Tender the Storm (22 page)

"You're only four," pointed out Lady Emily with infuriating logic.

"Four is old, isn't it, Uncle Rolfe?" appealed Lady Sara to that sage gentleman.

"Very old," agreed Rolfe gravely. "But I wish you would tell me why you are squabbling about angels and witches."

Two querulous voices piped up at once. Rolfe held up one hand to silence them. "Aunt Zoë will explain it to me," he said, and looked a question at Zoë.

She cleared her throat. "It's just a game, you know, like . . . like war games."

"The forces of good against the forces of evil?"

"Something
like
that."

"And you taught the children this game?"

"Aunt Zoë knows all the rules," confided Lady Emily.

"And all the
thpells
," interjected Lady Sara, her little face brightening.

"Only good spells," explained Zoë quickly. "We don't know any bad spells, do we children?"

"Not yet," allowed Lady Emily, "but . . ." For that indiscretion, she earned a ferocious glower from her aunt which immediately bullied her into silence.

Rolfe passed a hand over his eyes. "I see," he said.
"Only good spells."

"It's quite harmless," said Zoë desperately.

Rolfe smiled. "I believe you, kitten." His look became thoughtful as he continued to gaze at her in silence.

The children became restive. "Are you going to play with us today, Aunt Zoë?"

"Oh no, I don't think-"

"Yes, why don't you?" said Rolfe abruptly. "There are a score of things on my desk which beg my attention. I'll see you at dinner." And before Zoë could protest her dismissal, he turned on his heel and strode off.

Later that night, when the house was quiet and everyone had gone to bed, Zoë stood hesitating with her hand on the key of the door which led to her husband's chamber. She had made up her mind to brave his anger, his scorn, his amusement — everything that kept him from her. She'd had time and enough to regret the misgivings which she'd betrayed when his rough passion had shocked her. He was Rolfe. She knew that he would never do anything to hurt her. And she was determined that she would not fail him, if only he would give her a second chance to prove that she was a woman in every sense of that word.

She pushed open the door and stood for a moment on the threshold, accustoming her eyes to the dark interior. With heart pounding painfully against her ribs, she moved towards the shadowy form of the great tester bed. It was empty. Nor had the covers been disturbed.

It was to be the following morning before she discovered that Rolfe had left for London immediately after dinner. He had taken leave of his mother. For Zoë, there was not one word of farewell.

Rolfe made town in good time for the final curtain at Covent Garden. He made his way to the Green Room and imbibed a glass of the obligatory champagne, all the while his eyes studying the scantily dressed opera dancers and who paraded themselves in the hopes of attaching a rich protector.

Since he had given Roberta Ashton her
conge
, no woman had been his mistress. There had been women in his bed, but very infrequently, and none since his marriage to Zoë. There had not been the time or inclination for amorous assignations.

A muscle clenched in his cheek as a picture of Zoë flashed into his mind. He did not think he would ever forget the fear which had shimmered in those wonderfully expressive eyes of hers when he had told her what he wanted from her. Never again, he promised himself, would he subject his little Zoë to his unbridled lust. When that day came when he must consummate the marriage, he would not come at her after months of deprivation, like a callow youth starved of a woman. He would, he must, take a mistress to slake his carnal appetite. Zoë would have his affections. She would be the mother of his children.

A girl caught his eye.
Rosamund.
She had shared his bed once before. She was not much older than Zoë, and had something of the look of his wife in her finely chiseled features and dark coloring. But that was where the resemblance to Zoë ended. Rosamund had a harlot's heart. She was all fire and passion. As he remembered, she had damn near worn
him
out with her insatiable demands and that was after he had paid her for her night's work. At that moment, she smiled an invitation at him. Rolfe sauntered over.

It was only later, when he had been serviced with more expertise than he'd ever met with in his life, that be began to see other glaring differences between Rosamund and Zoë. The woman talked without ceasing, and in nothing but trivialities. There were no comfortable silences, no quiet moments of reflection. She fidgeted and could seem to find no serenity in herself. Rolfe did not stay long after the pleasuring was done.

He'd offered Rosamund
carte blanche
and had been accepted. Unlike Zoë, this woman could never be a companion to him. He did not particularly care.
Rosamund's
role in his life would be a negligible one, but a necessary one for all that.

