Read Chapter 26: The Auction at Drouot

The Hôtel Drouot hummed with the particular fever of commerce disguised as culture. Auctioneers in dark wool called out bids in rapid French while porters hauled mahogany wardrobes and gilt-framed landscapes through the crowded galleries. Eleanor pressed through the crush of silk and cigar smoke, her gloved hand closed around the velvet pouch at her throat until she reached the jewelry department on the second floor.

A thin man with spectacles perched on a narrow nose examined her emerald necklace beneath a magnifying loupe. The stones caught the gaslight and threw green fire across his desk.

“Mademoiselle, this is exceptional work. Cartier, yes? The clasp is unmistakable.” He set the necklace down with reverent care. “We have a session on Thursday that would suit. I can guarantee a respectable floor, though the right buyers must be alerted in advance.”

“I need an appraisal today,” Eleanor said. “And a sale by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Tomorrow? That is not the way of Drouot, mademoiselle. The catalog is already printed. You would need—” He stopped, studying her face with the practiced assessment of a man who had learned to read desperation in the eyes of the wealthy. “There is a private auction tonight. Smaller. More discreet. But the commission is higher, and the buyers are not always... discriminating.”

“Then tonight it is.”

She signed the consignment forms with the name Eleanor Vance—a half-truth she had adopted since Paris, drawing on her mother’s maiden name. The auctioneer’s clerk wrapped the necklace in tissue and placed it in a locked drawer beneath the counter. Eleanor watched it disappear with a pang she refused to name. That necklace had been her mother’s, the last gift before the consumption took her. But sentiment was a luxury she could not afford while Isabelle rotted in Lucien Duret’s private prison.

She left the valuation office and descended into the main hall, where the afternoon’s auction of furniture was underway. James waited by the grand staircase, leaning against the banister with studied casualness. The tailor in Le Havre had done well by him, but the new coat could not hide the pallor beneath his skin or the way his weight favored his left side.

“Done?” he asked.

“Consigned for the evening session. Seven o’clock.” She glanced at the great clock above the entrance. “That gives us four hours to find Duret's property in Sèvres and prepare.”

James pushed off the banister with a wince he could not quite suppress. “I’ve found us a cabriolet and a driver who asks no questions. But I need to stop at the pharmacy on the rue de Rivoli first. The laudanum is running low.”

Eleanor’s stomach tightened. He had been dosing himself with increasing frequency since the stabbing, and the wound had begun to smell wrong beneath the bandages—an earthy, cloying sweetness that she recognized from a childhood fever that had nearly killed her brother. He needed a surgeon, not laudanum. But surgeons asked questions, and questions brought the earl’s men.

“We’ll find you a proper doctor after Isabelle,” she said, taking his arm. “One who doesn’t ask for papers.”

They were halfway to the door when a commotion erupted behind them. A porter crashed through the crowd, his face white, shouting in rapid French about a theft.

Eleanor turned. The man was pointing toward the jewelry department.

She was moving before she fully understood, shoving through the throng of startled patrons, James at her heels. The valuation office door hung open. The clerk with the spectacles stood over an overturned chair, his hands shaking as he gestured at the open drawer—empty, lined with crushed tissue paper.

“Gone,” he stammered. “She came in—a woman, said she was sent by Monsieur Vance to collect the necklace for a last-minute adjustment. I checked her authorization. It was in order. It was in order!”

Eleanor’s vision narrowed to a pinprick. “She? What woman? What did she look like?”

“Dark hair. Elegant. Dressed in gray.” The clerk’s eyes darted to Eleanor’s face, recognition dawning. “She had the same eyes as you, mademoiselle. I thought she was your sister.”

The air left Eleanor’s lungs. Not a sister. A cousin. Lady Margaret had been wired in London, but there was another Whitmore cousin in Paris—Charlotte, who had married a minor French baron two seasons ago and had been angling for an invitation to the Beaumont wedding. Charlotte, who had always resented Eleanor’s inheritance.

Or who had been paid to resent it.

“James.” She turned to find him already scanning the crowd, his jaw tight. “The earl’s network. They knew I would sell the necklace. They knew.”

