Elizabeth Boyle (66 page)

“My dear, oh my dear,” Roselie exclaimed. “You have caused quite a stir. Yes indeed, a stir. I’ve had notes and calls about you practically since sunrise. We have such an interminable amount of things to do before your party this evening.”

“My party?” Lily asked.

“Well, of course,” Roselie said, as if there were any question of it. “A party in your honor. Madame Benoit insisted and was adamant that she host the first party to welcome you home. How convenient for her that she’d been planning a Christmas party for the last three weeks, ever since the First Consul declared holiday celebrations would be legal this year. Now she can add you as the guest of honor and the party will be called an unqualified success. Oh, I had to endure an hour of her weeping in my salon this morning all because she missed seeing your return last night.” A triumphant look crossed Roselie’s face as she leaned forward in her confidential, not-so-soft attempt at a whisper. “Madame Benoit has yet to be invited to the Tuileries, so she is just green with envy that she missed out. Just green. Though she claims she was held for nearly a year at the Abbaye, I truly doubt she ever had the honor of being arrested. Really, the Abbaye! Hardly fashionable, that old ruin. No one of consequence was held there. The truly fashionable, like myself and dear Josephine, resided at the Carmelite prison.”

Lily tried to ignore the woman’s unbelievable snobbery, which even went as far as a pecking order for the prisons of the Terror. “Yes, well, after my solicitor has given me the particulars of this hearing we can discuss whether or not I want a party in my honor.”

“Oh, we have no time for any of this legal nonsense,” Roselie said. “You have an appointment with the modiste in half an hour. Really, my dear, you must find some more demure gowns. The First Consul has made it quite clear that modest is the order of the day from here on out. Then, after the dressmaker’s, I promised Madame Benoit we would drop in.”

Lily held up her hand to stave off the rush. “Madame, that all sounds lovely, but Monsieur Milne and I have already made other plans for this afternoon.” She looked over at Webb and smiled at him, hoping he would jump in and save her from this disaster.

But Webb only shook his head. “My dear, I think you are mistaken. We made plans for tomorrow afternoon, not today.” He smiled at Roselie, who now beamed with delight. “Why it sounds like a wonderful day for you, especially with all the festivities to prepare for. I am sure Monsieur Troussebois can brief you quickly, but in the meantime I hear my carriage.”

Lily’s hands knotted into tight fists in her lap. Why was he leaving her to this woman’s clutches when they had so little time?

But Lily had no time to find out, for Webb made his bow to Roselie and nodded to Troussebois before heading toward the door. She followed him and whispered, “Where are you going?”

“Out to the country. You stay here in town, and I will find you later. Just continue, you’re doing rather well,” he said, his eyes glittering with amusement as he glanced over her shoulder toward where Roselie sat. Out loud he said, “This will be a lovely reward for you. A day with Madame Paville. I can’t think of a more fitting way to treat yourself after your hard work this morning.”

With that he bid his final farewells and made for the front door. She followed him and caught him by the elbow. “You had this planned all along! Leaving me here while you go out to the country house.”

“I’m going to see if I can get past the guards.”

She didn’t like the careless, devil-may-care twist of his grin. He’d get shot or, worse, killed. Then what would she do?

He kissed her quickly on the forehead, snatched his greatcoat from the coatrack, and dashed down the steps to the awaiting hackney. It was a plain carriage, but in good condition—a rarity in Paris.

As he ducked into the carriage, Lily’s mouth fell open.

There was another occupant in the carriage. A woman.

Roselie joined her on the steps.

Desperately Lily tried to get a better look, but Roselie caught her by the arm. “
Chérie
, don’t be so forward. You really need to be more restrained when it comes to your fiancé. Despite the fact that he is an American, I think even they have some regard for subtlety.”

With that Roselie anchored her hand around Lily’s wrist. Not that she thought for a minute she could shake the woman free, and even then Lily could hardly leap down the steps and demand to know what Webb was up to now.

Ask him if their night together had meant anything?

Insist he take her along to break into Henri’s country house.

Still, she thought, they were partners. She thought he needed her help.

But as the driver slapped the reins and sent the horses moving, she felt as if her heart were being trampled beneath their hooves.

