of the jasmine. That boosts the full-bodied, botanical essence of the fragrance.”

What did she want him to say? What a lovely odor? It smelled like perfume. Thankfully, she put the cork back in and replaced it, choosing another bottle before he could comment.

“Now, this is the scent again when combined with jasmine.” She pulled the cork and offered it to him. “Smell the difference? It's sweeter, more feminine in color, a bit rounder in its essence.”

Rounder in its essence? He had absolutely no idea what that meant, but he could detect the scent of flowers. At least that was progress. He nodded, sat back again and waited for the next bottle.

“This is orange blossom,” she continued in eagerness, “and one of my personal favorites, especially mixed with the right amount of spice.”

He could definitely smell the orange, though he had trouble imagining a “spicy orange” scent that someone would actually want to wear on his or her person. He did, however, notice that a few stray curls had escaped her plaits to fall over her shoulder, nestling between the uplifted curve of her breasts, sticking to her dewy skin. The view distracted him from his scent lesson.

“…of Edmund's favorites, eau de cologne.”

She'd said something as she stuck another bottle under his nose, and he dutifully took a whiff to satisfy her. Immediately he pulled back. “I don't like that one at all.”

“No? Very well, then,” she replied without judgment,
replacing the cork and putting it back in the tray.

“Especially if it was Edmund's favorite,” he added with sly intent, resting his elbow on the padded arm and interlocking his fingers in his lap.

She peeked up through her lashes, offering him a crooked grin. “Or Napoleon's?”

“Precisely.”

“Ahh.”

Sam wished he knew what she was thinking beneath her professional facade, but he wasn't about to ask. She'd moved on, still smiling, lifting another bottle. He was beginning to find their interaction almost on the verge of being enjoyable. Amazing—spending time with a woman outside of bed and enjoying it.

“Next we have spice, one of my personal preferences actually, as it carries a very clean base and isn't overly sweet; it can stand alone as a scent of its own.”

She held it out for him and he dutifully breathed in. “I detect the cloves,” he said almost without thinking. Didn't she say it was made from cloves? She must have, because her eyes lit up and she nodded once to him.

“Very good, Sam.”

He felt strangely proud for impressing her.

“Spice can be worn by both gentlemen and ladies. With a bit of mixture from other scents, it can be made sweeter, or darker and more masculine with a touch of musk. That's what I think I'll do for you.”

“Good. Perfect,” he said quickly.

She returned the bottle to its slot, then pushed the tray to the side and placed her arms on the desk, crossing one over the other as she gazed at him directly.

“Bored, are you?” she asked with narrowed eyes and
a wry smile.

“Of course not.”

“Liar,” she teased.

He could only shrug.

She reached for the samples to put them away. “Then to save time I won't bother with the rose, since I presume you know what that smells like.”

“It's my sister's favorite,” he said with a smirk and a shake of his head. “One always knows Elise has entered a room simply by the smell. Wears it in excess, in my opinion, but then she's never bothered with my opinion.”

Olivia stilled, her hand holding the tray in midair as she stared at him, her features going slack from what appeared to be sheer surprise.

“So, choosing a new fragrance today, Monsieur Carlisle?” Normand strode around the glass display case as he neared them at last. “Something for the spring?”

The interruption startled her and, for some unknown reason, totally irritated him. Sam straightened in his chair and nodded once to the man while she resumed her task of placing the tray of samples back in its drawer.

“I suppose it is time if we are to attend a social function or two in the coming days,” Olivia replied, her good-natured pose returning as she raised her face so Normand could give her a peck on both cheeks. “But my dear husband is being rather selective today.”

“Is he?”

“As always.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Though I think we've decided on a blend that will work.”

The Frenchman stood to regard him from behind
Olivia's chair, his hands clutching the back of it, fingers next to her shoulders. “And your choice, monsieur?”

“A spice base, naturally,” he answered in perfect French, smiling congenially, as he thought Edmund would, noting how annoyed he felt for no apparent reason. “It is the scent of the season, is it not?”

“Oh, indeed, indeed.”

He studied Normand as sunlight from the window cast a bright stream upon his middle-aged face. Sam didn't think women would find the man handsome, but he had a charming disposition—real or fabricated—that ladies no doubt enjoyed. He presented himself in a nonconfrontational light, even soft and pleasing, probably a necessity in the perfume industry, where women were the prime consumers.

