Tender the Storm (47 page)

Some minutes later, Rolfe entered the house. A coachman hauled in his valise and deposited it in the foyer. Hearing the sounds of conversation coming from the yellow
salle,
Rolfe entered unannounced, as if he were master of the house.

All conversation immediately died. Rolfe's eyes quickly scanned the occupants of the room. On one level of his mind, he noted their identities, on another level, his thoughts had taken flight.

He could not help comparing his own ancestral home with Zoë's house—what he had seen of it. He knew that the place had gone to ruin before Zoë had taken possession. He could scarcely believe that his young wife had it in her to
effect
an elegant background without sacrificing one iota to comfort. He remembered, then, the contretemps with his mother, when Zoë had tried to do as much at the Abbey. And in his colossal ignorance, he had taken his mother's part.

She was on her feet, moving towards him, hand extended like the gracious hostess she was. Rolfe smiled at the innocent picture she presented. He wasn't about to allow Zoë to treat him like a stranger.

"Monsieur Ronsard, how kind in you to call," she
said.

Rolfe accepted the outstretched hand, but only to get a grip on her. He pulled her close and dropped a kiss on her shocked lips. He heard her friend, Francoise, suck in her breath. Lagrange looked thoughtful. Varlet's eyes were flashing daggers, and Tresier's mouth hung open.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Rolfe laboriously limped to a chair where he slowly sank down.
"Cherie,"
he said, "would you be so kind as to order Samson to stow my gear?"

"But he is so old!" Jean Tresier could not have been more affronted if Zoë had taken up with a leper. He was staggered to think that such a proper lady would turn down his honorable proposal to become the convenient of a gentleman who was old enough to be her father.

"Not so old," corrected Varlet. "In point of fact, not
so
old as he would like us all to believe." He was in the process of taking snuff when his coach hit a pothole. Not a grain of snuff escaped his sure hand.

"Why should he pretend to be older?"

Varlet shut his snuffbox with a snap. "My dear Jean," he said, "obviously Monsieur Ronsard has something to hide."

Tresier slanted his companion a disbelieving look. "Like what, for instance?"

Varlet stared out the coach window. "That has yet to be divined. What do you know of him?"

"Very little," allowed Tresier. "His father was French, his mother was Swedish. He is a diplomat attached to the Swedish embassy. That's all I know.

Oh yes, there's talk that he is one of Germaine de Stael's lovers."

There was a silence as Valet considered the younger man's words. At length, he said, "He has some sort of hold over Zoë. That much is evident."

"Look, Paul
. .
Tresier hesitated and then pushed on with more confidence. "Why don't you forget about Zoë? There are plenty more fish in the sea. For whatever reason, she has made her choice. She wants this Ronsard fellow. There's scarcely a woman you can't have if you
— "

"I want
her
!,
broke in Varlet, his face a mask of fury,
her,
Zoë Devereux! Do I make myself clear?" He was breathing hard, as if he had just quit a fencing match.

Tresier averted his head, sickened by the spectacle of the older man. "Perfectly," he answered without expression. "What is it you wish me to do?"

In the Lagrange carriage, the conversation also revolved around the scene which had just taken place in Zoë's yellow
salle.

"I still can't believe it," said Francoise.

"Neither can
I
," agreed Lagrange. "But there it is. It's the way of our world. I always said that a woman on her own-"

"Yes, yes!" said Francoise testily. "I know what you said, Charles, and you may believe it doesn't help one whit to hear you say 'I told you so.' "

"Quite," said Lagrange, and wisely lapsed into silence.

"There's no accounting for it," said Francoise, thinking aloud, "unless . . ." She too drifted into silence.

"Yes?"

"Oh, I was just going to say that Zoë's English husband might easily be Ronsard's younger brother. I mentioned it to Zoë, once."

"Mentioned what?"

"The resemblance.
It's uncanny. Do you suppose that that's why Zoë is taken with the man —because he reminds her of the man she once loved?"

"Is there a resemblance? I hadn't noticed. I think you must be imagining things, Francoise."

On the point of arguing, Francoise thought better of it and asked instead, "What did you and Paul Varlet find to talk about?"

"What?
Oh, this and that."

"I cannot like that man," said Francoise with feeling.

"I'm sorry to hear you say so, my dear. I've invited him to call on us one evening next week. Still, this is business. There's no need for you to speak with him if you prefer not to."