Who was this mystery woman? Webb’s mistress?

How could he make love to her and then take his mistress along on the most dangerous part of their mission?

“Oh, don’t look so forlorn,” Roselie said, patting Lily’s shoulder. “You’ll see your young man this evening. I know what it is to be young and in love.”

“In love?” she said weakly.

“Why yes, my dear. It is written all over your face.”

Lily glanced away, hoping Roselie couldn’t see what else was in her breaking heart.

Perhaps, she realized, she wasn’t a very good spy after all.

She couldn’t even keep her own secrets.

J
oseph Fouché followed Bonaparte’s Mameluke bodyguard, Roustam, into the First Consul’s private office. Napoleon had brought the captured soldier back from Egypt, knowing the imported guards the Sultan employed were known for their fierce loyalty.

A loyalty now owed to Bonaparte.

“The Minister of Police,” Roustam announced.

Bonaparte didn’t look up; rather he waved his hand at Fouché to take a seat as he sorted through his afternoon dispatches, muttering to himself, Fouché completely forgotten in the man’s tireless desire to rule every aspect of France.

Finally, Joseph coughed ever so slightly to remind the First Consul of his presence.

Not one to linger over formalities, Bonaparte began a series of rapid-fire questions. “Ah, yes, Fouché. What have you found out about this de Chevenoy matter? Can you remove the heiress’s claim to her father’s money? Have you unearthed anything on this unwanted American? Well, man, what have you to say for your efforts?”

Joseph knew that beneath every question was the one Bonaparte didn’t ask—when could he take control of her money.

“I have had every available man on this matter,” Fouché said.

“And?”

“I have some interesting news to impart.” He paused allowing the anticipation to grow.

Bonaparte’s dark brows rose. “Joseph, you are an excellent minister, but you try my patience. The hearing for her citizenship and estate is tomorrow. You promised me you would uncover enough damaging information to get me what I want. Tell me what you found.”

Joseph knew that beyond the man’s grasping Corsican relatives, his harlot wife, and her bastard children few dared to push the First Consul to this point.

But Joseph did. Just to remind the man who he was. The Minister of Police with connections in every corner of France. He was Bonaparte’s eyes and ears, and he didn’t want the man to ever forget it.

“I have a witness who may shed some interesting light on this situation.”

At this, Bonaparte’s sharp greedy gaze narrowed. “A witness, you say? A good one?”

Joseph nodded.

Leaning across his desk, Bonaparte could hardly contain his excitement, greed lighting his blue-gray eyes. “What?”

“It pains me to say this, but our little heiress is an imposter. Adelaide de Chevenoy died at sea eight years ago.”

With Roselie leading the way, Lily reluctantly entered
Frascati
, the luxurious hall where the fashionable Parisians flocked for public dancing.

Their earlier visit to M. Leroy’s boutique on the
Rue de Richelieu
had taken longer than Roselie had planned, so Lily had yet to meet their hostess, the illustrious Mme. Benoit. Roselie had insisted that she purchase a thousand little gewgaws and other “necessities,” though Lily had been able to convince her that she did not need a pug puppy, though a much-aggrieved Roselie told her they were all the rage.

As they paused to allow a group of young men to pass by, Lily wondered how any more people could fit into the rooms as she took a deep breath to give the rowdy bunch the extra space they needed to squeeze past her and Roselie. She was starting to doubt the owner’s assurances that there was a table waiting for them anywhere in the crowded room.

Lily’s feet were already killing her from all their shopping, without adding dancing to the misery.

“Why is Madame Benoit’s party being held here?” she asked, surveying a crowd that ran the gamut of every level of French society. Brightly painted
merveilleuses
with their hair cropped into short curls, a style known mockingly as
á la guillotine
and only complete with a thin red ribbon tied around their bared necks. Bejeweled matrons parading with their pampered little dogs trailing behind them on green ties. And everywhere, military officers abounded, in their brightly colored uniforms, gilded epaulets, and shining medals.

