Chapter Fourteen

“M ademoiselle.” Viv’s majordom, Monsieur Franck, appeared in her sitting room. He was so pale, he looked bloodless.

“What’s wrong?” She looked up from her escritoire, hating the interruption. She hurried her letter to Vaillancourt inviting him to call upon her this afternoon. She would see him before she departed Paris. If he did not come to her, she would appear on his doorstep. Seeing that man was the last thing she would do in Paris. Her house was in order. She had even told her kitchen staff to make sandwiches, pack a bag of apples, and fill large flasks of whiskey. She and Tate would need them if they had to run for the coast without any delay.

“Two gendarmes demand you receive them. They come from Monsieur Vaillancourt.”

She put down her pen. With a command to her heart to slow its drum beat, she rose. She was an actress today as she had never been before. Her courage was a slim hook on which to hang her future. But she would persevere. “Show them up to the grand salon.” She took a step forward. “Are there more than two? Do others block the back door?”

“No. Only the two are here.”

“Very well. You know what to do, all of you. Continue. Allow anyone who wishes to leave the house now to go.”

Vaillancourt is questioning me. Marking me in the eyes of the public by sending his coach and his men.

“Mademoiselle, before you go. You must see these.” He held out much wrinkled sheets of the day’s gossip papers.

“Why? What?” She took them and skimmed. Mon Dieu! Vaillancourt is a laughingstock?

Astonished, she could not move.

Lord Ramsey had removed from René Vaillancourt’s house Madame St. Antoine. This occurred last night or the night before. The papers had no date. But this they did proclaim: the English viscount had done so in the presence of many notable officials of the government. Talleyrand, for one, though not present at the scene, was not amused. Vaillancourt’s superior, Joseph Fouché, upon hearing of the event, was furious at such treatment of a respected lady. Madame had been ill, so very indisposed, that Lord Ramsey had to carry her down the main stairs to his waiting carriage. To make matters worse, the gossip rags proclaimed with rage, the lady accused the deputy chief of police of poisoning her.

Viv stood in a quandary. What did this mean for her? Did this mean Vaillancourt would deal with her easily? Quickly? Or harshly? Would Viv’s fate be vengeance for Vaillancourt’s recent disgrace?

She could not know. Could not predict. She dropped the papers to a nearby table.

She would be strong.

She thanked her majordom profusely, and he turned on his heel. “Monsieur?” she called to Franck before he disappeared. “ Merci beaucoup. You have served me well. All of you.”

The old fellow had tears in his eyes. “Mademoiselle. An honor to serve you.”

A glimpse of her boudoir told her she had made adequate preparations. Only her valise stood open. Her trunks had gone. She strode to her cheval glass and took one last look at Charmaine. Her nearest blood, her nearest duplicate, her tormenter and unfathomable nemesis.

Sticking a few pins to her coiffure, she flashed her eyes as Charmaine would at any challenge to her body or soul. A shot of iron to her spine, a bit of rouge to her cheeks, and the damn fan in her hand was all she needed to complete the transfer.

She snatched up her forest-green wool cloak that lay beside her valise. She’d chosen it for travel. The weather in May could be pleasant, and the fragrances of jasmine often wafted the air. The cloak was heavy for today, but if she encountered storms—or the chill of damp walls around her—the garment would comfort her. Heavy and plain, it would serve her well in prison if Vaillancourt sent her there for her arrogance to question him.

At the hall, she turned back and retrieved her reticule from her bed. Inside was the pistol Fortin had purchased for her months ago. So, too, did she carry the two étui, one with laudanum, the other empty. One never knew what one might have need of, eh?

For one moment, she shut her eyes. Charmaine would go into the presence of the deputy chief of police with her self-confidence and her bravura. No one got the better of her.

With speed, she took the hall and the stairs down to her salon.

The two men stood at attention in the middle of her grand drawing room. Their harsh blue-and-black uniforms offended her, and she allowed Charmaine, who took temporary quarters in her soul, to sniff at their impertinence to appear in her parlor.

“Mademoiselle de Massé?” One stepped forward. “I am to take you to Monsieur Vaillancourt. Will you come quietly?”

She swept a hand toward the foyer. “Lead on.”

*

She was surprised that the deputy’s carriage took her not to the H?tel de Ville and the offices of the police but to a house not far away in the rue St. Martin.

Why was that? Did Vaillancourt not wish others to know he interviewed her?

