Murder At The Masque by Amy Myers Page A

corridor from the theatre to the Winter Palace for late supper. He had seemed so big, so devoted, and the most generous man in the world. Of course, as with many other generous people, she had noticed small acts of incredible meanness even then. Still, ballerinas needed the patronage of a Grand Duke, even an exiled one. Indeed, his exile had been a positive advantage, while she was still with the Imperial Ballet. Dear Igor. For now, with everything going right for her, he was her
dear
Igor again. She remembered the small
dacha
at Tsarkoie Selo during his visit to Russia one summer, their meetings in London and occasionally in Cannes. Here it had been more difficult since discretion was necessary. How nervous he’d been to see her yesterday, as her carriage had passed his on his way to the Golf Links. She smiled. She enjoyed being here in Cannes, oh how she was enjoying it.
    And one of her pleasures was Auguste. He might not bea Grand Duke, but he was infinitely more subtle – in every way. Ah, those eloquent dark eyes. How seriously he took himself, until she mocked him gently and then he would laugh at himself, take her in his arms . . . Ah. Such a pity he remained devoted to some mysterious lady in Paris. Perhaps one day she’d try to help . . . when love had passed.
    ‘
Mon chéri, ma galantine, mon foie gras
,’ she cried as Auguste was shown into the morning room by her maid. She hurtled towards him and he caught her slim body against him in his arms, rejoicing at its lack of need for artificial support beneath the silk dress.
    ‘I am not a
foie gras
, dearest,’ he murmured lovingly, but reproachfully. ‘All that
fat
. I am’ – he paused for reflection – ‘
une truffe de Provence
and your beloved.’ He kissed her somewhat unrestrainedly after his enthusiastic welcome, and then hurriedly remembering etiquette, glanced round for the maid.
    ‘You need not worry about Marie. She is used to me.
Alors
, Auguste, you have a look on your face as if you wish to partake of one of Carter’s Little Liver Pills – you have found a murder?’
    ‘Murder?
Mais non
. But two mysteries. One is that of Inspector Rose and the six Fabergé eggs. About which you know. Dearest, do stop dancing around,’ he complained, his attention diverted to the beautiful instep fleetingly on view. Only last night, he’d caressed it – ‘As one of them is yours,’ he continued reproachfully.
    ‘Yes.’ She flashed him a smile as she picked up her parasol. He opened his mouth, but realised there was nothing more to say on the subject.
    ‘So what have you discovered so far?’ she said brightly.
    ‘I—’ Auguste was checkmated. No wonder Russians were so good at chess. It was unfair. How could he have found out anything so quickly?
    ‘To find things out,
ma chérie
, one must first havedecided the recipe and ingredients. And even more important – the
reason
for the recipe.’
    ‘Ah yes,’ she said meekly.
    ‘
Chérie
, do not flutter your eyelids at me. I am
right
.’
    ‘Ah, but I know,’ she laughed. ‘Now, have you discovered the reason for our burglar’s recipe?’
    ‘I thought perhaps blackmail, but that cannot be as the ladies could simply deny the eggs belonged to them. It is not like incriminating letters. So, it has to be for the sake of the rubies – which is the most likely as the Petrov Diamond has also been threatened, so Inspector Rose tells me.’
    ‘The what?’ she inquired.
    ‘The Petrov Diamond. The Grand Duke had a letter threatening that it would be stolen. And tomorrow the Grand Duchess wears it – darling, you do not listen.’
    ‘I am sorry, Auguste. I was thinking of the burglar,’ she said contritely. ‘He knows very much about us all, does he not? I think we will find it is someone known well to us all.’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ said Auguste eagerly, determined not to lose the status of superior investigator. ‘It could be a valet or maid chatting indiscreetly to a