Chapter Nine

S he loved his response. She hated it. Now, as they waited for Gaspard to send her the address of the scullery maid, Tate was everywhere Viv went! To parties, the theater, cafés, even her modiste appointments. Tate Cantrell lived like a genie in her mind with memories of his gallantry and his regard of her and her family—and she could not cast him out.

Tate also invited himself to her afternoon receptions. He was one of the dashing British envoys in Lord Ashley’s group. But there was also the added familiarity he presented. Somehow, someone had remembered that he had once lived with her family in the country. The news spread in the gossip sheets. A few ladies, enamored of his irresistible good looks, asked about him. Often. Was he of good stock? Rich? Well regarded in Britain?

Oui , he was all of that. And when he came and filled her small salon with his beguiling wit, Viv was filled with pride. She kept him at arm’s length. She wished him not too discerning, not too close, yet not too appealing to any other ladies.

But many weeks now into her theatrical engagement, she felt enough ease with the beau monde that she could pretend a few of them were her friends. She lured them with Charmaine’s airs, and the sham seemed easy. Too easy. The most important of these fraudulent friendships was to Cyprien Montagne. Tate did not attend all of those parties where Cyprien was, but when he did not, he awaited her in his hired carriage outside Montagne House. Still he would comment on Cyprien’s interest in her. Plus he looked tired.

“You do not sleep well, do you?” she asked him a few evenings later when he appeared after the theater at a musicale hosted by Julie Récamier. Tate wore stark black and white tonight. The somber color gave rich contrast to his sun-kissed hair and rich complexion, but did nothing for the dark circles around his eyes. She longed to kiss them closed and let him rest.

“I cannot rest when your life is at risk.” His magnificent jade eyes said he worried—and he craved her.

She longed to satisfy his hunger but did not trust her burgeoning desire for him. She need only look at him and want to unwind his cravat and slide off his frock coat. Imagining his long, muscular perfection naked on creamy sheets was becoming her most favorite fantasy.

She understood the anguish in his eyes and on his lips. It mirrored her own. She yearned to kiss him and make his heart light. But that would mean she’d give up a part of herself, and eventually, she’d disclose her plan and ruin it. Yet, growing so much closer to him by the day, she felt herself distancing herself from her hunger for vengeance.

Instead, tonight, she availed herself of the buffet, a cracker with foie gras here, a small serving of soufflé there.

He followed.

She knew he wanted news of the address for the scullery maid.

“I have not had word from Gaspard on the address we want.” If she had learned it, she would have tried more earnestly to find the apothecary in Place des Vosges. But she could not escape Tate’s devotion to tracking her every move, and she did not want him to piece together what she planned. He would not be proud of her. But then, of course, she was not proud of herself.

“I assumed that was true,” he said as he took a few offerings from the elaborate feast.

She picked up an empty flute and allowed a two-foot-tall cherub, carved in ice, to pour from his ice chalice a lemonade. She took a sip, noting how two ladies put their heads together to admire her dashing Englishman.

But not mine , is he?

“Don’t you have work to do of your own?”

He noted the two who looked his way and turned to give Viv a true smile of satisfaction. “I do try. Even here with the banker whom the first consul loves most, I find the man does not wish to speak with me as often.”

“A shame,” she said, and meant it.

“Truly, for money is a valuable asset, more delightful in peace than war. It is what I contribute to the friendship, but sadly, I cannot win if I am not permitted.”

Viv admired him, his expertise, his dedication, his devotion to his cause—even his trying to save her. But Bonaparte’s vehemence killed Tate’s ability to balance the pound with the franc. She put a hand to his sleeve. “Some good intentions are ruined by others.”

He covered her hand with his warm one. “Are yours?”

His perception riveted her. He knew her too well.

She’d allow him to learn more about her, too. “Yes. My good intention was to come to Paris and learn what happened to my sister. I have allowed all my past heartaches and grievances to rise to the fore. I learn I have little stomach for vengeance. I fear that makes me a coward.”

He came near, his lips by her ear. “I think that makes you wise.”

She cringed. “But I want answers. And with them, I still want blood. That is not wise, Tate. It’s evil.”

“Let’s look for the answers and deal with the evil after all else is known.”

