Stormfire (79 page)

She laughed. "Of course. I'm not so rash as to stand between an Irishman and his poteen, Colonel."

Dinner was extravagant considering the conditions. Although the wounded man ate little and was quickly done, the Frenchman toyed endlessly with his dessert. Finally, Culhane decided to let him off the hook. "Kit is aware of my former negotiations with your government, Colonel. We don't have to play games. What do you want to know?"

"Everything my superiors will want to know when we reach Paris," Amauri answered simply.

"What makes you think we want to go to Paris? Kit's an
aristo."

"She'll be safe; better than safe, she'll be welcomed. Napoleon is reconciling—quietly, of course—with the
ancien
régime.
He's been duly elected First Consul. France is an established republic. That status must be fully recognized by other legal governments which are, naturally, headed by aristocrats."

"So, the general intends to solidify his position before he makes his next jump."

"Jump?" warily countered the Frenchman. "Napoleon has proven he wants peace; it's the English who persist in war."

Culhane swirled his cognac. "What if he suddenly decides resident ex-Royalists are a threat again? The guillotine isn't all that rusty."

"Madame Culhane's father was of great assistance to France in the Italian campaign. The First Counsel never forgets such favors, though the viscount's services, forgive me,
madame,
are no longer needed. If Madame Culhane conducts herself as a loyal citizeness of France, she has nothing to fear. Should dissident Royalists approach her, she need only report them to
Fouché,
the minister of police. Many ex-aristocrats now serve in the highest ranks of the Grand
Armée;
I'm one myself." Amauri sipped his cognac. "The truth is,
mes amis,
you have no choice for the moment. The security precautions concerning the movements of military vessels are strict. You've drifted into a war. I'm afraid you must be resigned to spending at least a few weeks in Paris until things settle down. We expect a peace settlement with England soon. You'll be my personal guests. Paris is very gay in the winter season, especially now the army is not away on campaign." He looked quickly at Catherine. "But of course, you're in mourning . . . forgive me."

"There's, nothing to forgive,
Raoul,"
Catherine replied quietly. "You may wish to ask your questions now. Sean must rest in a few minutes."

Amauri looked inquiringly at the Irishman and Culhane shrugged. "I was caught by the English and interned in the marine prison at Liverpool. They wanted to know things I was disinclined to tell them."

"Yet you're alive."

Sean explained briefly, substituting an Irish agent for Catherine's part in his escape and leaving out Liam's treachery, saying only that his brother had died defending Shelan.

Amauri nodded. "The English have much to answer for. Perhaps France can become your foster state, Culhane. Napoleon needs men with your skills. After all, we have a common enemy. . . ."

Catherine laid a hand on Amauri's arm. "Could this discussion continue another time? Sean must rest."

"But of course. My apologies, Monsieur Culhane." Amauri stood up. "Catherine." He kissed her hand "My thanks for a most pleasant evening. I hope we'll have many more together, all three of us. You'll see Paris is more charming than ever . . ." He paused. "But even its allure will be dimmed by your loveliness, Countess."

Suddenly, the cabin became confining as the two men subtly squared off. Then the Frenchman was gone and Catherine silently drew Sean's covers higher.

His engaging charm and conversation undiminished by the bone-jarring rattle of the coach, Amauri smoothly solved the problem of accommodations on the outskirts of Paris. "You two are going to be the talk of the salons. Who could ask for a more intriguing entry into the romantic heart of Paris than to be found entwined in deshabille, adrift in a boat? My brother officers are gentlemen, but such a tidbit is too rich to escape discussion. I think it will be best if Catherine stays with my mother in the Faubourg St.
Germaine,
You, Sean, will join me in my bachelor quarters off the
Rue des Italiennes;
it's an ideal location to salve one's memories."

Catherine's hand found Culhane's under the cloak and lap robe that covered him. His pallor after the long overland journey from Calais worried her. "Sean musn't overdo,
Raoul.
You'll see to that, won't you?"

"I promise that for a while his only danger will be dying from boredom, but then,
món
ami"—
Amauri tapped Sean's knee—"you and I will make up for lost time."

"Not all of it,
Raoul."
Culhane's fingers tightened on Catherine's. "Never all of it."

