Page 12 of Cousin Conundrum

Esme cast her sister a glare. “Why do you say this, Margot?”

“Because you do.”

The two exchanged frowns that made their giant brows into sinister Vs.

Finally, Esme dropped her gaze with a gusty sigh. “My beau, he reads the books so he may find new clients, monsieur. It is no harm, but would make our mère very cross.”

Margot came forward to pat Esme on the shoulder. “Do not fear. She will not know.” She looked up, meeting Steven’s gaze with surprisingly clear blue eyes. “You will not tell our mère, will you?”

Trying not to reveal his excitement, Steven shook his head. “I do not believe that will be required, but we would be very interested in speaking to your beau. Does he call often?”

Esme clamped her lips closed.

Perfectly nice lips, really, if she did not apply her paint so terribly. Fuller than they appeared at first glance, with so much white on them and so little red. Steven couldn’t imagine why the two, already unfortunate in appearance, thought so much paint improved them. But then, who knew the state of their skin beneath. The paint was so thick, they could be pock marked for all he could tell.

“Does he have a name?” Fletcher pressed.

Esme shook her head, mulish.

“Mon Dieu!” Margot exclaimed. “If you do not tell them, then I will. These men are of the constabulary. La Gendarmerie! It is so obvious, your beau is a cad. A scofflaw. A criminal.”

Esme stared at her sister for a moment, then her face crumpled. She gave a loud sob. “He does not call often, no, messieurs. P-perhaps one or two times each month. W-when he has the coin, you understand? When he has the money to treat me well, with flowers and confections.”

Steven exchanged a look with Fletcher, betting the other man’s thoughts followed his. The Peacock likely had several women on whom he called, using charm and a few gifts to find ready locations to hide the tools of his trade, and looking in their books for when wealthy widows would be in their shops. He likely had a milliner, a shoemaker, and more under the sway of his charm. Steven felt a well of sympathy for this woman who, like as not, had never had the attention of any other man.

“And his name,” Fletcher asked gently as Esme continued to sob.

Margot yanked a handkerchief from the neck of her gown and pressed it on her sister before turning back to them. “He is Monsieur Paon.”

Esme sobbed harder.

“And where can we find this Monsieur Paon?” A shock of worry ran through Steven. “How do you contact him? Has he called recently?” It wouldn’t do to have Esme warn her beau that they knew of him, out of misguided affection.

“He c-called Tuesday last,” Esme managed through her tears. “I will not see him again for weeks. I must always wait for him to call. I c-cannot even w-write to him.” She raised a face streaked with tears, the coal around her eyes running together with her white and pink paint in a muddle of flesh-toned gray. “I have been a fool,” she wailed. She dropped her piebald face to her handkerchief-filled palms.

Margot patted her sister on the shoulder, worry drawing down her brow. “He lunches, does he not, Esme?” Margot said. “He has mentioned the Hind and Hound.”

Esme nodded, not looking up.

Excitement thrilled through Steven. They might have actually done it. He and Fletcher might have found the clue that would lead them to the Peacock. Steven would be free. He would have his life back. Time for Louisa, to mend the harm he’d done their union with his constant unexplained absences. His sneaking out.

“Can you describe Mr. Paon for us?” Fletcher asked.

Margot looked at her sobbing sister. “Esme?” After a moment, Margot shrugged and turned back to them. “He is so high.” She held her hand up to a height a bit taller than Steven. Closer to Fletcher. “His hair, it is dark. Not black, no, but nearly. His eyes are light. I think you English say hazel? Slender. Like a whip, non? With the large hands. He has a scar here.” She touched under her right eye. “He said from his work, the bit of glass once.”

“Is he French?” Steven asked when she added no more.

Margot shook her head. “English, Esme?”

“He is Welsh,” Esme mumbled into her handkerchief.

“Welsh?” Fletcher repeated slowly. “Paon does not sound Welsh.”

Margot shrugged again. “Perhaps he lies. It seems he lies about much, non?”

Esme made a choking sound.

“We must ask you to make no effort to contact Mr. Paon,” Fletcher said, stern now. “He is quite possibly a criminal. If he is not, he has nothing to fear and will certainly call on you again soon. If he is, you do not want to know him, do you? Especially not being French, as you are. We do not take kindly to émigrés who do not obey our laws. I am afraid that if you have any contact with Mr. Paon before we do, we will be forced to send your entire family back to France.”