friend of a friend. He didn’t indicate it was this grandiose.”
Crushed stone crunched under the tires. Cutter’s trained eye detected more cameras mounted at strategic intervals and the glint of what he suspected were passive sensors laced throughout the grounds.
The drive ended at an arched passageway that once might have contained a portcullis. The passageway gave access to an inner courtyard. Two individuals waited inside the walled yard. The one on the right was tall and lean, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a neat mustache and a dignified air. Coming forward with a stately tread, he assisted Mallory from the car and introduced himself as Gilbért Picard, the majordomo and property overseer. With him was his wife, Madame Picard, a shy, rotund woman with rosy cheeks.
Gilbért was as smooth as butter and didn’t so much as bat an eyelash when Cutter emerged from the vehicle. His wife’s startled gaze went instantly to the scars, however. Just as quickly, she looked away.
Used to the reaction, Cutter introduced himself and Mallory. Gilbért apologized for paucity of staff here to greet them and retrieved Cutter’s carryall from the trunk. If he wondered at Mallory’s lack of baggage, he was too well trained to comment on it.
“Madame brings her maid and masseuse when she travels down from Paris,” he explained, leading the way inside. “We have two girls from the village who come each day to clean. I will ask one to see to Mademoiselle Dawes’s personal needs, oui? ”
“I don’t need a maid,” Mallory protested. “Just a place to crash.”
“Pardon?”
“All I want is a bed.”
“But of course.”
With a measured tread, he led them down a long hall wainscoted in glowing golden oak. The alcoves lining the hall contained ultramodern sculptures with sharp angles and odd shapes. The pieces should have looked out of place in this ancient castle, but old and new somehow blended seamlessly.
Mallory peeked through open doors as they passed, stealing glimpses of salons and sitting rooms and a library stacked floor to ceiling with books bound in leather and etched with gold print on the spines. The grand ballroom and music room were on the second floor, the guest rooms and madame’s private suite on the third.
On this floor, as on the others, both past and present came vividly alive. Baronial banners with richly embroidered coats of arms hung above suits of armor gilded with silver and gold. Yet the place of honor went to a Picasso spotlighted above a refectory table that might once have graced a twelfth-century cloister.
“We have put mademoiselle in the blue bedchamber,” Picard announced as he opened an ornate set of double doors halfway down the corridor. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”
Mallory stepped inside and felt as though she’d wandered into a Mediterranean grotto. Blue hardly described the shimmering azure of the drapes and upholstered chairs in the sitting room, or the richly embroidered coverlet on the four-poster bed. The bathroom beyond was accented with lapis lazuli trim, gold fixtures and sinks shaped like seashells. As in the rest of the château, modern sculpture and artwork coexisted beautifully with antique furniture.
“Monsieur is in the green chamber, next door.”
Picard made no reference to the connecting doors between the two suites.
“Do you wish the dinner before you retire?” he asked politely. “Something light, perhaps? The omelette? Or the vol-au-vent, with fresh asparagus and our most delicious Normandy mussels?”
“Well…”
Hunger and exhaustion waged a fierce war using Mallory as the battleground. Her stomach beat the rest of her into submission. The lunch in Caen had been delicious, but hardly filling.
“The vol-au-vent sounds wonderful. If it’s not too much trouble…”
“Not at all. Madame Picard baked the pastry shells only this afternoon. I shall tell her to set a table in the petite dining salon. In thirty minutes, oui?
Crushed stone crunched under the tires. Cutter’s trained eye detected more cameras mounted at strategic intervals and the glint of what he suspected were passive sensors laced throughout the grounds.
The drive ended at an arched passageway that once might have contained a portcullis. The passageway gave access to an inner courtyard. Two individuals waited inside the walled yard. The one on the right was tall and lean, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a neat mustache and a dignified air. Coming forward with a stately tread, he assisted Mallory from the car and introduced himself as Gilbért Picard, the majordomo and property overseer. With him was his wife, Madame Picard, a shy, rotund woman with rosy cheeks.
Gilbért was as smooth as butter and didn’t so much as bat an eyelash when Cutter emerged from the vehicle. His wife’s startled gaze went instantly to the scars, however. Just as quickly, she looked away.
Used to the reaction, Cutter introduced himself and Mallory. Gilbért apologized for paucity of staff here to greet them and retrieved Cutter’s carryall from the trunk. If he wondered at Mallory’s lack of baggage, he was too well trained to comment on it.
“Madame brings her maid and masseuse when she travels down from Paris,” he explained, leading the way inside. “We have two girls from the village who come each day to clean. I will ask one to see to Mademoiselle Dawes’s personal needs, oui? ”
“I don’t need a maid,” Mallory protested. “Just a place to crash.”
“Pardon?”
“All I want is a bed.”
“But of course.”
With a measured tread, he led them down a long hall wainscoted in glowing golden oak. The alcoves lining the hall contained ultramodern sculptures with sharp angles and odd shapes. The pieces should have looked out of place in this ancient castle, but old and new somehow blended seamlessly.
Mallory peeked through open doors as they passed, stealing glimpses of salons and sitting rooms and a library stacked floor to ceiling with books bound in leather and etched with gold print on the spines. The grand ballroom and music room were on the second floor, the guest rooms and madame’s private suite on the third.
On this floor, as on the others, both past and present came vividly alive. Baronial banners with richly embroidered coats of arms hung above suits of armor gilded with silver and gold. Yet the place of honor went to a Picasso spotlighted above a refectory table that might once have graced a twelfth-century cloister.
“We have put mademoiselle in the blue bedchamber,” Picard announced as he opened an ornate set of double doors halfway down the corridor. “I hope it will be satisfactory.”
Mallory stepped inside and felt as though she’d wandered into a Mediterranean grotto. Blue hardly described the shimmering azure of the drapes and upholstered chairs in the sitting room, or the richly embroidered coverlet on the four-poster bed. The bathroom beyond was accented with lapis lazuli trim, gold fixtures and sinks shaped like seashells. As in the rest of the château, modern sculpture and artwork coexisted beautifully with antique furniture.
“Monsieur is in the green chamber, next door.”
Picard made no reference to the connecting doors between the two suites.
“Do you wish the dinner before you retire?” he asked politely. “Something light, perhaps? The omelette? Or the vol-au-vent, with fresh asparagus and our most delicious Normandy mussels?”
“Well…”
Hunger and exhaustion waged a fierce war using Mallory as the battleground. Her stomach beat the rest of her into submission. The lunch in Caen had been delicious, but hardly filling.
“The vol-au-vent sounds wonderful. If it’s not too much trouble…”
“Not at all. Madame Picard baked the pastry shells only this afternoon. I shall tell her to set a table in the petite dining salon. In thirty minutes, oui?
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