Claude Lachance? A history professor? What the heck happened to Lucien Beauchamp, cómte de Monteil de Saint-Quentin?

Here, she thought that as a New Yorker and no spring chicken, she was savvier than most.

But there was no question about it. She’d been had.

Of course, she’d been. Alone, in a strange city, feeling down about her lack of relationship status and ridiculously hopeful about rekindling some fairytale fantasy . . . what had she expected would happen? Lily had said as much. No, he was not an axe-murderer, but he was close. She’d had her one chance with Stéphane, and now fate was laughing at her, telling her that when it threw you good things, it was best not to throw them back.

Her dreams were circling the drain, ready to drop.

And maybe it was time to let them. To give up and go . . .

Home? She didn’t have a home. She didn’t have anything, really, to go back to. Not that she could anymore, anyway, with Inspector Clouseau breathing down her neck.

And since when did she give up? Never. She was the one who’d clawed her way up the corporate ladder at Addict. She was the one who’d earned the respect in that boardroom, not by giving up, but by showing them she knew her stuff, throwing her heart and soul into the business every single day, and facing hurdles head-on instead of running away from them.

So one thing was sure: if she wanted to salvage this trip—to turn it into the best year of her life instead of a raging dumpster fire—she needed to act.

She needed to stop sitting around, stuffing her face with crepes, and to get out there . . . and figure out what happened that night.

She studied the television screen, thinking of that poor unsuspecting wife. Then she took a giant bite of cherry-chocolate crepe and chewed without even taking the time to savor the flavor.

She was a woman on a mission now.

And Veronique Lachance was where Diana needed to start if she wanted to clear her name.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Interestingly enough, when Diana popped Claude Lachance into Google, she came up with only one address, a flat somewhere in the fifth arrondissement near the Sorbonne, where she decided he likely taught. When she looked further, she discovered that yes, that was where he did teach. History.

Of course. That’s why he knew all the stuff about Versailles, she thought as she shifted in the back of the cab on the way to the apartment. Maybe that was what he’d been doing—playing a part. She’d been too. They’d all been. That was why they’d been wearing costumes, after all.

But what on earth had happened to him after she left him?

It seemed hardly logical that he’d have fallen, she decided as she watched the streets of Paris pass by. The railing was a high, thick one, so he’d probably have only fallen if he’d climbed over for some reason. And he wasn’t drunk. Murder made more sense.