I Prefer Rainy Days Chapter 4: I Prefer Rainy Days - Parts 15 - 22, a la femme nikita fanfic

PART 15

Over the next week, Michel visited the usual tourist sites by day. Unfortunately, one that he especially wanted to visit, the British Museum, was closed for some renovations and would not re-open until the following Friday.

By night he supped in various pubs with René, where they joined the locals in singing bawdy songs and throwing darts. One evening he and René dined with René's mother. Afterwards, the three of them attended the opera at Covent Garden.

Mrs. Dian leaned over and gushed to Michel, "The young woman singing the lead is Stéphanie Rousseau. I have only heard her once, but her voice is simply divine! She's going to be the next diva of the company."

As Mrs. Dian turned away to greet friends, René glanced around and then added in a low voice, "I'm afraid the talented Miss Rousseau has some rather dubious claims to fame."

Michel looked at him, puzzled. "Go on."

"Do you see the man two rows up on the right? The one with the monocle?"

Michel followed René's glance. "Yes, I see him."

"That's Gray Wellman, wealthy businessman, bon vivant, and lover of Miss Rousseau. His business practices have been called into question on more than one occasion. In fact, right now my bank is investigating some deals he's trying to broker. Then there is his personal life. He's squires the lovely soprano all over town while his invalid, but rich, wife languishes at home. When Miss Rousseau's father learned of their liaison, he promptly cut her out of his will. He's the owner of The Express newspaper."

The orchestra finished warming up and the curtain was rising for the first act. The audience settled down and the buzz of conversation died away.

"I've been making some inquiries about Wellman. If my information turns out to be true, it could knock him off the society pages and into the dock at the Old Bailey."

Michel was intrigued by all this. "René, it sounds like you are already quite the detective. No doubt Scotland Yard will be recruiting you very soon."

"That's exactly what I'm hoping for."

Late Sunday afternoon, Nikita and Carla caught the train back to The Sanibelle School. Walter was waiting patiently at the station for them. "How did you girls entertain yourselves this weekend?" he asked.

They launched excitedly into a description of the birthday party, the food, the dresses, the dancing, and the birth of Penelope's baby. Walter chuckled and nodded as each little incident was recalled.

"I must say, I'm impressed by your handling of that Mick fellow, Nikita."

"Mick was surprised, as well!" Nikita said.

"We heard that the butler found him sprawled in the shrubbery the next morning, snoring loudly!" added Carla with a laugh.

Walter saw them up to their room and said, "Better turn in early. Rumor has it that Miss G. is going to make a special announcement tomorrow morning."

"Really? Do you know what it is?" they asked together.

"Haven't the foggiest idea," Walter said as he departed.

PART 16

On Monday morning the students dutifully filed into the chapel. Nikita, Carla, and the Brazilian Babes hurried into the last pew. They always tried to sit at the back for one important reason – they were prone to giggle at the most innocent remark.

Everyone was trying to figure out what Miss Glanzman was going to say. "Maybe it's about Dr. Desbiens. He's always hinting about his retirement," said Carla.

"Oooh, I overheard one of the senior girls saying that some old battleaxe from Birmingham was going to take his place!" said an alarmed Fern.

"I don't want him to leave," whined Gadenia. "He's such a nice old man. He reminds me of my grandfather." There was a murmur of agreement among the girls.

The bell tolled nine o'clock and Miss Glanzman advanced to the podium. As she surveyed the room, she noticed that the little group on the back row was already whispering and snickering.

The usual suspects, she thought grimly. She had dubbed them The Back Row Girls. They were the brightest and also the most boisterous of her students. She had to keep them on a short leash.

Clearing her throat she said, "Ladies, if I may have your attention." She paused dramatically and waited until all eyes were upon her. "As you know, the British Museum has been closed for several weeks for renovations. It is scheduled to re-open this Friday. Miss Roddy and I will be taking the junior class up to London to view the new Greek sculpture exhibit."

"Personally, I would rather be viewing the new fashions in Harrods!" whispered Carla.

"Afterwards, we have been invited to spend the weekend with Isabelita's uncle and aunt, Lord and Lady Huntington, at their townhouse in Belgrave Square." A gasp of surprise went through the room.

