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  In the meantime, to the Duc's impatient inquiries about Isabelle and the detectives, Bourges had pointed out: "These things take time to check out. We're gathering information. Soon we'll have something substantial, but we need reliable witnesses to go to court."

  Almost a month had passed since the Duc had left Newport, and in that time he'd accepted no invitations, gone nowhere other than those places required to save his railroads and his property. Valentin had come often to visit; he'd also been helpful at the Bourse since his father sat on the board; he'd stayed for dinner occasionally and was a frequent companion at night over drinks.

  Fall had touched the leaves, the evenings were cooler, the last summer roses bloomed sporadically in the garden where the Duc and Daisy had lain in the sun short months ago. Etienne was waiting now to hear if Verlaine and Marveil had taken the bait, but he found himself less concerned with his revenge as the days passed and more concerned with seeing that Isabelle was disengaged from his life.

  His feelings were less pragmatic than emotional, based on his longing to have a child with Daisy. While Daisy declared the divorce irrelevant to her, he wished for his child to be legitimate, an heir to his titles as well as his fortune. He understood her rearing discounted the relevancy of nobility, but de Vecs had been a power in France too long, his family descended from the early kings, his family's courage and honor sustenance to France in its battles for supremacy and empire, their bloodlines represented in all the princely families of the Almanach de Gotha. He wished that heritage passed on to his children.

  He'd give Bourges two more weeks, he decided, in the hope some progress could be made in the divorce process; he'd delay his return to Daisy for that further period. His railroads were preserved, his income secure; only the divorce eluded him.

  That evening, after days of coaxing from Valentin, the Duc decided to accompany him and Adelaide to a showing of prints and paintings by a young artist who'd become a celebrity since his brilliant poster for France-Champagne had appeared on the streets of Paris in March. An exhibition of Pierre Bonnard's posters, music illustrations, and color lithographs were being shown at the gallery Le Bare de Boutteville. The critic Felix Fen-eon in the avant garde magazine Le Chat Noir had been quick to recognize the sensual edge implicit in the France-Champagne poster and welcomed the appearance of Bonnard's "serpentine and cruel eroticism" on the streets of Paris, voicing in symbolist terms what was perhaps the vast appeal of the poster to the lay public.

  "You can buy yourself some of Bonnard's sweet and demonically exuberant nudes," Valentin had said with a smile. "He's done some lithographs, I'm told, of women bathing."

  "Would Daisy like them, do you think?" Etienne asked, with a faint smile, "because I'm so reformed from my past I'm no longer inclined to buy for my pleasure alone."

  "The critical press has been arguing about Bonnard's increasing fascination with the 'woman question,' so even an independent female like Daisy might agree with his portrayals. And Senator Berger may appear in his guise as head of the morality police. He's been demonstrating against the exhibit in the Senate. Such a spectacle could be entertaining."

  "Rene's fervor against the feminist press and displays of sexuality is always amusing."

  "You'll come then."

  "I'll buy a print for Daisy."

  Senator Berger was indeed there in full flower as the upholder of the moral order of the Republic and the Duc was amused. He watched from a location near the doors, so he was close enough to distinguish the beads of sweat breaking out on Rene's forehead as the pompous guardian of France's morality denounced the relaxing of the censorship laws—cause for these displays of eroticism and sexuality. The "animal" in woman was considered just as dangerous to the established order as the anarchist and foreigner, in the Senator's mind, a theory Etienne found difficult to support. Personally, he'd always preferred a woman of nerves and caprices to sweet perfection.

  Like Daisy, he thought. A woman who not only inspired but aspired to dominate; a woman who invited one to participate in her sensual splendor. A woman who didn't see sexual identity as an issue—only women's status. He grinned, listening to Rene ex-postulate on the increasing difficulty in distinguishing good women from bad, how displays of provocative sexuality like Bonnard's posited a serious disruption to the social order, how these black-stockinged women contributed to the moral decay of French society. Daisy would have been livid; the Duc thought.

