“Who knows?” She smiled suddenly, as if that would dispel the ghost. “I can promise you that people are far more invested in their own reputation than they are yours, and they are quick to believe the very worst. What’s true, or what’s right and what’s wrong, well, they play a very secondary role. I’ve seen that myself, haven’t I?”
Lake shifted uncomfortably but was saved from responding when movement from the far end of the room indicated a shift toward the dining room.
“Good,” said Lake, “I’m famished.”
They shuffled into the large room that was served by a fireplace at each end and was dominated by a long, teak table that flowered with crystal and colorful china. Hugo was supposed to sit between Felix Vibert and Natalia, with Lake on the other side of the Russian woman. Hugo delayed sitting down, though, knowing that French meals could be drawn-out affairs that would make his legs twitchy. He spent a moment admiring two antiques on the side table behind his seat. One was a Chinese porcelain moon vase, depicting a battle between grinning warriors, the effect enhanced by the pinks and yellows that adorned those fighting on the outside of the vase.
Felix Vibert joined him as he was running his fingers over the second piece.
“An old sailor’s chest,” Vibert said.
“I was wondering.” It was slightly smaller than a case of wine, its wood burled and shining, the smell of polish faint but distinctive.
“Lots of them around, very fashionable a hundred years ago. Two hundred, maybe.” Vibert was tipsy, his words just starting to run into each other. “Sailors had sturdy ones, but those who could afford it had them specially made.”
“Why? It’s just a box.”
Vibert guffawed. “Just a box. I suppose some might have been, but many weren’t. They were specially made with secret compartments so that wandering fingers didn’t take the sailor’s valuables. When the middle classes and then the upper classes got wind of these ingenious little boxes, they designed their own or had craftsmen do it. They’d show them off to their friends, secret bottoms and hollow tops, hidden latches and levers.” Vibert waved a hand. “Although once you’ve shown off how clever yours is, it’s not much use for hiding things.”
“I suppose not. Is this one old?”
“Looks to be,” Vibert said, “but I couldn’t really say. I’m no antiques expert and I’ve not seen this one here before. I can also ask my assistant, Katrina, she knows more about that sort of thing.”
Hugo felt a hand on his elbow and turned. Alexie pressed a glass of champagne into his hand and smiled. “Sit, but take this with you. I gave one to the senator, you may need them.” She drifted away and took her place at the far end of the table from her brother.
Hugo took his seat and Lake leaned back, behind Natalia. “I see you got more champagne, too. She said Henri Tourville sometimes likes to make speeches before dinner.” He rolled his eyes, then nodded at the place setting in front of him. “Maybe I should ask her to bring us a couple more.”
It was halfway through the meal when Hugo noticed Natalia shift her chair back a little and toward him. Hugo shot her a quick glance and she indicated with her head, a subtle nod toward the senator.
His face was red and his eyes glassy, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Hugo checked and saw that both glasses of champagne had been taken away, which no doubt meant he’d emptied them. A full glass of red wine sat in front of him but Hugo had been to these dinners before and had never seen a glass remain empty for more than three or four seconds.
Hugo looked around for the two secret service agents, then remembered he’d excused them himself. It was evening and he was, after all, the babysitter. The senator was making conversation with an elderly woman to his right who, by the looks of it, was one sheet to the wind beyond even Lake. Their heads lolled as they talked and Hugo half expected a crack of foreheads.
“I hate flying too,” Lake was saying. “Now the old ships, they’re the ones. The QE2, even the Titanic. Very romantic, and so much safer than being in a tin can thousands of feet in the air. That has to be the definition of insanity.”
“But what—” the woman hiccupped and giggled, “but what if the boat sinks?”
“A watery grave is itself very romantic. Better than many endings people have, including a fiery plane crash.”
The pair nodded wildly at each other, and Hugo returned his attentions to Natalia. After a few moments of polite conversation with her, he noticed Lake sit straight up in his chair and stare down at his plate. The senator turned to Hugo and said, “I don’t feel so great. Think it’s something I ate, maybe the food’s too rich.”
“Maybe,” Hugo said. Or maybe a long flight and too much silky champagne. “Can you make it through dessert?”
“Depends on how many courses until we get there.”
Hugo checked the rows of silverware left in front of him. “Two at least. Something and then cheese. Then dessert.”
The senator paled. “Then no. I think I need a bathroom.”
Natalia pretended to be listening to the conversation across the table as Hugo stood and beckoned for Lake to follow him. They moved quickly to Henri Tourville, who looked up in surprise. The chatter around them lurched for just a moment but picked up again, politeness trumping curiosity. For now, anyway.
“Ça va?” Tourville asked.
“A long flight and maybe a glass too many,” Hugo said quietly. No shame there, not in France.
“The food,” Lake mumbled behind him, “too rich, something didn’t agree …”
“Bien sûr,” Tourville nodded, concern on his face, “I will have someone bring tea, that should help.”
“Thank you,” said Hugo, “I’ll see the senator to his room and be back in a few minutes. Excuse us.”
Hugo held the senator’s elbow and steered him to the first set of stairs.
“Why did you tell him I was drunk?” he muttered. “I’m not, it was the food.”
“In France, you get points for consuming your host’s wine but lose them rapidly if you insult his food. I thought we could use the points.”
“I had three glasses of champagne and didn’t touch the wine,” Lake insisted. “Maybe four glasses.”
His words were slurring together and Hugo didn’t plan to start a debate. “OK, we’ll get you to your room, see how you feel. You want a doctor?”
“I’m sick, not dying. I just want to lie down.”
A few minutes later Senator Lake was sitting on his bed, head between his knees. Hugo roused him and helped him undress to his underwear, then steered him into the bathroom and waited until he returned, taking a wobbly line back to the bed. He slid his bulk between the sheets with a sigh of deep pleasure. As his eyes closed, Hugo discreetly checked his pulse: slow, but still pumping.
He let himself out of the room and saw a maid walking toward them with a mug of tea on a tray.
“Merci, mademoiselle, but he’s sleeping. He won’t need that. Perhaps in the morning.”
“Oui, monsieur, d’accord.” She did an about-turn and started back down the hallway.
Hugo considered his options, tempted by a few quiet moments on his bed, a book in his hand … Then he gathered himself. His charge may be out cold, but Hugo was still on the clock, which meant another hour or two of small talk but maybe, just maybe, a good glass of his favorite wine of alclass="underline" port.
Seven
A loud banging on his door woke Hugo at seven the next morning. He fell out of bed and went to the door. He opened it to find Lake standing there, wrapped in a dark blue robe, his feet bare. His hair was mussed and his eyes were blood-shot.