"Did you know about this, Isa?" asked Nikita.

"I only learned about it a few moments ago. My aunt is quite the hostess. Usually, she is entertaining the prime minister and members of parliament. She and my uncle always seem to be in the society pages."

"We will have to be on our best behavior," said Gadenia.

"Oh no, we can be ourselves," Isabelita assured them. "Aunt Sophia has a great sense of humor. It's hard to believe she and my father are siblings." She frowned as she had a sudden image of her stern-faced father, smoking his pipe and reprimanding her about spending too much money on hats and gloves.

Miss Glanzman's penetrating voice intruded on their conversation. ". . .then there is the matter of Dr. Desbiens' impending retirement. I will be interviewing prospective applicants for his position while we are in London. We are all anxious to have the matter resolved in the shortest possible time." Again, she paused. "Are there any questions?"

When no hands were raised, she continued, "Well, I believe it is time for your first class. Dismissed!"

Miss Glanzman walked back to her office with a secret smile. She already knew which candidate she wanted. Headmaster Wolfe, however, insisted that she interview the other two finalists as well before submitting her recommendation.

Normally, she did not fancy going up to London. It was too crowded, too noisy, and too dirty for her. However, the prospect of meeting the Frenchman in person put a definite spring in her step.

Is he really as good as he sounds? she wondered.

PART 17

The Following Friday – 9:15 a.m.

Miss Glanzman and her students joined the crowd that was building outside the British Museum. They had arisen at the crack of dawn to take the first train into London. Excitement was mounting as the throng anticipated the arrival of the Prince of Wales. He was to open the spectacular new exhibit of Greek sculpture.

At 9:25 Michel strolled up and stood at the back of the crowd. He determined that he could spend several hours touring the museum, then go to his appointment in the afternoon. His eyes swept over the group. It was a fine autumn morning – sun shining brightly and a little nip in the air. The wind stirred up the dry leaves and some small boys were throwing bread to the many pigeons.

Suddenly, his gaze fell upon something that wiped every other conscious thought from his brain. Could it really be? Yes, there was no mistake. Only a few yards away stood the young woman from the train. The one who had haunted him for the past week. Sometimes he thought he had only imagined her, but here she was in the flesh.

He remained rooted to the spot while people milled around him. She was a feast to his eyes – a delicate peaches-and-cream complexion and long blonde hair being whipped by the light breeze. Her dark blue ensemble was simple, but of good quality. She turned her head slightly and laughed at a remark from one of her companions.

Now for the first time Michel noticed that she was with a group of young ladies. Their leader appeared to be the authoritative woman in the ostrich feather hat. Her brunette companion from the train was also there. Michel began making his way toward them.

"Oh, Miss Glanzman! How much longer?" whined one of the girls. "These shoes are positively torturing my feet!"

"Who told you to wear those dreadful things anyway?" another girl asked.

Miss Glanzman frowned. "Did I not tell you to wear some sensible shoes? We will be doing a lot of walking today. Things should be getting under way any moment now."

The words were no sooner spoken than a splendid carriage drew up in front of the museum. The Prince of Wales alighted with his entourage.

"Step back! Clear the way!" barked one of the bobbies in an attempt at crowd control. "Make way for His Royal Highness!"

Unfortunately, Michel wound up on one side of the path cleared by the bobbies while his mystery woman was on the other. I have to meet her, he thought impatiently.

The Prince stepped up to the front door and spoke a few words to an official-looking man, then turned and made a short speech extolling the wonders of the ancient world. A ribbon was cut, a banner unfurled, and the British Museum was once again declared open to the public.

If his life had depended on it, Michel could not have recalled what the Prince's speech was about. He was more intent upon meeting his young woman. She was obviously still at school and it might be hard to have a word with her. The two chaperones seemed very protective of their charges.

The crowd surged forward and Miss Glanzman and Miss Roddy tried to keep their group together. A group of young men had been eyeing the students and Miss Glanzman wanted to nip any hanky-panky in the bud. She knew from personal experience that the British Museum was full of nooks and crannies where a man might try to take advantage of a young lady. She was not about to let that happen today.