*

Viv drove Tate quite insane. The business about the house, the maid, the infamous Bonnet-Rouge tribunal—it was all so sordid. What did she derive from remembering? Reliving it all?

He knew.

Her statement of retribution was the desire she bore to punish those responsible for that night they fled Paris. But what was her plan to implement it?

That sparked horror in him. She knew not what chaos she created.

So the morning three days later, when he followed her, and she went not to the corner market, nor to the house on rue du Four, but to the tawdry stalls under the quays of the Pont Neuf, he could not decide whether to be alarmed or relieved.

Her destination was the renowned two-century-old square on the right bank. Decreed by Henry the Fourth as the newest improvement to his capital city, the Place des Vosges was the square of residences and shops facing a green park. The houses were the same size and frontage, with similar materials and quality. The harmonious appearance of the houses, all of the same red brick and the same number and size of windows, had quickly become a favored location for the aristocracy. Inside, they could decorate as they wished. Outside, the buildings were not to be changed.

At first when Viv alighted from her hired carriage with her maid and a footman, Tate surmised she meant to visit a friend. As she walked along the colonnade, stopping here and there as if in thought, he realized she searched for something.

Whatever it was, she ducked into a small shop on the eastern wing and emerged ten or so minutes later. She talked to no one and carried no packages, only her little reticule. Her journey perplexed him.

“You worry, friend.” Kane cocked a brow at him as they sat facing each other in Kane’s library on rue Saint-Honoré the following afternoon.

“I do.” They had just finished an analysis of what to do about Ramsey, who had sent round a note and begged off their regular meeting today. Their mutual friend and colleague, so prompt, so dedicated, was in a coil performing his latest assignment. He had nothing new to report.

Kane explained that in January, he had assigned Ram to follow a French émigré who was sent to Paris by Scarlett. Ram’s duty was to track if the lady met with any officials in the government. Scarlett had questions about the trustworthiness of the woman. Ram had continued to trail the woman on her journeys throughout Paris, but he’d sent word this morning to Kane that for the next few days, he was incapable of tracking her. Might Tate substitute for him temporarily?

“Scarlett questions if the woman is a double agent?” Tate asked, and put his coffee cup and saucer on a near table.

“She does.”

He must not disappoint their spymaster. “I can do it.”

“Thank you. I have another, if by taking this on you will destroy your schedule.”

“I can do this for a few days.” He employed two men to follow Viv when he could not. That meant he could help Ram. “Who is the lady?”

Kane stood and took from his desk a large piece of parchment. “Here she is.”

The sketch was of pencil, hastily done but exquisitely precise. The subject was a lady, young, with pouting lips and sultry, dark eyes, and beneath an elaborate turban, she had a wealth of short golden curls. “Who is she?”

“Madame Albert duPre.”

“Lovely. I’ve never heard of her.”

“She is also Mrs. Clement McAllister.”

Tate grimaced. “I do not know of her, either.”

Kane gave a laugh. “Have you heard of a Baroness Bergheim?”

“Ha! Never.”

“The lady has money to burn, slips around Paris like fog, and has met with two of Bonaparte’s generals. In private. Follow her if you can. We’d love to learn where she lives.”

“I’ll do my best. Who did the sketch?”

“One of ours.”

Tate was appreciative. “That artist might be able to learn more than we can. Madame Turban, here, sat for long enough that our artist caught her in her glory.”

“Discover what you can. Report to me. Ram will take over again in a few days, he tells me. But I must now warn you our days here in Paris are numbered. Take care of those in your house. Wrap up your work.”

“That, sadly, is easy. These days, the atmosphere from the Tuileries spoils whatever I try to accomplish. I can hardly secure appointments with bankers. As for my other occupation, the lady is stubborn. Her engagement ends the last week in June. Seven more weeks.” Tate had told Kane about Viv’s recent odd activities.

Kane crossed one long leg over another and brushed a hand down his thigh. “A woman with a mystery is a lady who brings a man more trouble than a morning hangover. Your day never improves.”

Tate shifted in his chair. “I hope she returns home with me before my hangover gets worse.”

“She should go home to England like the rest of us.” Kane turned sour. “I will be frank. In case you suddenly must leave and need a friend or two, I have suggestions.”

Tate frowned. “Go on.”

“Augustine is the niece of Countess Nugent. I assume you have heard of her?”