Zoë.
He couldn't stop thinking about her. She would make a wonderful wife and mother, he decided, and felt his lips quirking when he thought of how she had tamed his young nieces to her hand. Spells! Incorrigible girl! Now why couldn't she work her magic on his mother?

The dowager had taken Zoë in extreme dislike. The feeling was mutual, from all appearances. Zoë was unhappy at Rivard Abbey. She must wonder at his frequent absences. If it were possible, he would send for her. He toyed with the idea for only a moment or two. No. At the present moment, his work was too dangerous.

Before his return to France, Housard had occupied much of his time. The Frenchman was almost obsessive in the hunt for his quarry. No piece of information on the suspected members of
La Compagnie
was too trivial to pursue. Old reports must be recalled and thoroughly sifted. New émigrés must be thoroughly investigated. And each piece of the puzzle must be carefully set down until the whole began to take shape.

Their meticulous investigation was at last showing results. The printer had led them to
La Compagnie.
It turned out that
La Compagnie
was broken down into cells. So far, they had infiltrated only one of them. Housard's agent had passed on the name and identity of his section leader —Betrand.

Betrand was young to be a section leader, in
Rolfe's opinion. He was no more than twenty or so. He was as fanatical as they come. He was also more reckless than he ought to be. Betrand had broken — so their own agent had informed him —one of
La Compagnie s
cardinal rules. He had taken up with a young English girl, an actress whose identity they had yet to discover. It was something to watch. Soon, Betrand must lead them to the other cells, and perhaps even to
Le Patron
himself.

Whether or not they ran
Le Patron
to earth, they must move against
La Compagnie
soon. Already, three assassination attempts, all against prominent French Royalists, had been foiled. Their luck could not hold for much longer.

La Compagnie
was not the only matter to occupy Rolfe's attention. In the last number of weeks, he had inveigled Housard into garnering intelligence on Zoë's family. The brother and sister seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, and Zoë's parents had been moved to the Conciergerie. He could not bring himself to tell Zoë of these latest developments. The Conciergerie was impregnable and the last stop for those on their way to the scaffold.

Poor Zoë.
Oh God, he would make it all up to her. He would protect her from all harm. When it was all over, he would explain everything to her. In the meantime, it was better all round if she stayed at the Abbey. She might not be comfortable, but at least she was safe. And above all things, Rolfe wanted Zoë to be safe.

The events of 9
Thermidor
burst upon the world like an exploding sun. Robespierre and his cohorts, against every expectation, had been discredited on the floor of the Convention, and were summarily tried and executed. The jubilation in London in the French community could scarcely be contained. The reports from Paris following quickly upon one another raised hopes which a short time before would have been dismissed as mere wishful thinking. The Terror was at an end. Laws which enforced the tyranny were quickly
repealled
. A climate of idealism had been revived in France.

Rolfe had to search the newspaper for the report which was of most interest to him. He found what he was looking for on the second page. The Marquis
d'Arlene
, he read, had scarcely set foot on English soil when he was brutally murdered by persons unknown.

There was no doubt in Rolfe's mind that the French aristocrat was
La Compagnie's
latest victim. The whole thing had blown sky-high. It was inevitable when
d'Arlene
was an emissary of the Comte de Provence and had come from Verona for secret talks on a British-backed Royalist invasion of France. The

Prime Minister was furious. He had personally- vouchsafed the safety of the
comte's
agent.

The assassination could not have come at a worse time. Their surveillance of Betrand had paid off. He had led them to the other section heads of
La Compagnie,
who, in turn had led them to two other cells. It was only a matter of time before they knew the identity of
Le Patron.

The Prime Minister, however, could not be persuaded to hold off. He was insisting that they move against all known agents of
La Compagnie
at once. As Mr. Pitt irately told Rolfe, he must have something with which he might placate the second in line to the French throne. It could very well turn out that the Comte de Provence would be the next monarch of France. At the very least, should the young dauphin survive the rigors of his incarceration, his uncle would be Regent.

Rolfe must give the signal to move against
La Compagnie.
God, what a time for Housard to be in France! The Frenchman would not be pleased at this turn of events.
Le Patron
was his quarry. He would set little store in smashing the society if the leader evaded their net.