Michel's attention was momentarily diverted when he saw the Prince talking to Stéphanie Rousseau and Gray Wellman. They seemed to be quite chummy. The Prince laid his hand on her arm and leaned down to whisper something in her ear. I must tell René about this, he thought. Perhaps Miss Rousseau was one of the Prince's many mistresses.

PART 18

Inspector Mark Vartan of Scotland Yard mingled with the other patrons in the British Museum. The large crowd at the re-opening was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he could appear like any other citizen, gawking at the exhibits. However, as the throng moved from one gallery to the next, he occasionally lost sight of his suspects.

He could not afford to get too close and have Wellman spot him. Not six months ago Vartan had questioned the businessman about the mysterious death of one of his chief rivals. Nothing could be pinned on Wellman, but doubts remained. Vartan knew, however, that with enough money practically anything could be covered up.

Vartan had a gut feeling that there was more to Wellman than met the eye. A lot more. In the two years since he had joined the Yard, his intuitions about most cases had not failed him.

Later, he would rendezvous with the other members of his team at the Half Moon Pub for a debriefing. Since Wellman had taken up with the Rousseau woman, another team was needed to keep surveillance on her, as well.

The Prince of Wales smiled tightly and nodded from time to time. The curator, a thin bird-like man with fluttering arms, was explaining the provenance and significance of the Greek sculptures.

Why anyone would want to look at these depictions of naked men was beyond the Prince. Naked women were more to his liking. He tried to show a polite interest in what the curator was saying, but found his mind wandering. His mother, the Queen, had demanded that he stay in town and perform these dreary and vexing royal duties. He would have preferred to be at his country house in Hampshire where he could ride and hunt and live with reckless abandon. There he was insulated from the loose tongues of the court and the scandalous stories filling the newspapers. The Express especially took delight in covering all his social outings with other women.

His wife, the Princess of Wales, was currently away in a distant eastern European country visiting her relations. "The country cousins" as the Prince derisively called them. She would be away for three months, at least. The Prince felt like rubbing his hands together in glee. While the Princess was wildly popular with the people, she was unfortunately frigid. But since the required heir had already been produced, the Prince felt his duty in that area was done.

He was bored with all his current lady friends and needed a new diversion. When he saw the enchanting Stéphanie Rousseau glide in on the arm of Gray Wellman, he had been incensed. The Prince had decided he wanted her after he heard her début at Covent Garden. Her heavenly voice, thick dark hair, and voluptuous body all appealed to him.

What makes him think he can keep a woman like that? thought the Prince irritably. I'll show him who the bigger man is here.

"Don't you think so, Your Highness?" the curator was asking.

"What's that?" The Prince realized he had no idea what the curator had just asked him. "Yes, yes, that's all well and good," he mumbled, then consulted his ornate gold pocket watch.

"You must excuse me now. I have another engagement shortly," the Prince said. "This has been most fascinating."

The little curator gushed, "It has been a great honour to have you open this exhibit, Your Highness! I do hope the Princess will visit us when she returns."

"I'm sure that she will." The Prince turned to leave. He had more enticing things to ponder than cold marble statues or his wife's social calendar.

Miss Glanzman's girls were finding it hard to maintain their lady-like composure when confronted with the life-size male nudes. There were wide-eyed looks and suppressed giggles behind gloved hands.

Even their chaperones were startled by the sheer nakedness of the statues. "Not exactly what I anticipated when we planned this trip," whispered Miss Roddy to Miss Glanzman.

"I quite agree," said Miss Glanzman.

Two women in front of the girls were all out of sorts. "Well, I never!" sniffed one of them. "It's a disgrace to show this kind of thing in public! Especially when children are allowed in here!"

"I could not have put it better myself, Fannie," replied the other one. Yet neither woman made any effort to move along.

"Honestly, they act like this is going to corrupt us," snorted Carla. "I think it's rather. . .enlightening!"

Nikita looked sideways at her friend and whispered, "Have you ever seen a naked man?"

When Carla hesitated, Nikita prompted, "Well, have you?"

"Only my cousin and he was six years old at the time. It was very hot and he did not want to wear any clothes. My aunt spanked him thoroughly for it."

Carla put her hands on her hips and looked at Nikita. "And what about you?"