  His smile was erased from his face a moment later, however, as he caught sight of Isabelle, half concealed behind a large woman in fuchsia silk. He recognized the de Vec emerald beneath her egret headdress first, and when the woman in fuchsia leaned to one side to speak to a companion, Isabelle's face became visible.

  They hadn't spoken directly since her visit to his apartment, all the recent machinations over the railroad stocks done through intermediaries. And while she'd lost that particular fight, he'd come away with the feeling she hadn't seriously cared; she'd been willing to help his partners only because of the possibility they might succeed. With no crucial need for money, victory wasn't essential. Isabelle's adamance on the divorce was unchanged however; on that her stand was clear.

  A moment later, as the crowd began to disperse at the conclusion of the Senator's harangue, Isabelle's companion became visible too. A young seminary student stood at her side, his plain cassock obviously tailored by Kriegck. The Duc recognized Paris's premier tailor's characteristic shoulder seam. A wealthy young novitiate, Etienne mused, knowing the prices charged at the exclusive tailor's.

  Hadn't the young man been at the house on occasion? His face looked vaguely familiar. Maybe it was his pale blond hair, more distinctive as a characteristic than his youthful good looks.

  Strange. He'd never paid attention to the priests constantly in attendance on Isabelle. As if the prejudice in his dislike for his cousin-in-law the Archbishop, and the dogmatism in church doctrine, had obliterated the individuality from all the black-frocked guests of his wife.

  As he watched them from his sheltered position near the bunting-draped entrance hall, he observed an astonishing display. Isabelle slid her hand down the young priest's back to a point distinctly south of his waist. Her movement masqueraded in a step she took to better view a print, was gracefully discreet, but staggering to behold. Especially to the man who'd been the recipient of her disdain for his own sexuality.

  He must have been mistaken, he decided a moment later, too many years of conditioning causing him to doubt his eyes. And though he kept Isabelle in sight amidst the crush of viewers for sometime more, no further lapse in her conduct occurred.

  But back at his apartment later, in his nightly letter to Daisy, the Duc remarked on the transient glimpse.

  I stood gape-mouthed for a moment, he wrote Daisy, at the incredulous possibility. Also, he continued, writing in a swift easy rhythm, alluding to another less fantastic facet of sexuality, I bought you some prints of females bathing that are engaging assimilations of the Japanese style. They're of new and contemporary females, I'm sure you'll find to your taste… socially ambiguous women with wonderful black stockings.

  I'm giving myself two more weeks, he added at the end, his bold slashing words indicative of his frustration, and with or without progress on this divorce, I'll come to you in Montana. I'm alone and missing you with a sulky gloom predicated by Isabelle's stubborn intractability. How nice it would be if her religious fervor was based on principles more carnal than divine.

  I kiss you good-night and send a message of love by your night spirits. Etienne

  * * *

  That same evening in Hazard's study, Daisy, along with her father and brother, was reviewing the afternoon proceedings in court when she suddenly stopped talking in midsentence.

  "Are you ill?" Hazard asked, a thin beading of perspiration visible on Daisy's upper lip, her breathing suddenly shallow.

  "A little dizzy," she whispered.

  "Get your mother," Hazard tersely said to Trey, movin
g around his desk toward Daisy.

  Trey swiftly swung up out of his chair, his silver gaze taking in his sister's stricken look. "I'll get the doctor too."

  "No!" Daisy said in a rush of breath.

  "Just your mother." Hazard's dark eyes met his son's.

  "Oh, dear."

  And both men lunged for Daisy as she toppled from her chair. Catching her under her arms, they steadied her for a moment.

  "I have her," Hazard said, adjusting his grip so he could lift his daughter into his arms. "Fetch your mother. Bring her upstairs."

  "I never faint," Daisy whispered, as Hazard carried her from the room. "Only genteel ladies faint," she added, attempting a smile.

