Elizabeth Boyle (60 page)

Lily’s performance even took Webb aback.

Where she found it, he didn’t know, but his little hoyden had more daring than he’d ever suspected.

Her mouth fell open at the woman’s introduction, and very prettily, she brought her hand up and touched the woman’s face. “
Tante
Roselie?
Vraiment
?” Tears sprang to Lily’s eyes. “Ma
chère Tante
Roselie! How kind you are to still remember me.”

Webb spied several women in the crowd drawing out lacy bits of handkerchief to wipe their own tears. The little scamp was charming the room with her pretty display.

“This is all my fault,” Roselie said, “that you do not know me. But your father insisted on sending you away, and then with all the … problems in the last few years, I have been a terrible godmother to you. Why, you are a young woman, and I have been deficient in seeing you brought up. But all that is forgotten now, and I shall make up for all our lost time.”

Now with the introductions well in hand,
Tante
Roselie threw her arm around Lily and began towing her down the hall. Lily glanced back at him.

Webb shrugged at her, trying to tell her this was all part of the deception—the unexpected.

He caught up, and fell in step with Lily and her new champion.

The woman turned to him. “And who might you presume to be?”

“
Tante
Roselie,” Lily said, “this is my betrothed, Monsieur Milne.”

Roselie shook her head. “A betrothed? Oh, my dear child, what have you done?”

“Is something wrong?” Lily asked.

The woman waved her hand. “No, it is nothing. Tonight I want to introduce you to everyone and show Paris what your wicked father has kept from us these many years.”

“An introduction, Madame Paville,” one of the men from behind them called out. “To your sister, is she not?”

The others laughed at Madame’s blush, but were quick to lean forward for the lady’s proud introduction of Mademoiselle Adelaide de Chevenoy, newly arrived from Martinique.

He had felt them circling like Russian wolves since they’d entered the palace. Now they grew bold … and hungry as they pressed forward throwing out a flurry of offers.

Webb noted that Mme. Paville ignored him, nor did anyone seem to care whom the man at Adelaide de Chevenoy’s side might be.

“Mademoiselle, a dance later, if I may,” said an older man wearing a stylish coat and bowing low over Lily’s hand.

This would-be suitor was hastily elbowed aside by a younger man, his ridiculously high collar rising nearly to the top of his head. “Leave off, Janvier, she is too young for you,” the man announced, a wicked grin flashing across his face. “I offer you a personal tour of Paris, Mademoiselle. All you must do is but ask, and I am your most grateful and willing servant.”

The sudden swell of attention sent Lily slightly off balance, and she clung a little tighter to Webb’s arm, glad for the steady support he offered.

“Gentlemen,” Webb said, the strength of his voice enough to quiet even the most attentive of her newfound admirers. “I would ask that you give my fiancée some air. She is newly arrived in Paris and not used to so much attention. I would hate for her to take ill and miss tonight’s entertainment.
N’est pas
?”

Lily fluttered her hand in front of her face and added to the drama of Webb’s announcement by wavering slightly, as if she were about to faint.

His warning worked, though not without some grumbling from the crowd.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Whatever is the matter with them?”

“You are what is the matter. Given the impression you’ve made already, we’ll be lucky if we get out of Paris alive.”

“Don’t you think I look like the de Chevenoy heiress?”

“Only too well,” he said, his voice lowered for only her to hear. “The jewels and the gown are bait enough to attract some, if not all, of Paris’s finest fortune hunters. If you looked like an ox rather than just danced like one, at least we’d be able to winnow out all but the most unscrupulous. As it is, Mademoiselle, you are too enchanting, too enticing, and all together too much of a temptation.” He brought her fingertips to his lips and kissed them, sending grumbles of displeasure throughout the male half of the crowd.

Lily thought Webb was teasing her at first.

Enchanting? Enticing? A temptation?

Then the heat of his lips seared through her gloves, teasing her fingers. She glanced into his hooded gaze, where desire and admiration blazed to life.

Webb found her tempting! Dizzy with the very notion, she barely heard
Tante
Roselie, as the woman stepped back to where they were standing.

