Murder At The Masque by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online Page A

Rose. ‘All the same, I’m going to find La Belle Mimosa.’
    ‘Who?’ asked Auguste slowly.
    ‘Silly name, isn’t it? She’s the owner of the Seventh Egg, so Miss Kallinkova says.’
    ‘
Who
?’ repeated Auguste in awe-filled tones.
    ‘Kallinkova. A ballerina. She lost an egg.’ Rose laughed. ‘Makes her sound like a chicken.’
    Auguste had stopped in his tracks. Kallinkova! The lovely Natalia who had held him in her arms yesterday afternoon the mistress of the Grand Duke . . . The brute must have ravaged her. She was too pure, too good, to have yielded otherwise. Carefully, he asked himself if he minded. Was it not hypocritical of him to mind Natalia having other lovers, when always in his own heart he held the memory of his beloved Tatiana?
    ‘You know the lady, do you, Auguste? What a lad you are. What about Princess Tatiana?’
    ‘There are dreams in this world, Egbert, and there are today and tomorrow to be lived. They are different things,’ answered Auguste with dignity. ‘I do not think of her. I cannot. It makes me too sad, being in the Villa Russe. Tatiana too is Russian. I cannot help wondering—’
    ‘So there really
is
a Princess Tatiana?’
    ‘Ah, she is real. But not for a cook.’
    ‘You’re a
maître
,’ Rose reminded him gently.
    ‘The Tsar Alexander much admired
le maître
Fabergé. But he admired the artist in him. To him Fabergé was not a man. And it is the man one must marry, not the artist – or the
maître
chef. So what have I to offer a princess?’
    ‘Fabergé,’ said Rose, changing the subject tactfully. ‘And the Case of the Seventh Egg. You help me solve it, Auguste – and I tell you what – I’ll help you track down your ghost. How’s that?’
    Auguste smiled. ‘Very good. At least here there is no murder,
hein
?’
    ‘Tomorrow I dance for His Royal Highness. Come, you dance with me now.’ Natalia seized Auguste and danced him round the room. Her blue chiffon teagown billowed round them, entwining his legs, a lacy feather from the white trimmings flew up his nose and made him sneeze. But he remained in heaven. ‘There, you are Prince Florizel,my Harlequin. How do you like dancing in the ballet?’
    ‘
Mon ange
, I want you to myself, not share you with all those people out there.’ He waved a hand towards the flowers adorning the balcony.
    ‘And what will you tell me when we are alone?’ She whirled him dexterously round a chaise longue. ‘There, that is the end of the
Casse-Noisette
– the
Nutcracker
.’
    ‘I will tell you that—’ he began solemnly, only to find her laughing at him. ‘I cannot be serious while you laugh,’ he complained, kissing her.
    ‘Then let us speak of solemn things,’ she said.
    ‘Eggs for example,’ said Auguste severely. ‘Fabergé eggs.’
    ‘Now you make me laugh again. So your Inspector Rose has come after all. I told you he would.’
    ‘Do you still see the Grand Duke?’ asked Auguste jealously.
    ‘Yes of course. Why not? But we are no longer
amoureux
.’ She planted a kiss behind his ear. ‘So I will help you find this burglar,’ she told him. ‘I would like to see my beautiful egg again.’
    ‘How will you help?’
    ‘I know all these people. I think, you see,’ she frowned, ‘this burglar is of society himself – he knows the ways. I know these people. You do not,’ she pointed out. ‘
Voilà
, I help.’ She sprang up. ‘And now—’
    ‘And now I will thank you,’ said Auguste firmly, pulling her down once more on to the chaise longue. The gratitude took a considerable time to express in fitting manner.

Chapter Three
    Lord Westbourne, envoy to the Niger Conference on behalf of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, stomped round the Villa des Roses in impotent displeasure. Impotent, because he could give no vent to his feelings; displeasure because he would personally far rather be either at Monte Carlo or at Pratt’s where a fellow could at least relax. He was too old to enjoy playing cricket and