  "Maybe some of that de Vec aristocracy rubbed off on you," Hazard teased. "Although it's more likely you've been working too hard." They'd all spent late nights preparing for court, each day's cross-examination requiring new strategies, new assessments. The litigation, currently a priority, nevertheless had to be managed in addition to normal operating procedures at the mines. Everyone had been putting in long days.

  After Daisy was settled in bed, and sometime later the servants dismissed, after Blaze had gone downstairs to see to some herbal tea should Daisy need it later, Hazard went in to see his daughter. Standing at the door for a moment before speaking, he digested Blaze's information and momentarily debated his approach with Daisy. "Are you getting too old for a good-night kiss?" he asked, his voice quiet in the silent room.

  Daisy shook her head, feeling tremulous and uncertain and not very old at all. The smile she gave her father across the large chamber held a small hint of joy beneath its gravity. "I'm sorry you had to wait so long. Blaze insisted on feeding me something after I was put to bed and she said a roomful of people would upset my appetite."

  "Did you eat then?" Hazard approached the tester bed hung with natural linen embroidered in the beaded designs of their people.

  "Some apple tart and cream. The beef and vegetables didn't appeal to me."

  "Apples and cream are healthy."

  Hazard stood beside the bed, a worldly man, but hesitant in the presence of his daughter who guarded her personal feelings so closely. Bending, he kissed her gently on the forehead, brushing her hair lightly with his fingertips before he straightened once again.

  "Blaze told you?"

  He nodded. "Are you pleased?"

  Daisy nodded, too, then as her lips began to quiver, she held open her arms and whispered, "Papa."

  He went to her, gathering his daughter into his arms as he had so long ago when she'd come to him, frightened and alone after the death of her mother, and sitting on the side of the bed, he held her in his lap, his arms tight around her. "Everyone's happy for you," he softly said, stroking her back in soothing comfort, his voice tender and low.

  "I want Etienne here." She looked at her father, their identical eyes meeting in understanding.

  "Then he must be here," Hazard said. His words were simply put, his intentions as plain. He would see that the Duc de Vec left Paris.

  "I shouldn't ask for that, it's not grownup or mature, I should act more responsibly, he has—"

  "He has responsibilities to you too," Hazard interjected, "and while I'm the last person to subscribe to bourgeois principles," he added with a smile, "when your happiness if involved… he has responsibilities."

  "He wants the baby, Papa. Truly."

  "Then you'd better tell him. And he'll be here without a party going out for him."

  "He wouldn't come to Montana like that." Daisy knew her father was talking about a raiding party, a warrior's method of taking what he wanted whether it was horses or women or hostages.

  "Then we'll send a telegram." Hazard smiled, kissing his daughter on the bridge of her fine straight nose. "You see how adaptable I've become?" He might be adaptable, he thought, but he was a father first, and if the Duc de Vec didn't respond suitably, he'd go out himself and bring him back.

  "I often feel guilty, Papa, for asking him to give up so much. His family's been part of the fabric of France for a thousand years."

  "My uncle Ramsay's family traced their English title back to the Roman conquest of Britain, but he left that heritage behind and found happiness and a new life with our clan."

  Daisy had been very young when Ramsay died in the smallpox epidemic that took nearly half of the Absarokees, but her father spoke so often of his adopted English uncle who'd taught him English that she felt she remembered him too. "Do you think he ever regretted leaving?"

  "There's a certain commitment, Ramsay used to say, to one's personal happiness. I think he's right. I know he's right." And Hazard recalled his own struggle to reconcile his love for Blaze with his duty to his tribe. "There's a balance… we all seek, between personal happiness and some responsibility to the world we live in and if we're lucky, we find that parity."

  "I told Etienne I'd live part of the year in Paris."

  Hazard smiled. "He was hoping you would."

  "He's going to look into buying stock in some of the Western railroads."

  "I see a glowing future. But for now, Blaze tells me you mustn't work so hard. I have orders for no more late nights after the days in court. Agreed?"

  "I think I became faint because I forgot to eat today."