Nikita blushed slightly. "Oh no, I've never seen one!" Then she sighed wistfully. "But I don't think any real man could be as perfect as these."

"Perhaps some personal research is needed here," said Carla.

"Bite your tongue!" replied Nikita in a truly shocked tone. "Miss Glanzman might overhear you!"

As they scanned the gallery, saw Miss Glanzman staring in the opposite direction. She had a strange look on her face. Nikita went over to her.

"Is anything wrong, Miss Glanzman?"

"Wrong? No, I thought I recognized someone from my village, but I'm not sure."

"That would be pleasant to run into an old friend here," offered Nikita.

"An old friend," repeated Miss Glanzman. "Yes, it would be nice."

PART 19 – Michel's POV

Michel had seen enough of inanimate objects for one day. Yes, the friezes and nudes were everything the newspapers had promised, but he was preoccupied with something decidedly more alive.

He turned a corner and there she was – the embodiment of all a woman should be. Her friends had moved on to another exhibit and she stood by herself, studying a particular relief. Except for an elderly couple hovering over a display case containing ancient coins, they were alone.

Michel hesitated for a moment. He was experiencing an entirely alien feeling – nervousness. His heart was pounding and he was temporarily at a loss for words. This had never happened before. At university he was always confident and outgoing; a leader among his peers.

He took in a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. Fate had smiled on him today and he must not dawdle. The woman in the ostrich feather hat could reappear at any moment and he would lose his window of opportunity.

Feeling his old confidence returning, Michel walked over and stood in front of the frieze with her. Close, but not too close. He detected a faint scent of roses as he pretended to be analyzing the carving. From his peripheral vision he could see that she was frowning in concentration. After about ten seconds, he asked in a low voice, "Do you like it?"

"Oh yes!" she replied enthusiastically. "But I believe this is the work of Praxiteles, not. . ." She turned her head to see who was addressing her and momentarily faltered. Michel noticed that her eyes seemed to widen as she stared back at him with the most amazing blue orbs he had ever seen.

Mon Dieu! She's even more incredible than I imagined.

"Uh, not Phidias, as the curator said."

Beautiful and intelligent.

One look had convinced Michel of the same thing. There was an almost identical panel in the Louvre. "On what do you base your opinion, Mademoiselle?"

She pulled her eyes back to the frieze. "From my extensive reading. You see, my uncle has a rather large library. The way the head is shaped is indicative of Praxiteles. Also, the hands. I used to discuss this quite a bit with my uncle."

Michel took the opportunity to study her profile. Her complexion was flawless and a slight flush crept into her cheeks as she was talking. Was it her passion for sculpture or was she a little nervous, too? Michel smiled at the thought. Small sapphire earrings dangled from her delicate earlobes. Her neck was long and graceful. He could imagine himself nuzzling that neck and inhaling the scent of her hair.

What am I thinking? I do not even know her name!

She looked back at him expectantly. With an effort, Michel remembered that they were discussing sculpture. His brain needed to stay focused even if his body had other ideas.

"Oui, I completely agree with you, Mademoiselle. In fact, there is a similar frieze in Paris at the Louvre that has been attributed to Praxiteles. You should see it for yourself. One could spend days and days there and never see everything."

"Oh, I would very much like to go to Paris one day! I adore painting and sculpture."

"Are you an art student, by chance?" Michel was consumed by the need to know everything about her.

She laughed and her whole face lit up. "Not even close. I like to draw, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at it."

Michel looked at her and said in all seriousness, "I am sure you do not give yourself enough credit. You obviously have an eye for detail." He gestured to the frieze. "Perhaps one day you will show me some of your drawings."

She blushed even more. "Perhaps," she said in a soft voice.

"Where are my manners? I have not even introduced myself. My name is Michel Samuelle."

She smiled shyly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Samuelle. My name is Nikita Jones-Wirth."

"Enchanté, Miss Jones-Wirth. I am in London to visit an old friend and also to do some business."

"How nice for you. My class came up this morning just to see the exhibit." Then she giggled. "We hope to do some shopping, as well."

Michel grinned. "Ah, shopping! My sister always enjoys shopping when she visits me in Paris. She drags me up one boulevard and down another while searching for exactly the right color of this or that."

"And what about your wife? Does she enjoy shopping?" asked Nikita frivolously.