But something about the Frenchman disturbed him, and Sam couldn't put his finger on why, or even what it was, exactly. He had keen dark eyes, deeply set, a large, bulbous nose, a receding hairline, and almost no chin at all, though the thickness of his neck tended to disguise that particular lack. He wasn't exactly fat, but he carried a heaviness around the middle that made him look healthily fed.

No, it wasn't the man's rather ordinary appearance that unsettled him, but something else, something he couldn't define, and he supposed his inability to do so bothered him the most. And he seemed almost possessive of Olivia. That annoyed him, too. Sam had to wonder what Edmund would have thought about that, or if his brother had even noticed.

“Well, I suppose we should get some luncheon, dar
ling,” Olivia chimed in after a brief but uncomfortable pause. She started to rise and Normand automatically took her elbow to help her.

Sam stood immediately and, without clear thought, reached out and grasped one of her hands. In his best commanding voice, he said, “Shall we find an outdoor café, Livi? Please excuse us, Normand.”

She hesitated for a slice of a second, a frown gracing her face as she glanced at him.

“Of course,” Normand returned, dropping her elbow at once.

The man's smile never faltered, though Sam had the distinct impression he had become suddenly watchful, thoughtful. His brows creased slightly and he backed up a step so Olivia could move out from behind the desk. She lifted her skirts, and without a glance to either one of them, sauntered toward the storefront.

“It's a lovely day, darling. I'm starved,” she declared, her voice oddly taut with cheerfulness.

“Normand,” Sam acknowledged, then turned and headed to Olivia's side, where she waited for him, face turned to stare through the glass to the bustling street beyond. He took her elbow, as the Frenchman had done, but he held her closer to him as he opened the door and ushered her through, knowing without looking that Normand still kept his observant gaze locked on their backs as they strode out into the open air.

N
ormand had a secret. A marvelous secret. A very,
very
big and potentially lucrative secret. And what a joy it would be to tease the countess with it—just tease, of course, because he didn't want to give
everything
away and allow her more control over their scheme than she already had. He wanted to be in charge for a change. And,
mon Dieu,
this bit of news had simply fallen in his lap.

His face upturned into his first genuine grin in weeks, Normand rang the bell to the Countess Renier's suite on the top floor of the Hotel d' Empress. She stayed only here while visiting Paris and, as far as he knew, she hadn't yet returned to the country since the last time he spoke with her more than three weeks ago.

Seconds later the door cracked open, then widened
when her butler, Rene, recognized him, ushering him inside with a wide palm and a formal sway of his arm.

“Madame is at her toilette, Monsieur Paquette, though I'm sure she'll see you if you prefer to wait?”

Prefer to wait? He'd wait till the second coming of Christ to see the look on her face when he revealed his news. Life couldn't get much better than this.

“I'll wait,” he said bluntly to the tall, graying gentleman. “I'd like coffee.”

“Of course,” Rene replied properly. “Right this way.”

Normand followed the stout older man into the countess's parlor, a cluttered room she'd grossly overdecorated in a floral display of bright pink and rose red. Although the countess still retained her beauty after so many years, and took care with her person so that she graced the air with sophisticated elegance in all she wore and did, her living establishments, both here and in the country, nauseated him each time he was forced to sit and gossip in such garish glory.

Today she'd cracked the windows to allow the breeze to enter, and had placed bright red roses in a crystal vase on the tea table, obviously expecting to entertain this afternoon. Furniture crowded the rather small area, as she'd added another bright pink velveteen settee since his last visit. It was totally unnecessary, in his opinion, and no doubt meant to complement the one overstuffed sofa, covered with the largest, ugliest embroidered red roses he had ever seen, that now sat in the center of the room. Various floral and landscape paintings adorned all four walls, compromising nearly every inch of available space, all framed in the same brilliant shade of gold as the thick-corded tassels that
gently retained red velveteen drapes, all of which purposely gathered by at least a yard on the plush pink carpeting.

Normand sat as usual in one of the pink and white striped wing chairs that faced the sofa, tapping his fingertips together with impatience. Rene returned in only a minute or two, silently placed a silver tray on the tea table in front of him, then lifted the pot and poured the aromatic hot brew into one of the two rose-painted china cups, before he bowed stiffly and turned to make his exit. Normand helped himself, adding sugar and milk to his taste. He realized, of course, that the countess would make him wait; that was just her style. The woman never awakened before noon, and took nearly two hours with her toilette, a fact Normand knew only because he had the audacity to call on her at eleven once and was curtly informed that madame was still asleep and
never
greeted callers before three.