Arresting her would be simpler at his offices. But then, did he not wish to detain her? He had no justification for that. Still, he was the law and needed no reason, only desire, to see her off the streets.

She shut down her speculation. She would deal with him as he came, hear his reasoning as he articulated it. Dialogue meant to be met for what it was.

The two gendarmes alighted from the carriage and, one in front of her, one behind, marched her into the house. The majordom had opened the door for them, and greeted her with only a deferential look of frank despair.

The man, she surmised, had witnessed many scenes such as this, Ramsey and Madame St. Antoine only the most recent. Yet the butler was not inured to tragedy. She wondered if the man’s master knew of his disapproval.

No matter.

“Monsieur Vaillancourt will attend you presently, mademoiselle.”

She met his gaze with gratitude Charmaine would never exhibit. Why not? Vaillancourt would never know what honesty passed between them.

She was escorted up the stairs and down the first floor to a small room, wood paneled and overly warm. The man’s office. Documents strewn across his desktop told the tale of a man who was not neat. Nor, perhaps, was he wise. Did he not wonder if she would steal documents from him?

Her gaze swept the rest of the room, and on the large, circular map table was a service of pastries and coffee. If that was for her, she expected either a man who wished to seduce her—or one who expected another guest after her.

The click of boots upon the marble tiles alerted her to her host’s arrival.

She faced the doorway, waiting for him, serene as she had never been before, her hands clasped, her reticule, heavy with its contents, hanging from her left wrist…though her pistol was easily grasped.

And there he was—tall, imposing, and elegantly attired, each inch of his frock coat and breeches measured to a hairsbreadth of his lean, fit, muscular body.

Oh, yes, she remembered him well. A breathtaking, virile specimen, René Vaillancourt was a man to set many a woman’s heart beating. But not Madame St. Antoine’s. His trim figure, his grace, his flashing sapphire eyes, could enchant so many. But not mine.

Today, though, he had no starch to his shoulders. His eyes were swollen, as if he had wept. Did deputy chiefs of police have cause to cry over the loss of a woman they tried to poison?

Viv could only hope to use his indisposition to her advantage.

“Please,” he offered with an outstretched hand and polite smile, “come sit and talk with me.”

“ Merci beaucoup , monsieur. I will stand.”

“As you wish.” He strode around her toward the silver tray and poured two cups of coffee. He held one out to her.

She shook her head.

“Very well.” He took his coffee and strolled to a fine brown leather chair facing her. Then he crossed one long, graceful leg over the other. She had to admire that it did add to the impression he had this interview under his control. “I thought it best for us to meet and talk here. I am certain you understand.”

The need for discretion? Perhaps. But she had to challenge him, didn’t she? “I am intrigued that I am in your house.”

Did he want the notoriety of her there? His reputation had so recently been tarnished by Lord Ramsey’s rescue of Madame St. Antoine from his clutches that he could entertain a lady in his home.

“I am a busy man, mademoiselle.”

“I can imagine.” She gave him a smile Charmaine would have envied for its sarcasm.

He put down his cup and saucer. Then, smooth as a tiger, he said, “You wished to discuss my activities with the police when I was younger?”

That he went right to the purpose did not surprise her. But then… A thought occurred to her. Was he the one who had men watch her? He had power, money, means. Yes. This was how he knew what she had done, where she had been, and whom she had seen.

“I do.” She walked forward, nonchalance in her movement. Up close, he was a dreamy-looking man. A woman could walk into that aura and disintegrate. Poof!

“Well, ask what you do not know.”

“You knew our scullery maid in the house in rue du Four.”

He nodded, his fingers arched like a cathedral’s steeple. “I did.”

“You asked about our family. Wanting to learn when we would leave Paris. Where we would go.”

“I did. I am glad the scullery maid was most helpful.”

She grinned. He had followed her to Passy and Jocelyn Gatel’s. “You planned for gendarmes to chase our carriage.”

“Of course.”

“And my sister, Diane, was your special target.”

A smile curled those handsome lips. “She was.”

“You are pleased with all that happened,” she said as if it were a death knell.

“All of it went my way. Naturellement, je suis huereux. ”

“You benefited from her detention. Were you praised? Promoted?”

“Indeed, I was. If I could not immediately arrest your father that night, I could get one of you.” He shifted, frowning. “But I grow weary, Charmaine. You have told me what you know. You need to ask me what you are here to learn.”

“Why did you take Diane?”