Michel held her gaze for a long moment. "I am not married."

But I have just met my angel.

"Oh," she replied softly. Did she seem pleased by that information, or did I imagine it?

He continued to study her face, memorizing each detail. Any minute now her classmates would miss her and the chaperone would come looking for her. He desperately wanted to prolong this meeting and somehow arrange to see her again. On impulse he said, "Miss Jones-Wirth, would you have tea with me this afternoon? I have an appointment in the early afternoon, but should be free by four o'clock."

Various emotions flickered across her face. First, her eyebrows arched up in surprise, then she smiled, as if considering the invitation. Finally, a slight frown settled on her beautiful features. Michel knew she was thinking that no properly brought up young lady in her right mind would accept an invitation from a stranger. Especially in London where all manner of things could, and did, happen to the unwary.

Ah, youth! She has not yet learned to mask her feelings.

"Miss Jones-Wirth, you have my word, as a gentleman, that it is only tea in a public place. I have no ulterior motives. You may name the location, if that would reassure you." He looked hopefully at her and held his breath.

Surely she can hear my heart pounding.

"Oh no, I did not mean to imply that you were anything other than a gentleman!" She chewed her bottom lip for a moment as she pondered the situation. Then her face relaxed. "May I suggest Tattinger's? It's quite near Harrods."

Michel smiled and let out his breath. "Mais oui. Then I shall expect you at four o'clock at Tattinger's."

"Nikita! There you are! Hurry up, Miss Roddy's been looking for you."

Nikita glanced quickly in the direction of the urgent voice. It was Carla. Turning back to Michel she said, "I must go. I'll see you at four!" She gave him a brilliant smile and then hurried to catch up with her classmates.

Michel sighed. Four o'clock could not come soon enough.

PART 20 – Nikita's POV

Carla and the others had moved on into the adjacent gallery. Except for an elderly couple hovering over a display case containing ancient coins, Nikita was alone. She was glad for the temporary respite from her chattering friends. They were still giggling over the male nudes whenever Miss Glanzman wasn't glaring at them. She wanted a few more minutes to study this particular frieze.

The curator said that it was the work of Phidias, but Nikita was almost certain that he was wrong. She had read many books on Greek and Roman sculpture in Uncle George's library and often discussed the subject with him. She turned her head one way, then another trying to get different perspectives.

Then it came to her – the head and hands on the frieze. That was what was bothering her. Those features definitely indicated the work of Praxiteles. She wondered where that curator had gone. She would like to have a word with him about this.

Nikita was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not realize someone had walked up and was standing about an arm's length away from her. She detected a faint scent of masculine cologne. Perhaps this man was having the same doubts about the carving as she was. After about ten seconds, he asked in a low voice, "Do you like it?" It was a cultured, definitely French accent.

"Oh yes!" she replied enthusiastically. "But I believe this is the work of Praxiteles, not. . ." She turned her head to see to whom the elegant voice belonged. Her breath caught in her throat and she momentarily lost her train of thought.

Oh my! Where did he come from?

She stared into the depths of a pair of amazing grey-green eyes. For a split second she felt, rather than saw, those eyes do a quick appraisal of her from head to toe and back up to her face. It was not unlike the way Mick had looked at her and yet it was entirely different. For one thing, this man's eyes did not linger on her bosom, but returned to her face and held her gaze. Also, she did not feel repulsed by the action. Instead, there was a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Strange, but undeniably pleasant.

Somehow, Nikita found her voice again. "Uh, not Phidias, as the curator said."

He's like one of these statues come to life. Only with clothes!

Nikita had a vague impression of a dark, expensive suit and polished black boots. He wore no rings and his hair was an auburn color - long, curling, and somewhat tousled by the wind. He was clean-shaven with a strong jaw line. Nikita did not like the mutton-chop whiskers that so many of the men affected or the heavy beards. Altogether, he projected an air of quiet confidence and power and something else. . .

Sensuality. . . masculinity.

Nikita was finding it hard to concentrate. She was being drawn into his eyes; everything else was forgotten.

They are hypnotic! I could stand here all day staring at him. I hope my mouth is not hanging open.