Well, he was here today, long before three, because once they'd started working together—if one could use that word to describe their particular collaboration—he'd been entitled to privileges others weren't, especially when he had vital information, as he did now.

But this afternoon's wait proved to be longer than usual. Contemplating a third cup of coffee, which he ultimately decided against because asking to use her private washroom would prove to be an embarrassment, he reached into his left jacket pocket and removed the golden timepiece his grandmother had given him. Half past one. He'd been here nearly forty-five minutes. Annoying that, but then it occurred to him that the lovely countess would be more angry at herself
for making him wait when she learned the crucial nature of his visit. He had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.

Finally, footsteps clapped across the floor in the entryway behind him. He placed his cup and saucer back on the silver tray and stood abruptly, turning toward the doorway and brushing down the jacket of his morning suit just as Rene reentered the parlor and formally announced the countess with flair, as if he were a bloody dignitary instead of a simple perfume shopkeeper. Then again, he thought proudly, neither Nivan nor its management would ever be described as simple by anyone who frequented the establishment.

Normand clutched his perspiring palms behind him, shoulders erect with confidence, his expression gently grave to the level he wanted to portray as the Countess Renier de Chartes breezed into the room as if floating on a gust of scented, warm air, her usual haughty smile planted perfectly across her painted red mouth. Indeed, she looked beautiful as always, primped, colored, and scented appropriately for a spring afternoon of entertaining.

Normand bopped up on his heels, then his toes, concentrating on his bearing, his countenance, and especially his hands behind him so he didn't annoy her; the countess had informed him last time they were together that he spoke too much with his hands. In general, he disliked her, mostly for the air of superiority with which she never failed to smother him. But then she held the reins in their very unusual relationship and nothing could be done about that hard fact. At least for now.

“Normand,” she said, nodding curtly once as she
walked to his side, her tone and expression pleasant.

He bowed, then took the creamed and manicured hand she offered him, lifting it to his lips for a gentle peck.

“Madame Comtesse, you are ravishing this afternoon, as always.”

“Merci,”
she replied with a tip of her forehead.

He stood back. “I have news.”

“Oh? Then sit, sit.” She gestured to the chair, giving him permission to return to it.

Normand lowered his body onto the cushion again, though he remained erect, his shoulders tight with anticipation.

The countess followed suit, sitting gracefully on the sofa opposite him, fussing with her wide silk skirts until they lay just perfectly around her ankles, then folding her hands in her lap to give him her undivided attention at last.

“Now, dearest Normand,” she said through an exaggerated sigh, “what is this…news you have for me?”

With polite control he managed to paste a discerning smile on his mouth, pausing just long enough to collect his thoughts—and make
her
wait for a change.

Clearing his throat, he locked his gaze with hers and murmured, “I had an interesting visit with Monsieur Carlisle this morning, at Nivan.”

For seconds she seemed confused, her penciled brows drawing together minutely. Then she relaxed against the sofa cushion and raised her chin a little in a show of contention.

“You are mistaken. Edmund is in Grasse,” she replied, her tone authoritative as it cooled a shade. “I re
ceived a note from him just three days ago and he never mentioned returning. At least not so soon.”

Normand hadn't thought of that and he almost kicked himself for never considering they'd be in constant communication. Still, this might work to his advantage if she even remotely doubted her dear Edmund's intentions.

He leaned back as she had done, placing his elbows on the armrests and tenting his fingers together in front of him. “Pardon, madame, but I am not mistaken. Edmund is here, in Paris, at Nivan. He returned yesterday, with Olivia.” He paused, strictly for effect, then shrugged one shoulder and added, “She evidently found him.”

“And what?” the countess snapped immediately. “Forced him to return with her?”

“I have no idea,” he said. And he didn't. But he knew there was more to the man's return, or at least he suspected more, than he would tell the woman sitting across from him. Withholding a bit gave him an advantage that he would most surely be able to use in the coming days.

He could see her try to grapple with the information, debating whether to believe or disbelieve his word; whether to dismiss him immediately or probe him for answers; whether she should leave at once and go to Edmund, catching him unawares and drilling him about his unexpected return with Olivia, or bide her time, consider her options, think things through as an intelligent, cultured lady, and one who would not be intimidated.

Evidently culture won.

“Well, what did he say to you?” she prodded moments later.