  "Perhaps. But you have to begin taking better care of yourself. We're all going to insist on that. McKinney or Carl Bluefox can take over your place in court. If you discuss strategy with them and continue to help with the legal research, they can take on the tedium of the hours in court. You'll have time to rest during the day, Blaze will continue talking to me, and the Duc de Vec's son or daughter will come into one of his numerous titles as a healthy young child."

  "Not likely… that."

  "What?"

  "The title."

  "Sorry, I forgot. His wife's such an elusive figure to me, she doesn't seem to exist."

  "Unfortunately… she very much does."

  He shrugged. "The phrasing was rhetorical, darling. Titles aren't a requisite for distinction. One's identity and power come from within, one's medicine and abilities, one's kon-ning is nurtured from personal strength and courage. Did you know my uncle Ramsay left a wife and family behind in Yorkshire?"

  She hadn't. Not that it would be the same or even relevant to her own problems, but she felt a sudden comfort in knowing the man her father had loved very much had overcome separation from his family. "Why?" she asked.

  "He didn't speak of it often, but apparently Ramsay and his wife had never felt a deep affection for each other. He told me once he hadn't intended to stay when he first came to our country with the Duke of Sutherland's party, who was traveling through to the Pacific Coast. He prayed to his God many days and nights before staying behind when the party went on."

  "Did he have children?"

  "Two sons."

  "How could he leave them?"

  "I don't know. It's something I could never do, but people do, Ramsay did. He signed his estate over to them when he decided to stay, keeping only his mother's inheritance for himself."

  Hazard stroked the backs of Daisy's hands as they lay in her lap. "People live their lives in a thousand different ways, darling. We only have control over our own."

  Daisy smiled, her father's words of tolerance familiar. He advocated acceptance and adaption as principles in a world often hostile to the way of life he'd been born into. "You're saying adapt."

  "An alternative to the less desirable options."

  "And accept?"

  Hazard grinned, this man of power and influence, and great personal courage. "Sometimes," he said.

  Her need for freedom and independence had been nurtured in the security her father had fought to maintain for her. "You always make me feel better. Good. Hopeful."

  "That's what I'm here for. Now sleep late tomorrow," he said, standing, settling her back into bed. Straightening the lace on the sheet under her chin, he pulled the blanket up and murmured good-night in the languag
e of their people. At the door, he paused. "In the morning, you can send Etienne a telegram. I'll bet you a new pony he's here in two weeks."

  It was a pleasant thought to contemplate while falling asleep, which was exactly what Hazard intended.

  * * *

  Walking through the in-conspicuous doorway identified only with gilt lettering—House of Worth—at 7 rue de la Paix, the Duc de Vec hoped he would be able to persuade the Monsieur Worths to be more forthcoming concerning Isabelle's escorts to their salons. Bourges's detectives had been able to document various occasions when Isabelle had come for fittings at the haute-couture establishment with various young priests in tow, but beyond agreeing the men had been present, no more information had been gleaned.

  "We need documentation and witnesses willing to testify if necessary," Bourges had said.

  So he was here today for that information.

  Greeted at the door by a sophisticated young man dressed in black glossy broadcloth, like an attache, with an English accent, pearl tiepin, and curled hair, the Duc was escorted up the crimson-carpeted staircase banked on each side with flowers, to the salons on the second floor where the furnishings were set off by carpets in imitation tiger skin.

  He walked through the familiar rooms, a favored customer over the years, an escort himself for a variety of his lovers. How many gowns had he purchased from the House of Worth as gifts for women who'd given him pleasure? In addition to his wife's wardrobe which he also paid for; enough, he hoped, to gain him the information he wanted. The first salon displayed only black and white silks—as if to clear the palate in this temple of temptation; next came the rainbow room, named for the lush, liquid silks in all colors from the looms of Lyon, complemented by the fanciful brocades from Italy that Worth favored. The third room, like a hothouse for orchids, contained the velvets and plushes in all their varieties, followed by the room displaying only robust woolens of England.