“How?” His voice was low, controlled, but she saw the calculation behind his eyes. “No one knew we were coming to Drouot. We only decided this morning.”

Eleanor thought back through the morning. The café where they had taken breakfast, where she had spread the auction house brochures across the table while discussing their options. The waiter who had lingered too long. The street vendor who had bumped into her on the way to the auction house, apologizing profusely in French that slurred with a London accent.

“They’ve been watching us since the glove,” she said. “Since Sèvres. They’ve known every move we’ve made.”

James’s hand went to his side, where the wound burned beneath the bandage. “Then they know about the letter you opened. They know what your father confessed.”

Eleanor closed her eyes. The auction house roared around her—security guards converging, patrons murmuring, the clerk’s frantic apologies. But all she could hear was the whisper of the falcon-and-key crest, the glove that had fallen from Isabelle’s carriage as it raced away. They hadn’t been meant to find that glove. It had been left for them on purpose. A taunt, just as they had suspected. The earl’s network was not simply protecting its prisoner. It was playing with them.

She opened her eyes. “Split up.”

James blinked. “What?”

“The woman took the necklace minutes ago. She can’t be far. If she’s the earl’s agent, she’ll be moving toward one of two places—the Sèvres house to report, or the telegraph office to confirm my identity. You take the north exits, watch for a gray-clad woman. I’ll search the galleries. If she’s still inside, she’ll need to pass through the furniture hall to reach the service stairs.”

“Eleanor, you cannot confront her alone. If she has men—”

“She doesn’t. A theft like this needs speed, not force. One woman, one necklace.” Eleanor was already moving toward the main hall. “Find her, James. The necklace is our only collateral for Isabelle’s bail.”

She pushed through the crowd, scanning faces, scarves, hats. The auction for a set of Louis XVI chairs was in full swing, the auctioneer’s voice rising to a crescendo as two dealers battled over a marquetry commode. Eleanor’s eyes swept the edges of the room, where servants and couriers waited for their masters.

A flash of gray at the far door. A woman slipping through the service entrance, her dark hair tucked beneath a modest bonnet.

Eleanor broke into a run.

She reached the service door just as it swung shut and found herself in a narrow corridor lined with crates and packing materials. The woman was already at the far end, moving with practiced efficiency toward the delivery yard. Eleanor’s boots echoed on the stone floor.

“Charlotte.”

The woman froze. Slowly, she turned.

It was not Charlotte. It was a stranger with sharp cheekbones and cold eyes, and she was smiling.

“Miss Whitmore.” The woman’s accent was French, educated, silk-smooth. “How delightful. Your cousin sends her regards. But then, you must have known she betrayed you months ago. What did you think she was doing at the wedding preparations, gathering guest lists for the reception?”

Eleanor’s blood chilled. “You know her.”

“I know everyone who comes within the earl’s orbit.” The woman reached into her sleeve and produced the necklace, letting the emeralds swing in the dim light. “You are more predictable than he warned. Always running toward the people you love, never looking at the ones who circle behind you.” She dropped the necklace back into her sleeve. “If you want this back, come to Sèvres tonight. Alone. Bring the letter from your father, and the promissory note.”

“You’ll release Isabelle?”

“You’ll get what you deserve.” The woman stepped back through the service door. “The earl is waiting, Miss Whitmore. And he is not a patient man.”

The door slammed. Eleanor lunged for it, but the lock had already engaged—a deadbolt thrown from the other side. She pounded against the wood, her breath ragged, until a hand touched her shoulder.

James stood behind her, his face drawn with pain and something harder. “She’s gone. I saw her take the yard exit.”

“James, they have the necklace. They have the letter.” Eleanor’s voice cracked. “They have everything.”

He caught her hand and squeezed it. “No,” he said, his eyes flickering past her to the wall where a metal sign hung: *Entrée des Livraisons — Rue de la Grange Batelière*. “They don’t. I saw her when she slipped out. And I saw something else. She went east, toward the Seine.”

“Toward Sèvres?”

“Toward a boat.” James’s jaw tightened. “They’re moving Isabelle. Tonight. If we lose them now, we lose her forever.”