Floats the Dark Shadow Read online

  “You see very clearly.”

  “I thought…” She had suspected him of gallivanting about the city with Casimir, drinking champagne and seducing actresses. But that had never been the most probable reason. “I thought you were remembering Jeanette.”

  For a moment Averill looked utterly stricken. An instant later, he smiled ruefully but his gaze was shuttered. “I can never forget Jeanette.”

  When Theo first met Averill, they were both coming out of mourning. Averill’s beloved younger sister had died a year before. His father had told the world her death was caused by a freakish carriage accident, but Averill had wormed a different truth from him—a truth Averill confided not to his mother, nor to his other sister, but to Theo. Jeanette had committed suicide. Last week was the anniversary of her death.

  There was a painful silence. Theo knew she had overstepped some boundary, even though it was one he had opened for her to cross. Of late, the special rapport they shared seemed to have faded. When she chased after it, it only eluded her more. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, which covered both her sympathy for him and her own hurt.

  He shook his head, then abruptly returned to their earlier conversation. “The fiacre will come for you at ten. That will give us time to tour the catacombs before the concert.”

  She smiled valiantly. “I’ll be ready.”

  He turned to go, then swiveled around. “I will keep my promise. Soon.”

  “When you can,” Theo answered. Despite her yearning to paint him, she could not bear to push him.

  Cupping her face tenderly, he kissed her on both cheeks. The first kiss was barely more than breath, the second warm, soft, and faintly moist against her skin. At each touch of his lips, a thrilling vibration played along her nerves. Drawing back, Averill smiled at her—that smile so full of secrets.

  “I will see you tomorrow night,” he said, and then went dashing down the stairs.

  Feeling dazed, Theo wandered back inside. “Tomorrow,” she murmured.

  A sudden rush of sunshine poured into the studio. All around her, the walls she had painted wine red glowed in the afternoon light. She crossed to the windows, watching the grey rain clouds scudding across the eastern expanse of Paris, leaving pure cerulean sky behind. Montmartre fell away beneath her in a cascade of steep roofs, chimney tops, and trees frothy in their new spring finery of green leaves and creamy blossoms. Theo raised a hand to her cheek. The vibration of her nerves spread until her skin tingled everywhere. Her heart was thrumming from the softest brush of his lips. Each beat sounded a different emotion. Excitement. Apprehension. Sorrow. Hope.

  She was in love.

  How infinitely stupid.

  Theo had been sure she was en garde. Safe from further hurt. Safe from broken promises and disillusion.

  In California, with a dowry of money and horses promised her, there had been suitors. She’d known since she was little that she was a bastard. John Faraday, the man who’d raised her, the man she’d believed was her father, had called her a Faraday but never adopted her. His wife was concerned for her own two sons’ inheritance, so he put nothing for Theo in his will, not even her favorite horse. Then they were all dead in a train wreck, except for the wastrel youngest son who tossed her out on her ear. Theo had nothing left but the clothes in her closet, her paints, and her grief.

  The suitor who had seemed most ardent came to see her after the funeral. She remembered her rush of gratitude when he appeared. Her world had been shattered. Emotional comfort and financial security would help mend that world, and Theo felt the promise of love like a rosebud ready to unfurl and open the tight clutch of her heart. But the ardent suitor did not offer marriage. Instead, he suggested a nice little house in San Francisco, where he would visit occasionally.

  It was a hard lesson, being jilted and tossed on the rubbish heap. Nothing she had believed in was real. There was death, and after death, betrayal. Coldly, Theo decided she would never marry. A husband would believe he owned her. Intolerable. Nor would she make the daring leap of taking a lover—she might as well sell her heart into slavery. Loving her art would be enough.

