Stormfire (92 page)

A Distant
  
Music

Sean finished his last drawing. Inspecting each diagram of French armaments, he scribbled notes on them. He rolled the drawings, then inserted them into the barrels of dueling pistols.

He replaced the pistols in their case, swept his cloak over his shoulder, and pulled a hat low across his face. After dousing the lamp, he checked the windows overlooking the street. The man was there; no doubt, his confederate was in the rear courtyard as usual. They were
Fouché's
people, who had scared off the hotheads who skulked around.

Quickly, Culhane tied his boots around his neck. Like a ghost, he crept out of an alley window with the dueling case in a saddlebag over his shoulder. He hauled himself up to the roof via the knotted rope looped around the chimney; it had proved useful in evading Javet's friends. Now over the rooftops to a side street, then to Gil's where he stabled Mephisto. It would be a long ride to the
Sylvie
in Calais. She would deliver the drawings—ironically, to England.

A week later, after Sean's return to Paris, Napoleon reviewed his latest artillery designs. His gray eyes did not reflect his praise of them, however; and he was indifferent when Sean again declined his offer of a colonel's rank in the army. "Undoubtedly a wise decision," Napoleon observed coolly. "Good duelists make poor soldiers."

Sean waited, tension pricking his muscles.

Napoleon smiled faintly. "If I blamed you for these duels,
whatever
the cause, Monsieur Culhane, you'd be in prison; however, the loss of your skills would inconvenience me. Lieutenant Tourney, the current challenger, will publicly apologize to you at
Maison
Thais this evening; I hope you'll oblige him by being there to accept it graciously." He idly brushed his jaw with his pen. "In future, the instigating party will be arrested. I hope you understand my position?"

Sean left the office with a feeling of unease, not because of the admonition about dueling; but because Napoleon had scrutinized him as carefully as a gambler who suspected a cheat. Apparently Bonaparte had nothing incriminating or he would not have sent him to watch yet another secret test. But why the sudden scrutiny?

Only moments later, with a sickening sense of dread, he thought he knew the answer. From a salon down the hall, he heard music, the Mozart piece he had heard Catherine play at Shelan. She was playing it now; no one else had her special touch. He followed the sound, only to be stopped at the salon door by a guard. "Sorry, sir. These are private rooms."

"Is that Madame Amauri playing?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so." The guard's stern demeanor broke. "Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes, very."

As Sean turned
tó
leave, the door opened. Josephine stood there in champagne muslin. "Ah, I thought I recognized your voice, Monsieur Culhane," she murmured. "I wasn't certain, over the music. Won't you come in? Your sister-in-law is entertaining us with her wonderful virtuosity. I'm certain she will be upset if you don't stop to speak to her," she added as she perceived Sean's hesitancy.

"You're most gracious,
madame."
As he followed her into the room, he noticed the guard had resumed his usual stiff expression.

The lovely flow of music ended in a jarring note as Catherine looked up. Dismay crossed her features, then .blended quickly with the bright, gilding sunlight that streamed from the windows behind the piano as she rose to greet the Irishman.

For a moment, her gown of butter-tinted lace with a tiny ruffle edging its low neck and cap sleeves seemed part of the sunlight. A cream silk ruff with a single matching rosebud encircled her slender throat. "You startled me," she said lightly, as she silently cursed Josephine's malicious caprice. "But what a delightful surprise. Will you join us for cocoa? If you don't stay, we'll begin to gossip again. We know everyone's sins as well as our own." She extended her hand coolly, but as Sean brushed his lips against it, his mask as carefully placed as her own, she nearly lost her hard-won composure. The desire to touch his hair was so intense, she felt weak. How handsome he looked in his gray suit, how tall and fine. She drank him in with her eyes as they exchanged trivial remarks and Josephine introduced him to the other ladies, who quivered like roosting pigeons with a wolf in their midst until he lazily charmed them into a flurry of fascinated excitement.

How easy he finds it to make women bend to him, Catherine thought with a twinge of jealousy. As she watched him lounge on a flimsy chair and sip cocoa, which he detested, she felt a wave of tenderness for him and a less friendly wave of sheer green possessiveness.

Josephine shot her a sly glance. Catherine played idly with a wisp of her hair and gave the woman look for look. But when Sean took his leave half an hour later, she wilted as if the brightness of the morning had gone with him, and Josephine could not resist a dig. "Perhaps we should- invite Monsieur Culhane more often. He seems to make you come alive."