Tate certainly had. “I met the countess briefly when I was invited a few weeks ago to Julie Recamier’s house.” The countess was a Society leader of the highest caliber.

“She is English,” Kane continued, “but has lived in Paris for many years. Leading a remarkable life, she was the old Duc d’Orleans’s mistress. Both the countess and her adopted daughter, Madame St. Antoine, were in Carmes Prison together with Josephine Bonaparte.”

“That, I did not know.”

“The countess and madame owe their affection for Josephine to that terrible period. Inside, the women rallied around each other to survive.” Kane winced. “Madame St. Antoine is the lady whom you met in our box the first night we attended the theater together.”

“I remember her. Lovely woman. I also read her dossier before I came to Paris. Scarlett gave it to me. So I know she is English by birth, the adopted child of Countess Nugent, and the widow of a French vintner.”

“Madame St. Antoine also left Paris last spring fearing for her life when the deputy chief of police was after her.”

Tate had met that man at Montagne’s house. “Fouché’s assistant? What is his name? Vaillancourt. René Vaillancourt. Yes, I have not met him, but I hear he is a dignified creature. Dapper. Evil sort, I hear. Which proves that looks deceive, eh?”

“Indeed, they do. After madame disappeared, I assigned Ramsey to find her and protect her. He did. Madame became Ram’s very, very close friend. But they are now parted. She is here in Paris, in her own house.”

That explained Ram’s mercurial moods. “Does that mean Vaillancourt has no desire for her any longer?”

“Oh, but he does. Vaillancourt has made threats. I do not know them all. Neither does Ram.”

“No wonder he’s at wits’ end.”

“Exactly,” Kane went on. “But since she has returned to Paris, Madame St. Antoine has remained out of Society. I do not ask why. But I do want you to know that she has great influence. She, like my wife, is also friends with Josephine, Bonaparte’s family, and many in Society, including Julie Recamier.”

“Surprising.”

“Indeed.” Tate stared at him and said at last, “Most especially because madame works with us.”

Tate sucked in a breath. But this revelation of Madame St. Antoine’s role was unusual for Kane unless he had another reason. “So you tell me all of this so that I know about madame in case I need friends or…need to help a friend.”

“Yes. Countess Nugent is a mystery to me. But she is bold, honest. Madame St. Antoine, I expect, will remain in Paris. If you need help, either lady can be useful. My majordom falls into that category as well.”

Corsini? The Italian with the sunny disposition who kept order in Kane’s household like a wizard? “I see. Now all this is in preparation for your anticipated departure from Paris just in case things go foul?”

“If this treaty dissolves before our eyes, you know we British will be persona non grata at the bat of a lash.”

“I will be ready.” I must ensure Viv is ready too. “Passports. An escape route. Money.”

*

The first of May dawned bright and warm. Viv was more open in her conversations with Tate, but she put her mind to her plans and how she might change them. She had many problems, most of them ones of her own doing—or lack of it. Her promises to Charmaine were too many. Her sister had once been a harpy, but she had loved Diane and was outraged at her loss. But could Viv poison someone? She doubted it, had always doubted it. Perhaps that was why her failure to get arsenic at the apothecary shop had irritated her, but not destroyed her. She let that go and looked on the highwaymen’s theft of her reticule with the little vials inside as a good sign. Still, she forced herself to buy two new ones.

Meanwhile, Monsieur Lamond failed to get a better address for the apothecary. She let that drop. All he wished to do was attempt to get her to extend her run. Ticket sales were excellent. The house was sold out. But the truth was she did want to leave France. The memories Paris engendered had only renewed her sadness over the loss of her family and increased her desire to go home. Home to England. To Norfolk. To peace…and perhaps more with Tate.

She could be his mistress, his tenant who visited the manor house. That would make her similar to her mother. A woman who loved a man despite all Society said against it. But that was not in her nature either.

She shook that off and returned to her own line of thinking on returning to England. If she went back without results, Charmaine would be disappointed in her. Or rather, her sister would be furious with her.

Though Viv was proud she had no desire to find another shop where she’d acquire arsenic, she still owned the little pistol that her groom Fortin had purchased for her. She kept it in her reticule at all times. Or when they rode in the mornings, she tucked it in a small saddlebag. She had always been comfortable with a gun. A woman who knew how to use one could do much damage.