  But she had found art was an expensive amour, one she could barely afford. She’d developed her skill with pencil, with pen and ink, because tubes of paint were too dear. Sometimes she’d felt all the color had faded from her world. It was a miracle that she wasn’t still slaving at the Louvre Bar in the rough end of Mill Valley, thinking that was the closest to Paris she would ever come. But the miracle had happened. A lawyer climbed the rickety stairs to her room to tell her Phillipe Charron was her true father—an elegant French portrait painter who had seduced an American society girl. The lawyer adamantly refused to name her mother. But her father would bring Theo to Paris, if she wished. Yes. Theo wished.

  So she sailed to Paris—and in Paris she once again had family. There was the new father she seldom saw, an invalid grandmother who spent all her time with her ancient poodle, an uncle she loathed, an aunt she pitied, an insipid female cousin she liked too little—and the male cousin she liked far too much.

  Loved.

  From the first, Averill had captivated her. His compassion had soothed her lingering pain and eased her still raw anger. Ignoring the turmoil churning inside her, Theo set about glossing her rough surface. She’d struggled to reclaim the finishing school polish that had become so tarnished, to transform her haphazard schoolgirl French to something approaching Parisian fluidity and her raggedy wardrobe into Bohemian chic. Averill had helped her with it all. Fellow artists, they quickly became fellow conspirators, fellow rebels, dearest friends. His morbid moods made her frightened for him, sometimes even frightened of him. But always she was fascinated. Averill was everything mysterious and seductive that was Paris to her—challenging, enticing, and forever elusive.

  Bathing in the sunshine, Theo lifted her hands to cup her face, fingertips curved to her cheeks, where the sensation of Averill’s kisses still lingered. The throb of excitement pulsed through her once again, hot and sweet. Her heart and her body were at war with her mind.

  There was knocking at the door. She spun around eagerly, even as she realized the quick barrage of taps wasn’t Averill’s. She went and opened the door. “Bonjour, Matthieu.”

  “Bonjour, Mlle. Faraday,” he said politely.

  He was a beautiful boy, with curling light brown hair, and large expressive hazel eyes. But not just beautiful. Her first painting had not captured his energy or his impish curiosity, his secret seriousness. The portrait now on her easel overcompensated, gaining vitality but forcing a hard look onto his face. That tough little urchin wasn’t Matthieu any more than the dreamy pastel princeling had been. He was everything she’d tried to capture in both paintings, but everything all at once. She determined to do a portrait worthy of him.

  “Maman saw you return, mademoiselle, and she would like to invite you for dinner this evening, at seven.” He lowered his voice and confided, “She is making her cassoulet.”

  “Delicious,” Theo said with a smile. “Thank her and tell her I will bring wine. Is there something you would like?”

  “Éclairs?” he asked, almost breathless at the thought.

  “Oh yes, I love éclairs, too!” Theo exclaimed.

  “At seven then, Mlle. Faraday.” He waved and dashed off, rather like Averill had earlier.

  Alone again, Theo took out her old sketches of Averill and spent more than an hour sifting through them. Remembering what they had talked about as he posed, she was filled with a sweet nostalgia, but none conjured the lovely surge of creative passion that would send her rushing to her easel and stop her brooding.

  They did not capture what she felt now.

  Theo sighed with frustration. It was growing late. If she left now, there would be time to explore the streets for a possible landscape as well as for tonight’s dinner offering. She would return to the cherry trees in the Bois de Boulogne, but she wanted to find something closer to hand as well. After locking her door,
she descended the stairs and went outside, setting off up the street toward the Place du Tertre.

  There was a man in the rue de la Mire—not really a street, but a long set of stairs descending the hillside, narrow as an alleyway. Theo watched him for a moment, not sure why he had captured her attention. He didn’t look at all like a bum or a ruffian, but neither was he a workman or businessman going about an errand. He was exploring. But why? She liked his attentiveness, however mysterious, and the way he moved, with economy and grace.

  Almost instantly, he was aware of her watching and turned. He paused, then climbed the steps toward her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” His manner was serious, his voice low and quiet. “I’m Inspecteur Devaux of the Sûreté.”

  “What are you investigating?”

  “The disappearance of Denis Armand.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, feeling sadness take hold of her again. She remembered how sweet the little boy was and how grief-stricken his mother. Theo had helped organize one of the many searches for him. “Is there any news?”