“Because everyone holds their parties here,” Roselie said. She lowered her head. “No one will admit it, but hardly a soul in Paris has any furniture left, let alone the house to throw a decent party in. Most of the best homes are in ruins.” She shrugged the shocking truth off with a quick toss of her shoulders. “These public rooms are all the rage and one can entertain without the embarrassment of obvious poverty. And with everyone celebrating Christmas this year, there isn’t a soul in Paris who doesn’t want to join in. Besides, the dancing is better here because there is more room. You do adore dancing, don’t you?” Roselie hardly paused to catch her breath as she gossiped her way across the room.

A blowsy woman, her face so painted with rouge, Lily thought her taken with a fever, approached them. This, Lily could only assume, was Mme. Benoit.

“Oh, my dear Adelaide. I may call you Adelaide, mayn’t I?” she exclaimed, entwining her arm in Lily’s and pulling her away from Roselie’s patronage. The overwhelming stench of perfume assailed Lily and her eyes watered.

“Your mother was the dearest woman alive,” Mme. Benoit continued. “And while I never had the chance to meet her, I am sure we would have been fabulous friends.”

Lily glanced over at Roselie, whose gaze rolled skyward, her expression pained. She could almost hear the other woman’s droll voice extol the sentiment so clearly displayed on her face.

Vraiment. The people you have to associate with these days.

“Oh, I must call you Adelaide, but only if you call me Thérèse.”

“By all means,” Lily said to the woman whose fame and notoriety, she had learned through Roselie, were a result of Thérèse’s careful selection of lovers, having slept her way through most of the Directory and was now cutting a swath through Bonaparte’s generals.

Rumor had it before the Revolution she’d been a scullery maid. From the bawdy jest and bit of laughter she shared with a passerby who’d taken a moment to pause and pinch Mme. Benoit in her rounded behind, Lily thought “maid” was probably the kinder description of the woman’s former occupation.

“Where is that handsome American everyone is talking about?” Mme. Benoit asked, looking over their shoulders to the press of people still surging into the rooms.

“My betrothed?” Lily asked. “Why, I have no idea.”

Let him spend an evening wondering where I am for a change
, she thought, though in her heart she was actually quite worried. When Roselie had dropped her by the de Chevenoy house, Costard reported there had been no sign of M. Milne all day. Celeste had only clucked her tongue at Lily’s indignant report about another woman and told her young mistress that she had to be mistaken.

“You are bound to that man,” Celeste said, “and he to you. He is not with another woman. This foolish thinking will only bring you trouble.”

Celeste’s firm convictions didn’t alleviate Lily’s immediate concerns. Where was he? What if something had happened to him? All she could do for now was continue to play Adelaide and wait for him to return.

“So he isn’t here tonight? Oh, that is perfect,” their hostess was telling Roselie. “I was so worried there would be a scene.”

“A scene?” Roselie’s eyes brightened with a delighted glint. “Why ever would there be a scene about our Adelaide?”

The woman put her hands over her brightly rouged lips. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell and now I’ve ruined everything.”

Lily, fast becoming bored with the entire situation, started scanning the crowd as Roselie tried to pry the secret from their now-reluctant hostess. She found herself searching for … She cursed herself for even considering it—she was looking for Webb.

What if he did arrive, what would she say to him?

She’d never before taken a lover so what did one say? If she hadn’t been stuck in her role as innocent Adelaide, she had a feeling Mme. Benoit could have given her a wide range of advice on the subject.

Around her she suddenly heard excited murmurings, the flutter of fans, and a rising sense of anticipation. When she looked up, she saw what all the fuss was about.

She’d never seen a more handsome man in her life. He appeared to be a familiar sight to the
Frascati
crowd, that or his striking features and height garnered him the open admiration of every woman in the room.

He must have been at least half a head taller than Webb, if that was possible. Dressed to the height of fashion, his high collar and tightly cut jacket accented the broad muscles in his shoulders. His jet-black hair fell over his brow in a wild, wind-torn type of style. Every feature seemed carved of stone, from the deep cleft in his chin to his hawklike nose and chiseled jaw. His eyes, a magnetic blue, stared only at her, as if there wasn’t another woman in the room.

Lily felt herself transported, as if in some romantic novel, like those she and her sister used to read as girls. The only things missing were the white stallion beneath the man, and, at his side, a great broadsword glistening with deadly intent.