The
baronne
herself came out of her Louis XIV mansion on the Faubourg to greet them. A tall, distinguished woman in her fifties with a military carriage and a wealth of silver hair, her only warmth was for her son, her graciousness to her uninvited guests impeccable but reserved. She ordered the Irishman taken upstairs to rest, insisting the following morning was soon enough to drive to the Rue
des Italiennes.
Dinner would be served at seven.

As a maid led her upstairs, Catherine noticed the furnishings of the rooms were reminiscent of the deposed Bourbon monarchy, which suggested the
baronne
did not completely share her son's enthusiasm for the Republic. Catherine's bedroom at the rear of the house overlooked a stone stable and rose garden on the wooded edge of the Luxembourg grounds. After a long, luxurious bath, she rose from the
tub,
toweled, and ignoring the maid's shocked look, dropped naked into the bed.

Late the next morning Catherine awoke, mildly embarrassed at missing dinner but glad to have been left alone. Luncheon was served in the sunroom. Although he did not feel up to it, Sean joined the luncheon party because he wanted to be near Catherine. In the slanting, leaf-broken light, his pallor was apparent, and Catherine distractedly answered questions and held up her end of the conversation politely but automatically. Sean said little, merely watched Amauri with deceptive laziness and commented on the excellence of the wines to his hostess. Amauri, however, seemed never to be at a loss for amusing anecdotes and gossip, his cinnamon eyes mischievous as he teased his mother about her dying palmettoes, which speared brown, shriveled fronds through the rich green foliage of the sunroom's exotic plants. "Napoleon won't appreciate such blighted reminders of his Egyptian campaign, Maman. It's a good thing he never calls. This place looks as if it were decorated by Louis Capet's ghost.
Mon Dieu,
you've reupholstered the library divans in lilies!"

"I see no point in bowing to every change in fashion, certainly not in Paris, of all places," his mother replied.

Catherine laughed, discovering the baronne's sangfroid had its own appeal. "Fortunately, I shall not need to be concerned with fashion. This dress your son bought me in Calais is the only one I own."

"Pas du tout,
my dear. You're invited to the
Tuileries
night after tomorrow.
Lé
Roy is coming to fit your ball dress this afternoon. He'll also take your measurements for a suitable wardrobe. Your social calendar will be quite full."

Catherine tried not to show her dismay, aware Napoleon's invitation was a summons. Sean said nothing. He stuck out the rest of the meal, then pleaded fatigue when Amauri suggested the two of them smoke in the library.

The
baronne
eyed the younger woman's face as her son assisted the Irishman from the room.

Later, from a window, Catherine watched Raoul's carriage drive away among the trees of the Faubourg. She and Sean had had no real chance to say good-by under the watchful eyes of the Amauris. They had dared not even touch. She felt stifled by loss, by a civility that denied any expression of loss, yet knew Sean must feel this piercing loneliness even more. What would become of him once irrevocable separation became daily reality? This beautiful whore of cities would hold few secrets for a man like Sean. And for Amauri; his all-too-willing guide.

Claw Couched in Velvet

The
Tuileries
palace was ablaze with light, its windows glowing like diamond solitaires through gardens which, denuded by winter and revolution, were discreetly cloaked by darkness. At every door, inside and out, guards stared implacably at the streaming, glittering crowds. Parisian
haut monde
thronged the rooms, the men in their blue tunics slashed with scarlet no less striking than their women, long and justly celebrated as the most elegant in the world. Above the murmuring crowds, chandeliers hung like mighty suns rising to a zenith of French glory yet unrealized.

The
baronne
d'Amauri listened idly to the orchestra tuning, its sound faint through the racket and the closed door of one of the small salons off the grand ballroom. "Well, it won't be long now," she commented. She was dressed in beige chiffon encrusted with crystals; a magnificent five-strand pearl collar with an emerald and diamond clip was clasped about her throat. "The second violinist invariably manages that horrid
F
screech just before Napoleon and Josephine make their entrance," she continued. "You'll be presented immediately after they're seated. Napoleon will open the ball with Josephine, of course, and you will partner the war minister, General Berthier. The First Consul himself has the second waltz. It's a significant honor. Don't be surprised if Josephine doesn't like you. She's on edge since the Foures affair. It would do well to be charming to Napoleon publicly and think what you like privately. He's not without charm when it suits him. He can be a great
help . . .
or hindrance to your future and that of Monsieur Culhane."