Read Online The Keeper of the Walls by Monique Raphel High - Free Book Online

countered.
    Maryse burst out laughing, and took her friend’s hands in her own. “Oh, Lily, Lily, you are so Victorian! You remind me of a maiden aunt I have, who turns beet red whenever somebody kisses her hand!”

    O n the second floor of 13, Rue d’Anjou, Bruisson et Fils had a small suite of offices. Claude’s office, down the hall from his father’s, was furnished in a way he didn’t approve of, but which he tolerated. Paul Bruisson, who had spent a fortune on his house, felt that at the office, one should exercise restraint. This went along with the advice he had given Claude in the selection of his car. The client should never feel that those who provided a service were richer than they, nor even as rich. If they did, they would begin to suspect that the wealth had come from plumping up their customers’ bills. So the offices of Bruisson et Fils were uniformly decorated with furniture from the Galeries Lafayette: nice, clean pieces, but not of luxurious design, nor of the top quality.
    Claude always wondered, when he was alone, if his father’s customers even gave the offices a second glance. But he kept these comments to himself. Now he heard the knock on the door, said: “Come in!” and waited. It was already dark outside and the offices had, to all intents and purposes, closed down. But he’d stayed behind to receive his last appointment.
    The man who came in was small, pointed, and sharp, with a beak nose and a receding hairline. He was uncomfortably middle-aged, and equally uncomfortable in his black suit. Claude didn’t rise, but he smiled. “Marguery, you’re never late.”
    â€œIn my business, that would be disastrous, monsieur.”
    â€œSit down,” Claude said, and when he had, raising his brows with expectancy, the young man cleared his throat. “I’m going to ask you to investigate two people. Both are foreigners, so it’s rather delicate, and of course more complicated. You’ll be well remunerated, so don’t worry about your expenses.”
    The other smiled, inclining his head. “I never worry about such things when I do a job for you, Monsieur Claude.”
    â€œThen listen. The first is a young man, like myself—an American. I believe he’s on assignment from his hometown paper. I want to know all there is to know: character, family, and, naturally, financial disposition. The other will be more difficult. He’s a Russian aristocrat who’s made quite a fortune here, branching out into a number of unrelated businesses. I know almost nothing about him, except that he’s reputed to be a man-about-town, and all the elegant hostesses love him at their parties.”
    â€œAnd who may these two men be?” Marguery asked softly. His intelligent brown eyes were fastened to Claude’s face.
    â€œMark MacDonald. I believe he rents a small apartment on the Left Bank, but I’m not sure where. He’s visited my mother once or twice, but I wouldn’t want to ask her for details. The other”—Claude pressed the palms of his hands together—“is Prince Mikhail Ivanovitch Brasilov. You can find him easily enough during the day, in his office on the Rue de Berri.”
    â€œBut of course I shan’t look for him there,” Marguery stated, smiling. Claude laughed. This was as close to a joke as Marguery had ever reached.
    â€œWhen do you need this information?”
    Claude sucked in his lips, pushed them out again. “As soon as possible,’ he answered.

    C laude knocked on the door to Claire’s boudoir, and when he heard her reply, he opened the door and let himself in. He’d hoped to find her alone, but Lily was there, sewing. For a split second his eyes rested on the delicacy of her long, tapered fingers, with their well-shaped pink nails. Then he smiled, took his mother’s hand, kissed her on the cheek. “Good evening,