“Oh, dear, you are the talk of the evening and you haven’t even entered the rooms yet! And once everyone finds out you went to the same school as our dear Josephine, you will be the toast of the city. Why you have the same regal bearing and refinement, though I think that is more a matter of your breeding than any gentle education the wife of the First Consul claims. I noticed it the moment you approached.” She fluttered her fan, her face a study of rapture. “You’ll be copied and aped before the evening is out.”

Lily half-smiled at the woman’s rush of words.

“Oh,” she said, “how successful it will make me to have such a connection to Josephine. My dear little goddaughter practically schoolmates with the most important woman in France.”

Schoolmates
? The word snapped Lily’s attention back to the danger at hand. Webb’s grip on her hand increased, and she felt as if he were willing her to be cautious. “Why would you think that,
Tante
Roselie? I’ve never met the First Consul’s wife.”

“Of course not,” Roselie said, “Our Josephine grew up in Martinique, but came to France several years before you arrived there. Surely you know of her family there? Oh, what was her name before she married that Beauharnais rascal?” The woman tapped her chin with her fan. “Oh, yes, I recall. De Tascher de la Pagerie. Her family called her Rose.” The lady leaned forward. “That is why I am so close to dear Josephine. We share the same name, as well as the time we spent together in the Carmelites Prison just before that wretched Robespierre lost his head. I must say, prison has such a way of binding people together.”

Lily hardly knew what to say, but Roselie didn’t seem to notice her loss of words, continuing on in her uniquely oblivious way.

“Well, what I have been trying to tell you is that Josephine attended the same convent school as you did in Fort Royal.
Les Dames du Providence
.” The woman laughed. “Oh that is quite amusing,
Les Dames du Providence
. And now it is providence that brings you two together.”

The tension Lily felt in Webb’s hold on her hand spread through her limbs like fire.

Why hadn’t anyone told her?

Surely of all the information Lord Dryden held in his packet of papers, the fact that she and Bonaparte’s wife had attended the same convent school might have merited mentioning.

Roselie turned back to the room before them as she announced, “I suppose you two will have much to talk about.”

“Oh, yes,” Lily said, forcing a smile to her lips, as she realized they were the next in line for announcement. “It should be a rather enlightening evening.”

R
oselie Paville clearly meant to take center stage with Lily’s presentation. And she proceeded with all the determination of a field marshall, using the growing curiosity about the newcomer at her side to part the crowds.

Much to Lily’s relief, the crush of guests prevented her from making Mme. Bonaparte’s acquaintance for almost an hour.

Not that Roselie seemed to mind, having made good use of the delay by dragging Lily from one clustered knot to another, introducing the de Chevenoy heiress as if she were newly arrived royalty.

Lily saw immediately the error in her decision to wear so much jewelry. As she remembered, her mother had worn an inordinate amount of gems while at court, so she hadn’t thought her own modest choices overly much.

In Napoleon’s nouveau clutch of friends and hangers-on, such obvious wealth was something to notice and something that inspired whispered speculation, and worse yet, envy.

“Oh, about time,” Roselie huffed. “Josephine is finally free. Come along, my dear, now is your moment of triumph.”

Or my complete and utter ruin
, Lily thought, as Roselie once again caught her by the arm and dragged her across the room.

Lily had caught glimpses of the first lady of France throughout the evening, and was struck by her ethereal grace, her calm, pleasant mannerisms, and the way she held herself with noble ease—attributes her guests would be well advised to copy, Lily decided.

Looking around wildly, Lily hoped to spy where Webb had shied himself off to, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

So much for that thread of fate Celeste was always jabbering on about. If she and Webb were bound, as the woman liked to predict, then why couldn’t Lily pull him to her side right this moment.

“Madame Bonaparte,” Roselie began, “you will have to excuse my terrible lapse in not presenting this dear girl earlier, but you have been so popular this evening that we have had to beat a pathway to your side. I hope you will find this young lady as enchanting as everyone else has, for she has been touched by the grace and serenity of your Martinique origins. I would like to introduce …”

Lily took one more frantic glance around the room.