Her remaining two issues were the lack of an address for the scullery maid and her need to meet a Jarre banker.

One asset she had was that Cyprien Montagne pursued her. At least twice a week, he appeared at the same parties as she. The man followed her like a dog. She would never give in to him, but she had to keep up appearances to be invited to his own soirées.

She had learned from Cyprien that of the two administrators of the Jarre bank, the one who controlled it was his distant cousin, Sylvain Jarre. That man, a few said when asked, was now approximately thirty-three years old. He was therefore the age of one of the men she thought the scullery maid might have seduced.

Rumor said Sylvain was currently away visiting the century-old Vauban French forts along the Atlantic coast. He’d been there, Society gossips speculated, to assess if he would finance Bonaparte’s newest venture. That, she presumed, was fortifying the coastline in preparation either for an attack on Britain or repelling one from Britain.

“It amounts to war, doesn’t it?” she said to Tate when he rode with her one morning.

“That becomes more and more likely,” he said with a bitter tone.

She looked back to see Fortin was out of earshot, and gave the man a lift of her chin that meant he should remain far back. “I understand the first consul will soon sell much land in North America to the new United States.”

“He will,” Tate said with a grimace. “Tomorrow or the next day.”

“So the Americans will own most of the continent?”

“They will,” he said. “Millions of dollars they agreed to pay for it, too.”

“Interesting. Which means the first consul will not only become richer, but by selling it, he proclaims that he does not wish ever to fight over land so far away.”

Tate sighed. “True.”

“Only land close to home.”

He gave a sad laugh. “If you ever get tired of portraying your sister, you could work with me.”

She eyed him, and for a moment, she wanted him—and to surrender. “Oh, Tate, I am tired of this.”

He blinked at her frank admission. “Come home with me,” he said in so mellow a tone she could hear her own heartbeat.

“I wish I could,” she said quickly, and looked ahead.

“You can, sweetheart.”

She shook her head. “She’ll be angry.”

“Charmaine should come do her own dirty work.”

“She can’t.”

“You mean she won’t.”

“No. She’s ill.”

He stopped his horse.

Viv had to pause in order to look back at him. There was no reason to keep the truth from him. “She’s dying, Tate. She could not come here.”

“I see,” he said, blinking at the revelation. Then, at once, he was angry. “She sent you here in her stead to carry out her wishes to learn the truth—or to exact revenge?”

“ My wish is to learn the truth.”

He sent her a rueful glance. “Viv, I cannot stress this enough. Things grow worse with Bonaparte. We have few hopes this peace will last. When it collapses, we must run for the coast and the channel. Come away with me. Pack now. End this escapade.”

“No! I cannot. I may have given up on hurting others. But I must know who hurt Diane!”

“ Ma cherie , whatever…” But his words were lost to her because she trotted away.

That afternoon, she sent him a note via her footman. In it, she told him not to join her any longer in the mornings. She gave him no explanations.

But she knew the reasons. She was too sensitive to her own failures—and too drawn to him. To everything about him, in fact. His patience. His devotion.

She had to do without it all. If she succeeded in her plans—no, when she succeeded—she trod on dangerous territory. Old members of the commune were still in power. Perhaps even those in the Bonnet-Rouge tribunal or the police office in the Croix-Rouge street crossing. She would not have Tate near her. Once her work was done, he would be tarnished for paying attention to her. She would not ruin him—or have him die because of her.

The next day crawled past. And the next.

Where was Gaspard with the maid’s address?

She sent Alice to the theater, declaring she was ill and could not perform that night. Her absence would allow the understudy to take the role. Viv had better things to do than portray a young girl who died for love. She would die soon for revenge. Alone.

She shivered.

That afternoon, when the kitchen staff sat in their kitchen for their early dinner, she changed into a pauper’s costume she’d taken from the wardrobe at the theater. Out the back door she went. Coins in her pockets, she walked toward Pont Neuf looking for someone who could fill her little glass bottle for her étui with arsenic.

*

The next two nights, Viv saw Tate at every party. She went now even after a performance. The more she was out and about, the more she became acquainted with those she sought. But acting five nights a week took the starch out of her. The next morning, she was always limp, depleted. Anxious. And she needed to rest, restore her confidence in her ability to do this. Lying took such energy. She had never known how Charmaine had done it year in and out. Even reveled in it.