"He has that effect on every woman he meets," retorted Catherine sweetly. "You may wish to remove your rouge; you have quite a glow without it today."

In a black mood, Sean left the rocketry tests at the
Polytechnique.
The uneasiness he had felt during his interview with Napoleon had been radically intensified by the sight of Catherine so intimately connected with Josephine. Napoleon must see her regularly. How could any man help but want her when she seemed to grow lovelier with each passing day? Pregnancy made her
skin
bloom and her eyes glow with a hushed waiting that filled him with awe. The stark dismay on her face at his
visit
troubled him, but her accompanying flicker of guilt disturbed him even more: that and the tiny white rosebud
at
her neck. Visions of white roses with overpowering scents filled his mind, and the memory of Madame Amauri's remark that Catherine would not permit white roses in her bedroom.

Lieutenant Tourney's apology was brief and Culhane accepted it briefly, prolonging the young man's humiliation ho longer than necessary. Napoleon had sent several officers to accompany the lieutenant, which increased his embarrassment. From now on, few military men would be eager to challenge the Irishman at the cost of their commissions—and their pride—at the very least. Unfortunately, Napoleon's tactic also agitated resentment.

After that, Culhane was seen with several dancers and an actress or two, and Josephine shook her head. "Really, it's become chic to appear with your brother-in-law.
At
least for women of a certain reputation," she added archly as she picked up her teacup.

"Most celebrated women have a certain reputation, if one believes gossip," Catherine returned calmly, determined not to let Josephine detect her hurt, although she herself had asked Moora to take Sean under her wing.

"Yes, I daresay even you've attracted a few rumors."

"I wouldn't know. So far, no one's been rude enough to repeat them to my face." Catherine tasted her own tea. They were alone in the sunny little salon that adjoined Josephine's bedroom, where they had been taking turns reading Villon to each other.

"Your brother-in-law hasn't been so lucky," the Creole said as she poured more tea. "All sorts of people have been rude to him. After all, he's fought two duels in less than two months and been challenged to a third. Bonaparte is quite irritated."

Catherine went white. "He's been dueling?"

"You must be the only person in Paris who hasn't heard!

The first one was over the black mistress of one of your husband's cadre officers. The two fought only hours after your wedding."

Raoul
stared coldly at his wife as she glared at him, taut with fury. She had accosted him the moment he had returned from Longchamps. Now they were closeted alone and her immediate accusation annoyed him. "I'm not responsible for your pet ruffian's peccadilloes."

"Javet was one of your cadre officers," she said tightly. "Why didn't you intervene?"

"Culhane challenged. What did you expect me to do?" His eyes narrowed slyly. "If you heard about that fight, you must have heard about
Irenée,
too."

"Irenée?"

"Javet's African mistress and don't pretend you don't know. That's what eats at you, isn't it? Well, now he's taken up with an Indo-Chinese whore and her procuress. I've had the Indo-Chinese myself. Next to her, you're as exciting as a wet rag!"

"Don't decry my sodden appeal too much," she gritted. "It's all that links you to your next promotion."

Warily, he eyed her. "You wouldn't do anything stupid?"

"Of course not," she retorted coolly. "Whatever Sean does, I have my child to consider."

Raoul
felt a sweep of hope. Perhaps the Irishman could be dislodged from her heart after all. He poured two glasses of sherry, then held one out to her.

"No, thank you."

"Take it." He pressed the glass into her fingers. "It's good for you. Doctor's orders, remember?" He leaned against the mantel. "It's foolish for us to fight over Culhane. There are things you don't know about him."

"Really?" She ignored the wine.

"Do you know what happened to him in that prison?"

"He was tortured."

"Did you ever wonder why he wasn't tortured to death?"

"If you had seen him after they'd thrown him naked into the snow to die, you'd know how stupid that question is to me."

"Your precious lover became the sodomite of the prison guards to save his neck, only for once he underestimated his appeal. The colonel tired of him."

"Indeed?"

Raoul
should have been warned by her lack of surprise, but he attributed it to her control. "Apparently, Culhane cannot forget his prison experience. He still has women, of course, but one of his lovers is a young man, Gil Lachaise."