Wolfsbane by William W. Johnstone Page B

stairs to the ground-level rooms of Amour House. Victoria’s constant companion and chief of staff met her at the bottom steps. Sylvia gave Janette a disapproving glance.
    â€œYou’re late,” she said. “Madame Bauterre is waiting for you.”
    Since her arrival at Amour House, Sylvia had been very cold and distant.
    â€œSylvia? What’s wrong with you? You’ve known me since the day I was born.”
    â€œNight,” Sylvia corrected. “Halloween night you were born.”
    â€œExcuse me for using the wrong noun. Night I was born. You’ve never acted this way before.”
    â€œYou were asked not to come here,” Sylvia hissed at her. “You disobeyed your grand’mère’s wishes. Why don’t you just get out! Go away!”
    There was a look in the woman’s eyes Janette had never before seen; her eyes were filled with hate and ugliness. It was as if Janette were looking at a stranger.
    â€œI own part of this house,” Janette replied, steel in her tone. “I own one-half of the entire Bauterre empire. You do not speak to me in such a manner.”
    Sylvia stiffened as if slapped. “Yes, Madame. Do forgive my impudence.” She walked away.
    Phoebe, the black kitchen maid, stood in a doorway, taking in the exchange. Janette looked at her. The maid’s muddy eyes were expressionless. “You have anything you’d like to add to that?” Janette asked.
    â€œBest you leave,” Phoebe said. “Things go on here you don understand. Leave.”
    â€œThank you very much,” Janette replied. “But I believe I’ll stay awhile.”
    â€œMight stay longer than you intend,” Phoebe said, then walked away.
    What is going on around here? Janette wondered. She walked into the dining room. Her grandmother’s dark eyes bored into hers.
    â€œYou’re late.”
    â€œI was not aware I was on a timetable.” Janette sat down and picked at the melon in front of her.
    The matriarch of the Beauterre family was ninety, and looked seventy. Her mind was still as sharp as any fifty-year-old’s.
    Too sharp, Janette had only recently begun to think. There was no hint of senility. And she did not like doctors; had never been in a hospital. She went only to a very old French GP. Janette had always thought her grandmother to be in very excellent health . . . strangely so . . . that was why she did not see doctors. Now she wondered if that was really the reason.
    What was that old doctor’s name in Paris? Camardelle. Yes, that was it.
    Camardelle! Janette dropped her spoon.
    Janette picked up the spoon and glanced at her grandmother. Victoria’s hair was still thick and supple, pulled back in a bun, the bun adorned with an antique comb, gold rimmed.
    Victoria sipped her morning tea and met her granddaughter’s eyes. The cup she drank from was worth more than many residents of the parish made in a week. Unexpectedly, she said, “You need a man to look after you, Janette. As much a man as Lyle was. You’re a lot of woman, Janette—you need a man with a steel hand, gloved in velvet.”
    Janette was a lot of woman: five feet, seven inches tall, a magnificent figure with full breasts, slim waist, long, shapely legs. Her hair was black as a raven’s wing catching sunlight in flight. Her eyes a dark blue, almost black when angered. Her skin was smooth and ivory colored.
    She had a temper that would awe a drunken Seabee and a right cross that had once floored her ex-Green Beret husband.
    â€œYou give me too much credit, grand’mère. And there will never be another man like Lyle.”
    â€œYou haven’t been looking, mon joli. You wore black for much longer than I should have allowed, cloistered in that great villa in France, seeing no one. I should have taken a cane to you and forced you out into the world.”
    â€œWell, perhaps I will meet someone in Joyeux and . .