  “No. I am looking at his neighborhood again. He would have passed this way on the night he disappeared.”

  The other policeman she’d talked with hadn’t told her that. Theo was appalled that Denis might have been taken right beside where she lived. There were bushes to one side where a kidnapper might lurk. Chills trickled down her back.

  The detective perused a list. “You are Mlle. Theodora Faraday, the American?”

  Theo nodded. “Is it so apparent?”

  “Your French is excellent,” he answered in careful English. Surprised, she smiled encouragement, but he returned to French. “I saw the drawing you gave the police. It was skillful.”

  “But not much of a likeness—so small. His mother was the centerpiece.”

  He nodded. “Still, it is good to have anything like that during an investigation.”

  “He has been missing over a month.”

  “I do not expect to find him alive,” the detective said bluntly.

  “Do you expect to find him at all?” Theo prickled, but she did not think Denis was alive, either. There was a kind of emptiness around his name now.

  He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  Theo felt a chill of premonition. “Has another child disappeared?”

  His face became more expressionless. He didn’t answer her question, but instead asked, “What can you tell me about Denis?”

  “Very little. He used to come with Jeanne to collect the laundry.” Theo was disturbed. The detective’s refusal was an admission. She must warn Matthieu to be careful. “Sometimes, his mother would send Denis alone to fetch small bundles.”

  “What about his mother? Her character?”

  “Jeanne is extremely devout. She named Denis for a saint and told stories about them—and about Jeanne d’Arc, her namesake.” Theo paused, remembering how avidly the little boy had listened to those tales. “Denis was very impressionable. I think he might be more susceptible than other Montmartre boys to being led astray by some romantic story.”

  “Do you remember what you were doing that evening?”

  “Yes, I went to tea with a friend at Ladurée.” Casimir had taken her there for a treat—her favorite chic spot when she felt like being elegant.

  “Would you give me her name—or his?” he asked.

  “Surely he can’t be a suspect?” Theo heard her voice growing sharp. The police intruded everywhere.

  He did not react, simply said, “I do not even know if I will question him, mademoiselle, but perhaps he glimpsed something, or someone, that evening.”

  The detective was only doing his job, and perhaps some small piece of information would lead to Denis being found. “Casimir Estarlian, baron de la Veillée sur Oise,” Theo said, a bit smugly. The whole title sounded so elegant. Suddenly, she wondered if the detective would assume she was Casimir’s mistress. It was just the sort of thing a policeman would think. Blushing did not help, nor did staring at him defiantly. Nor did fighting off laughter at the ridiculousness of her response.

  “He is just a friend,” she said, as if that would convince a flic. Despite Casimir’s handsomeness, she was not attracted to him. He was Averill’s good friend, so she wanted him to like her, and supposed he felt the same. She had been suitably charmed when he treated her to the ballet or the opera. Once they’d gone to the races. He flirted artfully without being seductive. He was flattering, amusing, informative—but they were both more lively when they were with Averill and the others. Alone together, they were always on their best behavior. “We went to tea,” she repeated, feeling foolish.

  The Inspecteur nodded and scribbled.

  As he wrote, Theo’s gaze swept down the walls of the alleyway. Obscene graffiti chalked the stone. Here and there were smudged religious symbols. Jeanne would probably have seen the black cross and blessed herself. The arms were long, with something like wings swooping out from the top. Theo was aware of the other graphic words and images and suddenly felt uncomfortable with this man she didn’t know. But it was the crude drawings that made her fidgety, not anything he had done. She realized that he had detached himself from their conversation almost completely. It was deliberate, she thought. He was able to withdraw into himself, almost vanish.

  She studied him again. The quiet he had put on like a mask was intriguing, even a little sinister. How could you capture those layers in a portrait? First, she had seen a hunter, prowling. Next he was the public official, respectful, but expecting respect as well. The tension, the intentness, were well hidden, but there. He had an interesting face, wedge-shaped with high cheekbones. A strong nose and chin framed refined lips. His ash brown hair revealed chestnut when the sun touched it. Under straight brows, cool grey eyes were tinted with warm green. He was handsome in a severe way. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled.