The gentleman, for surely he was that, continued gazing directly at her. "On what do you base your opinion, Mademoiselle?"

He really seems interested in my opinion. Unlike Mick.

Almost reluctantly, she pulled her eyes back to the frieze. "From my extensive reading. You see, my uncle has a rather large library. The way the head is shaped is indicative of Praxiteles. Also, the hands. I used to discuss this quite a bit with my uncle."

Even as she was speaking, Nikita could feel his eyes studying her. How she managed to put words together to form coherent sentences, Nikita did not know. She felt herself blushing.

When did it become so warm in here? And why is he staring at me? Is my neck dirty?

She looked back at him expectantly. He seemed to be considering her statements.

"Oh, I would very much like to go to Paris one day! I adore painting and sculpture."

Especially if I could see it with you.

"Are you an art student, by chance?"

She laughed and her whole face lit up. "Not even close. I like to draw, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at it."

Nikita felt like she was being examined under a microscope. She blushed even more. "Perhaps," she said in a soft voice.

"Where are my manners? I have not even introduced myself. My name is Michel Samuelle."

Michel. . .what a lovely name!

She smiled shyly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Samuelle. My name is Nikita Jones-Wirth."

Nikita tried to guess his age. He was obviously older, but not that much older. He was so sophisticated and cosmopolitan. She thought of the gangly boys at home who might try to act grown-up and important when they were out hunting or carousing, but became tongue-tied and red-faced when trying at ask a girl to dance at a party. She was certain this gentleman was at ease in any situation.

"Enchanté, Miss Jones-Wirth. I am in London to visit an old friend and also to do some business."

His accent alone was enough to make Nikita feel a little unsteady on her feet. I am sure he could persuade me to do almost anything!

As soon as she had that thought, Nikita was shocked. What is happening to me? I do not even know this man.

"How nice for you. My class came up this morning just to see the exhibit." Then she giggled. "We hope to do some shopping, as well."

Shopping! Why did I have to bring that up? This man is not interested in a silly schoolgirl going shopping.

"And what about your wife? Does she enjoy shopping?" asked Nikita frivolously.

Wife?! Oh my goodness! I really put my foot in my mouth this time. That's certainly none of my business.

Much to her surprise, Michel held her gaze for a long moment. "I am not married."

Nikita was both perplexed and delighted by that information. But surely a handsome man like this has a fiancée back in Paris.

Now she was tongue-tied. "Oh," was all she managed to say.

He continued studying her face, the way an artist might size up a person before beginning to paint them. Suddenly he said, "Miss Jones-Wirth, would you have tea with me this afternoon? I have an appointment in the early afternoon, but should be free by four o'clock."

Nikita was completely taken aback. First, her eyebrows arched up in surprise, then she smiled. Finally, a slight frown settled on her face. Various emotions warred within her.

A total stranger has asked me to tea. A very handsome total stranger! Whatever would Aunt Adrian and Miss Glanzman say? They would say 'under no circumstances'! You do not know anything about him or his family and this was not a proper introduction. But what would Carla advise? She would say 'oh yes! Do it.' But if I accept, he might think me to be loose with no sense of propriety.

"Miss Jones-Wirth, you have my word, as a gentleman, that it is only tea in a public place. I have no ulterior motives. You may name the location if that would reassure you."

He actually looks like he will be disappointed if I decline. Decisions, decisions!

"Oh no, I did not mean to imply that you were anything other than a gentleman." One of Nikita's bad habits popped up here as she began to chew her bottom lip. This always happened when she was nervous or really concentrating on something. Now he will really think I am an immature schoolgirl.

She pondered the situation for a moment. Well, what would be the harm? After all, I would be in a public place. No one needs to know about this. What could happen? Oh, what is the name of that place?

She struggled to recall where she and Aunt Adrian and Penelope had had tea when they were shopping for Penelope's trousseau last year. Then her face relaxed. "May I suggest Tattinger's? It's quite near Harrods."

Michel smiled and let out his breath. "Mais oui. Then I will expect you at four o'clock at Tattinger's."

He seems genuinely pleased that I accepted!

A loud voice broke in on their conversation. "Nikita! There you are! Hurry up, Miss Roddy's been looking for you."