It was no use, she realized. She’d have to brazen this out all on her own.

While Roselie continued on with her long-winded introduction about Adelaide’s time in the West Indies, Lily kept her gaze demurely focused on the floor, all the while taking one calming breath after another to still her beating heart.

At the appropriate moment, she dropped into a deep curtsy, one Sophia had taught her, and rose to take the outstretched hand of Josephine Bonaparte.

She glanced only a moment into the bright eyes of Napoleon’s wife and then found herself staring at the man at her side.

“
Enchanté
, Mademoiselle,” Mme. Bonaparte said. “May I introduce Monsieur D’Artiers, another newly arrived
émigré
to Paris.”

Lucien’s startled expression told Lily her brother hadn’t received Sophia’s note.

She had the presence of mind to hold out her hand to him. “How nice to meet you, monsieur. Have we met? Your name and face are terribly familiar.”

He took a step back and stared at her outstretched hand, at the diamonds, and finally at her face.

“Lily—” he began.

“Lily?” Roselie repeated, stepping back for a moment. “Why Monsieur D’Artiers, how droll of you to give our Mademoiselle such an enchanting nickname.” She slapped his shoulder with her closed fan. “Why she does look like a pale spring lily, and soon to be the fairest lily of Paris, if I don’t miss my mark.”

She shook her head at her brother so slightly she wondered if he even noticed through his confusion and outrage.

Lucien, don’t say another word.

Lily tried to breathe again, the stifling air of the room closing in around her. What the devil was she going to do?

“Oh, dear,” Josephine said, gazing over Lily’s shoulder. “It appears my husband is insulting more of my guests, and he’s stormed out before offering the appropriate apologies. I must make amends before the damage is too great. Madame Paville, I may require your assistance. I am sure Monsieur D’Artiers will act as an escort to your lovely friend while we smooth over the ruffled feelings across the room.” She turned to Lucien. “Do you mind, monsieur?”

“Not at all,” he said, wrapping Lily’s hand firmly into the curve of his arm.

As the two ladies left, Lucien immediately steered her into a corner out of earshot and as removed from the gathering as was possible without drawing too much untoward attention. She took the seat he offered and fluttered her lashes in feigned innocence, hoping to defuse the obvious questions about to explode from her eldest brother.

“Don’t even try to be coy with me,” he said. “Lily, what the devil are you doing here?”

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered back. “As far as you and everyone else in this room is concerned, I am Adelaide de Chevenoy.”

“Adelaide de Chevenoy? You’re stark raving mad is what you are.” He stood up and paced a few steps around her. “And I’m going to take you home immediately and put an end to this nonsense right here and now.”

Joseph Fouché, Napoleon’s Minister of Police, excused himself from the party the moment the note reached him, entering Bonaparte’s office a few minutes later.

“Did you see her?” the First Consul demanded. “Did you see how every man in the room fawned after her attentions?”

For a moment Fouché was at a loss as to which woman Bonaparte referred—his foolish, flirtatious wife or the de Chevenoy heiress. Instead of replying, he nodded his head knowing full well it was only a matter of time before the man’s explosive temper would lash out and reveal the true object of his displeasure.

“A fiancé! Who said she could become engaged? I will not have it. De Chevenoy was a valuable servant of the Republic and I will not have his daughter taken advantage of.” Bonaparte rose from his desk and began pacing about in front of the fireplace, his boots tromping across the carpet in precise measured steps.

Fouché nodded, placing his most placid and thoughtful expression on his face, as if he agreed with his master’s displeasure.

De Chevenoy a valuable servant of the Republic! Bah! Fouché had his own thoughts about the man, but not ones he was going to voice in front of Napoleon Bonaparte. Not until he had proof. When his leader turned and shot him a questioning look, he knew he needed to answer. “It does seem rather inconvenient. But I am sure with her so close to your Majesty’s affections, you will be able to redirect her future most advantageously.”

The perfect response, the Minister of Police thought, just the right amount of adulation. Many in the court surrounding Bonaparte had started using the title “Majesty” when addressing him, if only to curry favor or gain his goodwill.