  He was regarding her just as directly now, and she felt like squirming. The artist in her was always studying people too closely. Curious to think how similar, yet how different, it must be to look at the world through a detective’s eyes.

  “I have an errand—chocolate éclairs.” She smiled, apologetic, flustered. “There’s really nothing more I can tell you. If I don’t hurry, the bakery will close.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Mlle. Faraday,” he said, then resumed his exploration of the passage.

  At her favorite patisserie near the Place du Tertre, Theo bought three éclairs, plump with custard and shimmering with chocolate glaze. Afterward, she wandered through Montmartre seeking the perfect view. Storm clouds were gathering again, a glowering darkness on the horizon, but the late sun was bright, the shadows sharp. Theo savored the wet, saturated colors of the spring growth, the new leaves on the trees and the scrambling tendrils of the vines making their way across the limestone walls. Coming back laden with olives, baguette, and wine as well as her parcel of éclairs, she glanced at the Moulin de la Galette, the windmill turned dance hall that every artist in Montmartre had painted a dozen times, including herself. She had a warm affection for the building. It was sturdy enough, but still had a sort of rumpled, tumbledown air. Usually. Today the sun struck the blades and pinioned them against the smudged purple of the clouds. The windmill became strangely menacing, like some sorcerer’s machine. Even as she stared, transfixed, the light flared then began to fade. Theo drank in the image, because the old moulin might never look this way again.

  And a painting of it would be hers alone.

  Chapter Four

  I am a cradle

  Swung in a cavern

  Of sadness and night….

  ~ Paul Verlaine

  A THOUSAND candles burned in the darkness of the catacombs.

  A thousand flames wavered, golden lights bending and rising with the doleful ebb and flow of the music.

  Repelled and fascinated, Theo watched their flickering glow caress the curved domes of the skulls. Tinted by candlelight, the naked bones took on a sepia patina like sacred reliquaries
carved from amber. A shiver swept her. Nothing—not her delight in the outrageous, nor the wickedly delicious thrill of the forbidden, not even the inspiration the images would bring to her art—nothing overcame her sense of oppression. They were deep in the earth. Room after endless room of bones surrounded them.

  The black hollows of the eye sockets seemed to watch the concert as attentively as the audience of chic Parisians still clothed in mortal flesh and fancy silks, still breathing the dank, stifling air of the chamber. As the last notes of Chopin’s Marche Funèbre echoed, the gathering applauded with fervent solemnity, saluting the musicians’ skill and their own daring in coming here. Elegant in their tuxedos, the orchestra lowered their instruments with a flourish and rose, first bowing to their guests, then once again to their skeletal hosts. Theo smiled and clapped with them, fighting off her apprehension.

  “They call this the Empire of Death.” Averill leaned close and Theo bent to meet him. In the eerie light, the smile hovering at the corners of his mouth shifted from sweet to sinister and back again. His breath caressed her face and she caught a hint of absinthe. The scent churned up a chaos of emotion—concern, frustration, anger, yearning.

  A pang of jealousy.

  How perfectly Parisian, she thought, to be jealous of a liqueur.

  When had his flirtation with the green fairy become a love affair? Two months ago, four? He called absinthe his muse, but she stole as much as she gave. Under her influence, Averill’s moods grew ever more erratic and his exquisite, fantastical poems ever more bizarre.

  A fierce impulse surged through Theo’s turmoil—to paint Averill as he looked now, bitter and sweet, taunting and tender. She envisioned him almost emerging from the canvas. Strands of dark hair tumbled over his eyes, pale blue flames glowing too bright within the shadows. Patches of rose madder made a fever flush on both cheeks. Her fingers twitched eager to render mustache and beard in quick, narrow strokes of lamp black touched with indigo, a frame for the quick twist of a smile that mocked the world and himself.