What have I just done? She felt breathless and excited, but she had no idea how she would extricate herself from Miss Glanzman's watchful eyes at four o'clock.

No doubt I will think of something!

PART 21

"Who was that?!" Carla's eyes nearly popped out of her head when Nikita caught up with her in the next gallery. She could see that Nikita's cheeks were unusually pink and she was somewhat flustered.

"Oh, uh. . .that was, uh, a Mr. Samuelle from Paris. He likes sculpture," she said breathlessly.

Nikita was trying to smooth her hair down even though not a hair was out of place. Carla studied her friend closely. "Does he now? Judging from the way he was looking at you, I would say he likes a lot more than sculpture!"

"He asked me to tea this afternoon," Nikita blurted out suddenly. Carla's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my! What did you say?"

"Come along, girls! We have a few more items to see and then Isabelita's aunt is expecting us for luncheon. We must not keep Lady Huntington waiting," said Miss Roddy in a brisk tone. She was herding them toward a collection of fierce-looking busts on pedestals. "Don't you find these simply charming?" she gushed. The girls murmured their doubtful agreement. In their minds, they were already sitting down to a delicious luncheon at Lady Huntington's elegant townhouse in Belgrave Square.

Carla pulled Nikita back slightly from the others. "So, what did you tell him? I hope you said 'yes' because he is stunning!" She put special emphasis on the last word.

"Imagine taking tea with a handsome Frenchman! And you even speak his language!" Carla's overactive imagination was already conjuring up endless romantic scenarios.

Nikita nodded. "I did say 'yes,' but I'm not sure why. What was I thinking? I don't even know this man!"

"Oh, but this is perfect! You can get to know him. Where are you meeting him?"

"At Tattinger's. I went there once before with Penelope and Aunt Adrian."

"Excellent choice," agreed Carla. "Small and intimate and around the corner from Harrods. Oooh, their lemon cream cake is divine, but somehow I don't think food will be uppermost in your mind!"

Miss Glanzman was now saying something at the front of the group. Carla and Nikita, however, heard not a word. They were too absorbed in their own conversation.

"What am I going to do about her?" Nikita nodded in Miss Glanzman's direction.

"Don't worry, I will cover for you. You might feel faint or develop an excruciating headache which requires total silence and rest!" Carla sighed and theatrically ran the back of her hand across her forehead, causing Nikita to snicker.

"You are wicked! I take it you've done this sort of thing before?"

Carla affected a theatrical pout. "Moi, wicked? Perhaps once or twice!" she added with a wink. "But I'm not the one running off for a secret rendezvous with a glamorous stranger!"

"It is not a rendezvous, as you put it. That sounds so. . .I don't know, dangerous. It is only tea in a public place," insisted Nikita, echoing Michel's exact words. "People meet everyday for tea and stimulating conversation. What's the harm in that?"

Carla remained unconvinced. "Well, it may start out as tea, but could turn into something more complicated," she said mysteriously.

Nikita drew herself up ramrod straight and said with an air of finality, "We will have tea, he will return to Paris, and that will be the end of it."

Carla rolled her eyes and smirked. "Oh please, Nikita! You are not fooling anyone. This man, whoever he is, has captured your fancy and that's not an easy thing to do. You may as well give yourself up to your fate!"

"If you ladies have finished, we will move on to the last part of the exhibit," said Miss Glanzman as she fixed Nikita and Carla with an icy glare.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Glanzman! We were just discussing foreign relations," said Carla smoothly. "It is a most fascinating subject, don't you agree?"

Nikita almost burst out laughing at Carla's quick cover-up. She could be counted on to talk her way out of most any situation!

Fate or no fate, I must see him one more time! thought Nikita.

PART 22

When Mark Vartan left his small village of Maple Wells two years ago to join Scotland Yard, he also left behind his one true love, Christina. He had been on the brink of asking for her hand in marriage, but after a series of misunderstandings and petty squabbles, he had second thoughts about it.

He still thought of her from time to time and wondered if she had achieved her goal of becoming a teacher. "You could teach in London as easily as in Maple Wells," he pointed out the last time he called on her. But her mind was already made up. He left the village the next morning with only his widowed mother and younger sister to see him off at the train station.