Viv’s consolation at each event, however much she would never tell him, was seeing Tate. He was accepted by those in French Society as one who had lived in France before the chaos of the revolution. He had fine manners, spoke perfect French, and dressed like the wealthy aristocrat he was. A member of the diplomatic entourage of the Earl of Ashley, Tate was celebrated as an informal envoy of importance. He continued to cultivate bankers, and so it behooved her to join his little circles of conversation. Now and then, she heard a snippet of how well the Earl of Appleby did attempting to negotiate the impossible transfer of francs to pounds. If he did not speak of money, he spoke of fashion and Sèvres china, the cost of a fine pink and jade Aubusson and bolts of Lyon silks. To every widow and debutante, he was a dashing bachelor, a widower with money, land, and panache. He might be English, but with all those other qualities, he was a young girl’s dream—and an older one’s desire.

Once mine.

Viv admired him that evening at Monsieur Lenoir’s. In a sumptuous embroidered midnight-blue frock coat that complemented a waistcoat of gold, he attracted the attention of most of the women. To them, he returned polite regard. Viv set her teeth, feeling the nip of jealousy, the bite of need. Especially when she found him focusing on her, time and again, with those marvelous jewel-toned eyes of his. His look was an embrace she ached to wrap around her.

“You must not look at me so often,” she told him too gaily in passing.

“I warm you,” he crooned. “How reassuring.”

“Stop.” She could not help the hot flutter in her stomach.

“Never.”

She had to act like Charmaine, so batted her lashes at him. “I go to play cards.”

He came close, his bass voice a breath of temptation. “Come home with me instead.”

She would have swayed against him. But she was Charmaine here, wasn’t she? So she snapped shut her fan and pressed the tip to his waistcoat. “We have no more to say on the subject.”

He grabbed her fan and held. “You bid me end my morning rides with you. We now will speak at night.”

She tugged at the ivory sticks. “I will not speak at all.”

He gave over. “Actions only now.”

He threw down a gauntlet to her? So be it. She had things to do that had nothing to do with him.

He held her wrist. “I am yours. You are mine. Always.”

Then he let her go.

An hour or more later, she sat at a circular table in the card room and trained her eyes on her hand. Yet she felt Tate’s gaze fall on her. The heat she’d glimpsed in his jade eyes resurrected the blaze she’d felt years ago when first she fell in love with him. She was na?ve and just turned sixteen. He was a dashing twenty-one.

That was lifetimes ago. When his father was alive. When the man ran the Appleby estate into neglected ruin and debt. Before his father demanded Tate marry for money.

She shifted in her chair. Her eyes fell closed. She’d loved Tate forever and played no coy girl when he needed a friend and a confidante. That he discovered she was a young woman who adored him had astonished him. But he had taken her in his arms and kissed her with such tenderness that she remembered the feel of him, the might of him, the kindness of his claim for many, many years. Yet, all too soon, he was gone. He had been told to marry a stranger whose fortune allowed him to buy plows and horses, repair tenants’ cottages, build bridges, and improve roads.

Did he care for her as a friend? Or someone to love and cherish? She’d never learned.

Meanwhile, he’d been the perfect gentleman. He stayed away from the manor and gave directives from London. He did not return home. Not when his father died. Not when Viv’s mother did. Not even after Charmaine went to London and left Viv alone. So utterly alone.

She inhaled and considered her miserable hand. She sat taller, appraising this older, more mouth-watering Monsieur le Comte who would not leave the room. Who did not stop making eyes at her and marched over now and then to tut at the cards in her hand.

He had never become her lover, but he had always been her friend. His handsome lips had never whispered words of love but assured her of help, sustenance, a cottage and a plot of land. She should be content with what he had given her. What he gave her here. Protection. Friendship.

Why did she want more from him?

He was as appealing as ever. More so. Older, even more confident than the young man who’d run away from home, he had now a manly swagger that came from years of ruling over his domain, enriching it with hard work, then leaving it to his tenants to enjoy the rewards. He was a treasure, an enigma, too. After all, how many men left the comforts of their inherited estate to traipse the Continent to secure commercial success for his country? And spy for it, too?

She applauded him. Treasured what he had become. Why could she not savor him? Just a little, as her lover?