He narrowed his sapphire eyes at her. It was only a second, but she noticed the surprise there. Then he lifted a palm. “Her copper hair? Ah. Easily described to my men.”

She knitted her brows.

“But you knew that,” he said.

She tipped her head. “We were three blonde women and one redhead.”

“And a man,” Vaillancourt said with distaste. “Cantrell.”

Tate. Yes.

“Always a chivalrous addition to your family, isn’t he?” Vaillancourt rose from his chair and strode to his long board. There he poured liquor from a stoppered decanter into two glasses. He approached her and held out one. “Take it. You will welcome it.”

She accepted the silky crystal, cold as ice between her fingers.

“What else do you want to know, Charmaine?” His visage grew dark, his eyes slitted with evil.

“What happened to Diane?”

He got this odd mix of curiosity and humor on his face. “What do you mean?”

“Your men took her. Where? What did they do with her? Why my darling Diane?”

He burst into laughter. “I must say,” he managed between chuckles, “you always were the most audacious woman. Even at sixteen, you had the guile of a female three times your age. How did your family survive the viper in you?”

Insult for Charmaine was nothing to the insult Viv inferred against her family. “How dare you.”

He strode forward, toe to toe with her. “You came to me, my dear little wasp.”

She shivered as he reached out and traced one fingertip down the arch of her cheek.

She pulled away.

His gaze grew menacing. “You wanted me, but only so far as you could use me to get rid of your sister.”

She went to stone. No , her insides roared in denial. She glared at him.

“Your kisses, so sweet.” He leaned over to whisper, “You thought yourself so divine that I would take those as payment for my service to rid you of Diane. You were surprised when I demanded money. And all you had was two gold Louis! What a self-serving little bitch you were.”

Viv’s anger flared as hot as Charmaine’s would have.

“Your Diane was too pretty for you. Too smart. You wanted to offer me access to your sister as sacrifice for the family.”

Charmaine had been jealous of Diane? Surely not! “If that were true, why hunt my father and bring him back to Paris?”

“If that were true?” It was Vaillancourt’s turn to glare. “ If? ”

“Yes, why?” She took a step toward him, rage consuming her.

He stared at her. “You can remember hours of dialogue. Yet your memory really is so faulty?”

My memory? Her mouth fell open.

He gloated. Astonishment made his lovely eyes go wide. And then he smiled. Slowly. The look was that of angels frolicking on ceilings in a thousand cathedrals. Such a devil should never look so heavenly.

He took a long, leisurely draught of his liquor, all the while contemplating her as if he saw her for the first time. Then he turned away and walked to his window. “Have you packed to go yet? So many do. You want to be on the road before all the auberge are full, or you will have to sleep in your coach. If you can get one. Have you? Packed? Hired a coach?”

She blinked. He’d changed tone and subject, but she would not follow. “What did you do to Diane?”

He considered her as coolly as if she had asked of the weather. “I sent her to Carmes.”

“That I know,” Viv bit off. “What happened to her?”

“She died there.”

She was hearing the words for a second time, but they were just as devastating. “How? Why?”

“She was impertinent. Always chiding the guards, insulting the turnkey. The concierge found her appealing, though. When she was not being snide. He found her…delightful.”

The innuendo was not lost on Viv.

“I know you have been to visit Madame la Comtesse Nugent. So be not coy with me. I am certain the lady would be as forthcoming as she could about your sister. But it was not the countess who was Diane’s friend—it was Madame St. Antoine.”

The lady’s very name sounded like a prayer from his lips.

“I have not met her.”

He threw her a look that could kill her. “I know.”

Lost in some euphoria of remembrance about St. Antoine, Vaillancourt spun to a window and stared out. He scowled at those in the street below.

“Amber knew that Diane befriended many in the cells. She told me how she had watched your sister give her own bread and gruel away to those who were beaten or in need. Diane’s generosity was the very reason she was taken away by the concierge. Your sister gave her own bread and slops to another who was to be starved to death. So then Diane was caught, marched to the courtyard…and shot.”

Viv felt the last like a punch to her gut. A hand to her stomach, she stood but knew not how.

But Vaillancourt inhaled and, filled with some steely might, turned on her. “Why did you return to Paris?”

She managed to find words. “I had to learn about Diane.”

“Why? You cared nothing about her before. Why now?”

“I…I was tormented by the lack.”

“How sweet.”

Viv allowed her indignation to swallow her sorrow.