Now today, in the middle of his rather mundane surveillance of Wellman and Rousseau, he was suddenly jolted back to the past. There she was, leading a group of schoolgirls through the British Museum. Even though she was wearing an unusual hat, there was no doubt that it was his Christina.

He remembered with amusement when their class had come up to the museum many years ago. He had lured Christina to a nook where some hideous African masks where displayed and boldly kissed her! As his arm was going around her waist, she recoiled in horror and slapped him. "I am not that sort of girl!" she cried.

"What sort of girl? I only wanted to kiss you," he retorted in confusion. "I have been dreaming about doing it for weeks."

Needless to say, Inspector Vartan had learned a few things about women since that ill-fated encounter. For a terrifying split second, he thought that she had recognized him this morning. But he quickly turned the other way. What incredibly bad timing! He would liked to have talked to her, but he had to focus on his mission, especially since he was the team leader.

He turned into a side street and pushed his way into the Half Moon Pub, which was filling up with laborers and tradesmen. At a table near the back he spotted two members of his team, Lionel and Leona. They often posed as a married couple in undercover missions and indeed now they appeared to be arguing like an old married couple. They fell silent as Vartan pulled up a chair. The pub was sufficiently noisy so that there was no danger of them being overheard.

"Any sign of Weiss?" he asked.

"Not yet, but you never know what the Prince will decide to do. He may have gone to the Savoy for luncheon," replied Lionel.

"Or he may have lured Rousseau back to the palace for a tryst," added Leona.

"Not likely with Wellman hanging all over her," said Lionel. "Of course, we'll never know for sure since you insisted on coming here so early."

"We would never have gotten a table if we had followed them," huffed Leona.

Vartan rolled his eyes at their bickering. "Speaking of Rousseau, what progress have you made, Leona?"

"I begin work tomorrow as her personal maid. The other maid suddenly found a pressing need to return to Gloucester."

"And I have secured a position as Wellman's valet," said Lionel.

Vartan slowly nodded his head. "Excellent."

At that moment, an out of breath Weiss, the other member of Vartan's team, came through the door and made his way to their table. He sat down heavily and took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

Vartan signaled the barmaid to bring them something to drink. He waited until they all had a glass and had quenched their thirst. Everyone then looked to Weiss, awaiting his report.

"Well," he sighed. "After leaving the museum the Prince went to his tailor for a fitting, then on to Hatton Garden where he entered Archibald's Jewellers. He shelled out a wad of money for a magnificent diamond and ruby bracelet. Next, he went to the Savoy where he met some of his cronies. After luncheon, he retired to a private room for a game of billiards with those same cronies. He was still there when I left."

"Very well," said Vartan thoughtfully. "I'll inform Bristow of the arrangements this afternoon. We'll reconvene at the Yard in three days unless there's some new development."

Miss Glanzman, Miss Roddy, and their charges arrived at the spacious Belgrave Square townhouse of Lord and Lady Huntington. To Isabelita they were known as Uncle Winston, Member of Parliament, and Aunt Sophia, society hostess.

"Come in, come in!" urged Lady Huntington. "I have been so looking forward to your visit!" She smiled and ushered the girls into the drawing room. "My husband is in committee meetings this afternoon, but he will join us at dinner tonight. Anna will show you up to your rooms. I thought you might want to freshen up a bit. We will have luncheon in half an hour."

A few minutes later, Carla and Nikita collapsed on the beds in a fit of giggles. They kicked off their shoes and began scheming how Nikita would keep her assignation with the mysterious Frenchman.

In her room a couple of doors down the hall, Miss Glanzman was thinking about her afternoon appointments. Per Headmaster Wolfe's instructions, she had to interview the other two candidates as well as the Frenchman. After luncheon, she would walk the short distance to the London offices of The Sanibelle Foundation where the interviews would be held.

Something else kept intruding into her thoughts. Mark Vartan. She was positive it was him in the British Museum this morning. But what was he doing there? She didn't recall him having any particular interest in Greek sculpture when they were at school.

She remembered with embarrassing clarity that incident from long ago. If she were completely honest with herself, she had to admit that the kiss was not unpleasant. It was the fact that it had happened so suddenly that had unnerved her.

Had she been wrong to push him away? Where would she be now if she had not?