He let out a long exhale, almost giddy in his desire to ruffle her preening feathers. “Very little. I only spent a few minutes with the happy couple in the boutique this morning as Monsieur Carlisle chose a new spring fragrance.”

She smiled wryly. “Happy?”

This was the opening he wanted. He frowned purposely, nodding. And then with thoughtfulness in his voice, murmured, “Actually, as I think about it now, I wouldn't call it happy, exactly. More like…” He gazed briefly to the gilded, meretricious ceiling, then back into her eyes. “It appeared as if they've found some new…understanding in each other. Or perhaps
of
each other.”

She clearly had no idea what he meant.

“An understanding,” she repeated, looking at him as if he had the brain of a bug and obviously couldn't explain himself.

Normand knew he would enjoy reliving this moment for the rest of his life. “Something between them has changed. They couldn't take their eyes off each other.” He licked his lips and added poignantly, “Or more precisely, he couldn't take his eyes off her.”

The countess never moved, never broke her expression, never even appeared to blink. She just stared at him as a minute passed by in utter silence. He waited, unsure what to anticipate in reaction from her, though he knew she had absorbed and processed the information, all its facets and ultimate implications.

“I thought you should know,” he said, his voice low
and deliberately solemn.

At last she breathed deeply, her red lips widening into a smile, though he knew it was false because of the tightness in her jaw—and the fact that her eyes remained hard, focused and calculating.

“However interesting this news is, Normand, I have trouble believing darling little Olivia, pretty though she is, would capture Edmund's interest. If not before their wedding, why now?” She shook her head as if to convince herself of the absurdity of such an insinuation. “No, what you're…suggesting is impossible.”

He tapped his fingertips together and tipped his head toward her once. “I'm sure you're right, Madame Comtesse.”

“Of course I'm right,” she retorted, her exasperation showing beneath her crisp demeanor.

“And yet,” Normand continued, “they stayed the night together in her apartments.”

That enraged her; he watched her bite down tightly even as her perfectly powdered face flushed rosy to the roots of her shiny and expertly plaited blond hair. Yet he couldn't be certain if she'd become suddenly furious because of the delicate information he'd provided, or the fact that he'd had the audacity to say such a thing to her knowing how she felt about Edmund. Her reaction pleased him, though, and that was enough.

“I'm not stupid, Normand,” she said in warning, challenging him with her fixed glare.

He slapped a hand on his chest, looking at her in feigned shock. “It would never occur to me to think such a thing. I am only here to inform you of what I know.”

“Which obviously isn't very much,” she countered.

A ridiculous comment since he was the one who'd come to her today with what they both knew was incredible news. But in his usual sagacious manner he bit his tongue and ignored that rude remark.

She reached for the china pot to pour herself what now had to be cold coffee. Normand watched her stir in two teaspoons of sugar, and he could swear her hands were shaking. Seeing the Countess Renier unnerved was a novel and remarkably satisfying experience.

“So what do you suppose we do about it?” she asked seconds later.

The question surprised him. She made a habit of never asking him his opinion about anything that didn't have to do with a new scent for her sachets. And he couldn't recall a time when she'd quizzed him for actual advice. At that moment Normand realized just how alarmed she really was.

Leaning forward in his chair, he folded his hands in front of him and rested his elbows on his knees. “I would think, Madame Comtesse, that if he arrived here without your knowledge, he's hiding something.”

“Nonsense,” she blurted, though she set her coffee cup and saucer on the tray with a clatter.

“Nevertheless, he
is
here, with his
wife,
who apparently thinks they're truly married, and you were not informed.” He paused again, watching her reaction closely. “Something is amiss.”

She swallowed hard and reached for her cup again, holding it without drinking.

“We all knew she went looking for him,” he continued, tone lowered. “Did it not occur to you that she would look in Grasse?”

“Of course it occurred to me,” she maintained, gently frowning as she dropped her gaze to what remained of the liquid inside and ran her thumb across the rim of her saucer. “But I never imagined that Edmund would respond to her sudden, unexpected appearance by following her back here. What would be the purpose?”

It was the most honest and open admittance she'd ever said in front of him. Her mind was obviously churning with possibilities, none of them positive, or she would have been able to maintain her air of sophisticated impudence much better than she was right now.

“I really don't know,” he answered, rubbing his palms together in front of him. “But I do think we should try to find out why he hasn't contacted you. There could be a very good reason—”