"Business?
With Paul Varlet?
What sort of business?"

"Investments.
I was asking his advice on that little legacy I inherited from my late cousin Albert. There's no one better to
advise
on investments than Paul Varlet."

Francoise sniffed. In her own mind, she had earmarked Cousin Albert's legacy for a new house and the accouterments to go with it. For the rest of the drive, she gave herself up to contemplating the house on which she had her eye.

The report that Zoë Devereux had taken a lover spread like wildfire. Some few refused to accept it until they had incontrovertible proof. Zoë Devereux, they protested, was cast in the same mold as Juliette Recamier. There had never been as much as a whisper of scandal attached to either lady. Others were more cynical. The Devereux girl, they surmised, was only doing what everyone else was doing. She was bound to accept some man as either husband or protector sooner or later. Evidently, Ronsard, the Swedish diplomat, had pressed his claims more forcefully than any other of Zoë's circle of admirers. Speculation was rife, and all of Paris eagerly
awaited
the last Thursday in the month, when Zoë regularly held her salon.

Zoë was so ashamed that she could scarcely hold up her head. If it had been left to her, she would have cancelled all her engagements. As it was, Rolfe had forbidden her to show her face outside the house unless he accompanied her. At the opera, at the theatre, at Very's famous restaurant or strolling in the Tuileries gardens —they were seen everywhere together.

"Is it necessary to flaunt me as if I were a piece of prime horseflesh?" asked Zoë in a tormented voice. Only moments before, they had returned from a shopping expedition to the Rue St. Honore where Rolfe had made a great show of selecting gowns, bonnets, pelisses, and the sheerest, laciest
underthings
for his
chere
amie.
Zoë had carried the whole thing off with what she regarded as remarkable aplomb until they had entered a jeweler's shop. Two people were being waited on, a young couple who were choosing a ring. Zoë recognized the gentleman as one of her sister's admirers from the old days. And though the young man greeted her with every mark of civility and they spoke for a few moments on how they had fared in the interim, he made no move to introduce her to his companion. The cut touched Zoë to the quick.

His features impassive, Rolfe watched as Zoë moved restlessly about the room. In a short space of time, he had made it abundantly clear that Zoë Devereux was not without recourse if anyone should think to take advantage of her. Soon, very soon, the trap would be sprung on all known members of
La Compagnie
and he would be free of the constraints placed on him. Already, their escape route had been mapped out. But until such time as he had Zoë safely on English soil, he had no choice but to play the cards as they fell.

"You should thank me," he told her. "I've given you my protection with very little recompense." He was referring to the fact that since moving into the house he had not laid a finger on her. He'd wanted to, desperately. But Zoë's
bouts of weeping in the aftermath of their lovemaking was
a bitter rebuke to him. She was conscience-stricken. He felt like the
veriest
cad. Though sorely tempted, he could not impose his will on her. He could seduce her without half trying. But nothing he said afterwards had the power to console her. And to be near her —the sexual frustration was driving him mad.

"I don't understand what you hope to gain by all this," she said helplessly. "When your assignment here is over, you must return to England. Who is to protect me then?"

He answered her curtly. "I may be here for longer than you think."

"Then what?
Am I to be passed along to some other gentleman? Are you to be the first in a long succession of protectors?" That, of course, would never happen. Before long, she would be making a life for herself in the New World. But Rolfe puzzled her. He had not come to her chamber since that first week. There was something not quite right in their situation if she could only figure it out.

"Don't talk rot," he said explosively. And because he had no ready answers to allay her fears, he interjected, "Who was the young man in the jeweler's shop?"

Her eyes dropped away.
"One of my sister's former beaux."

"Beaux?"

A thought struck her, and she dimpled. "Claire was a heartbreaker. She was the most beautiful girl you could hope to meet. All the young men lost their hearts to Claire."

They had broached the subject of Zoë's family a time or two since Rolfe had taken up residence in St. Germain. In spite of Zoë's protests, Rolfe knew that she had never given up hope of finding her sister Claire. Housard had tracked Claire to Bordeaux at a time when a number of American ships had been in the harbor. It seemed possible that Claire had taken passage on one of those ships. If so, there had been more than enough time for the girl to make her whereabouts known. She had not done so. The task of finding her if she did not wish to be found was almost hopeless. Rolfe did not wish to raise false hopes in Zoë, but he had resolved to pursue the matter further once they returned to England.