She was older, wiser. Gone now was the young woman who dedicated herself to raising her chickens and ducks. Gone was the lady who’d taken positions as a tutor of French to young girls. Yes, she had learned to live without him.

But her gaze returned to Tate over and over. She threw reason to the wind. She’d hungered too long for the sight of him. Thirsted too long for his regard. So long deprived, she admitted she was ravenous. So long denied, she could take what he offered. Nearness, care, affection. Oh, yes, she could see herself touching the long column of his throat. Nuzzling the hollow beneath his ear. Kissing those lips she had longed to learn and memorize. She could satisfy herself easily. Tonight, even.

But could she walk away?

He drew near. As if he measured each step he took, each smile he bestowed, he took his sweet time maneuvering around her table. Then, just his luck, one of the players at her table declared his final loss and stood to leave.

Tate asked if he might join.

The others welcomed him, some jokingly declaring they wanted him for the cash he might bring. The ladies bade him sit down. Their reasoning included victories of their own with him in other entertainments. Viv watched while it happened. One lady scooted her chair close to his. Another jutted out her breasts, already generously displayed above her silk and lace.

But Tate sat close to Viv and played his cards.

The rascal.

He was good. Always had been. Better than her.

He won the first hand. His knee pressed hers when she made a poor move, his hand to her thigh—but briefly—when she played well.

But the play went on. The others grew careless, drowsy with wine and the hour. Tate inched nearer. The heat in her legs, the need to press them together, had her jumping out of her skin. He pressed his palm flat to her thigh…and inched up her skirts. Her heart raced. Her chat grew wet. He patted her leg and pulled up the last of her petticoats. His fingers were smooth, sliding among her secret folds, parting her so easily she was certain the others at the table could hear her liquid desire for him. But then at once, he turned toward her, looking at her cards, his fingers seated deeply inside her, stroking her little nub.

She gulped.

He grinned. “You have a good hand.”

“And you, monsieur?”

“A better one.”

“Pardon me!” She jumped up before she came on his fingertips. “I must find the ladies’ retiring room.”

The other four waved her off.

She scurried away, hoping to find cool water to put to her brow. Or wine, even whiskey, to allow her to wash him from her mind.

But she was no sooner in the room, checking behind the painted screen and finding it thankfully vacant, than she relieved herself, brushed down her skirts—and there he stood!

“ Mon Dieu , Tate! Do you follow all ladies to their toilette?”

“Only you,” he crooned, his smile erotic and eager.

She headed for the washstand. He came to stand right behind her. Close. So close that the churning desire he’d ignited in her loins with this antics under the table set her aflame now.

Her eyes drifted shut, and she fought for a semblance of sanity as he pressed her back into his embrace.

She felt rather than heard him sigh.

This was torture. Did he intend to raise her skirts and give her the fullness of his attentions? Her body ached with need of release. She squeezed her thighs together, wanting to ask for his affections and hating that she’d give in to him.

But he made no move to fulfill her need. He only dropped tiny kisses to her shoulder. “Since when do you play cards?”

Melting at the pressure of his lips on her skin, she could not drag her eyes from him in the mirror. “Since an hour ago.”

He smiled but narrowed his gaze to a squint. “You hate cards.”

She curved her shoulder, feigning the ploys of a femme fatale . “I’ve changed.”

“Charmaine is a genius at counting them.”

“A cutthroat,” she blurted, using her father’s term for his oldest child. She inhaled Tate’s essence, his truths, his admissions that he cared for her. Her head reeled at the combinations.

He ran a fingertip up the arch of her cheek and buried his lips into the hollow behind her ear. “You won’t win, darling.”

Lost to his touch, she closed her eyes and swayed in his arms.

He turned her to him and brushed his lips on hers. “You’ll lose your money, sweetheart. You’ll hate that.”

The spell broken by mention of money, she snorted. “I won’t lose.” Not at any of it. She flipped him an insolent wink and spun to leave. “Watch me.”

He caught her arm. “I am, my darling. And you have never even known how to play! At cards or deception.”

“I’m older. I have had so many lessons. Chess, archery, guns. All of them by so many teachers—”

“Not all were hideous,” he whispered, and caught her to him, his palm to her cheek. He brushed his lips on hers, and she felt herself surrendering, going up on her toes. To taste him, she drew closer. “Some were glorious.”

Some were irresistible.

His jaw set in frustration, he growled as he turned her toward the mirror. “Look at us there.”

She rebuked herself for enjoying his possession of her. Finger her, kiss her, hold her, fight her. He showed each time he was her man. Hers. She shook her head, ignoring his command. If she did meet his gaze there in the glass, he’d see in her eyes how she wanted more of him—and should not be so foolish as to want. Not now that she had this purpose.

He dropped more tiny kisses to her throat. “It is how we are meant to be.”

“A fantasy.” She tried to step away.

He secured her to his frame as his arms crept around her and his hands bound her breasts. “Years ago, we were both so young. We had barely begun to find our own inner selves, and how we cared for each other.”

She never wanted his embrace to end.

“I wanted you then, sweetheart.”

Tears scalded her eyes.

He stroked her throat and lifted her face so that she had to look at the two of them. “I came to you that summer to ask you to marry me. You were, I think, all of sixteen.”

Through tears, she pleaded with him, “Tate, do not say this.”

“I will go on. I will not argue with you. I will instead say what I have hidden in my heart for so long I can scarcely count the years I’ve lived without you. My darling,” he went on, his lips near her ear, his voice a mellifluous enchantment. “Let me take you home. To England. To Norfolk and Cantrell Manor. Let me show you what I have always wanted to share with you.”

She enjoyed the image of him—delectable man—reflected in the spectacular oval mirror. His hair disheveled, dipping over his broad brow. His eyes, promising sensual pleasures his fingers surely complemented. His lips, broad and lush, luring her. If she turned, she could have his mouth. His arms. Him.

But she pushed away—and he would not let her go. “This is who I am now.”

“Not her. Never her.”

“Yes. So very exactly her.”

His eyes turned black with denial. “Looks are only skin deep, especially when comparing your oldest sister to you.”

“She and I…share much.” The anger, the pain, the losses.

“This is so dangerous. Someone can discover who you really are.”

“Someone? No. Only you, I’d say.”

He set his jaw. There was the determination again that defied her. The anger that deterred her. “Tell me how you plan to kill the scullery maid.”

She groped for an answer.

“How?” He cupped her shoulders. “Shoot her? You cried trying to shoot a goose!”

“Stop.” Tears of anger blotted her vision.

“No? Not shoot her? So you’d poison her? Charmaine would know how to deliver a dose. But you? You have no idea how to administer a poison!”

She could not stop her tears, but saw Tate opening his arms to her. Grateful, sad at her lack, she went to him and told him the one thing she did know. “I must learn what happened to Diane.”

“Then learn, and take what you can in the knowledge.”

“I have not heard from Gaspard with the address of the scullery maid.”

“Very well. I will go tomorrow to rue du Four and ask him about it. If he has it, fine. If not”—he sent a hand to the air—“then that’s the end. We go home.”

She would not allow him to bully her. “I won’t—”

But he kissed her in a crushing declaration. “A lie. I taste the proof on your lips. I shall see you tomorrow at the turn for Pont Neuf.”

Then he bowed like a gentleman—and left.

*

After a few minutes in which she cursed his stubbornness, she returned to the game.

That night, after one in the morning, she’d won a pot with no money, but one small ruby ring and three slips of paper. The first promised a prize-winning racehorse, another was three cases of fine cognac, the last a week in the man’s Loire chateau.

She tore up that last one, nonetheless declaring her night a success on two counts. First, she had met a late arrival to the party and the card game. Monsieur Sylvain Jarre was the controlling partner in his family’s bank. He was young and darkly debonair, but everything about him was small. His eyes were beady, his nose a pencil, his hair thin, and his stature shorter by an inch than hers. However, he clearly had heard of her. Moreover, he had a desire to pursue her. She invited him to her reception on Friday, three days hence.

Second, she’d also controlled her maddening impulse to kiss Tate Cantrell more than once. It was once, wasn’t it?

She lay in her bed an hour later, breathless, panting, and admitted she could not deny herself the final sensual relief he had refused her.

She had to count small victories, yes? C’est la vie.

She needed all she could get.

*

Tate followed her home in his own carriage. Anger ate at his good nature. She defied him at every turn. What did he have to do to make her see that she had to leave with him or she would die?