“Don’t give me this weeping sister act,” he spat at her. “I know of what you are capable. So I ask again, why did you return to Paris?”

“I have to earn a living.” She held her head high to say it. Damn him.

He tsked. “Sad Charmaine.”

“I need not be insulted.” She whirled to go.

“But you will need to know where Cantrell is.”

She faced him, the swishing of her skirts the only sound in the room. “Tell me.”

He gave her a mirthless grin. “After you tell me a few things.”

“What?” She would play his word game and go.

He took his time. “Where did you disappear to last spring?”

That befuddled her. He already knew Charmaine had disappeared from London and the stage. “What?”

“How did I know you were gone?” he asked with a lift of his shoulders. Innocence dripped from his sly mouth.

Yes. How? Why?

“My dear Charmaine ”—he said her name as if it were a curse—“of course I know you did not appear in London last spring as you should have.”

Viv looked into his gaze and felt he had nailed her to the floor.

“Where did you go?” His blue eyes were the crafty slits of a snake.

“To a little house in Richmond.”

“Why?”

“I was ill.”

“Too ill to work?”

“Yes.”

“Were you pregnant again and delivering a stillborn?”

Viv shuddered. He knew about Charmaine’s scurrilous past, too. “No.”

“Since when do you carry a pistol?” He smiled and waited while she closed her mouth. “Well?”

“Many years. I learned how to shoot when I lived in Norfolk.” That was true, though of Viv, not Charmaine.

But how had he learned she carried a pistol? Oh, of course. The attempted robbery.

“You had me attacked on the road near Rouen. Those men were—”

“Mine,” he said with satisfaction. “They were. Good fellows. Know how to rough a carriage.” He took two steps to stand before her and look into her eyes. “You carried laudanum and perfume in your little étui. Your pistol, too. And you were accompanied by your little dog.”

She froze as his smile became utterly evil.

“Charmaine hates dogs. Only your little bastard sister keeps one. Charmaine has men. Many men. One or two at a time.”

Viv locked her gaze with his and could have wept for all she had just lost in this room. Diane. Her own innocence.

“You are very brave, mademoiselle.” He smiled with sad satisfaction. “To travel all this way to learn the fate of your sister. To come to…what? Kill those who hurt her? To kill me? But that is not who you are, is it, Vivienne?”

She expelled a breath. “I thought I could,” she told him, and marveled that she had the means to admit it.

“Return to England, Vivienne. Tell your sister I still look for her. I will have her under my thumb, and soon.”

She shook her head.

“No? You think not?” He bristled. “Why not?”

Viv opened her mouth, but the look in her eyes must have said more.

“Charmaine will not kill herself before I get to her for my revenge. Your oldest sister is a coward, Vivienne. So that means… Ah, yes. She is ill. Dying. Of the pox, is it? Cheating me of my satisfaction, is she, with her disease? But she failed in her duties to me. And I could not let that stand. She was valuable to me for many years.”

“No!” Viv objected. Horror that Charmaine had spied for him made her blind.

“Oh, yes, she was. My payment for my services are very steep.”

“You cannot mean that Charmaine—”

“I must say it for you? Charmaine is my agent, my tool, my toy. Oui , mademoiselle.”

Viv could not breathe.

Vaillancourt preened. “Charmaine Massey was my spy in London. Mine. It was what I paid her for, and she was good. Until she wasn’t and disappeared last spring.”

He put a hand beneath Viv’s glass and persuaded her to lift it to her mouth. “I promised you would need it. Drink.”

She couldn’t. “I don’t understand.”

“Why she worked for me?” He rolled a shoulder.

She smacked the glass on a nearby table and shook her head at him. “Tell me!”

He smiled. “Two gold Louis was pitiful payment.”

“You needed more.”

“It was my price for taking Diane. A good one, it was, too! I received information from Charmaine about London men in politics that few others ever got. I embellished my name, my reputation with my female agent in London. Charmaine was very good. I am sad to lose her. So gaining only you here instead, you see, is damn irritating. I cannot detain you. It gets me nothing. And I have had a recent”—he flourished a hand—“setback to my professional reputation. I dare not make another by turning in the innocent sister of my agent in London and having anyone learn that you are not Charmaine Massey, but her bastard sister, Vivienne.”

Viv could barely think, let alone stand. But he had mentioned Tate.

“Go quickly, mademoiselle, before I change my mind.” He swept a hand to the door.

“What of Lord Appleby?”

“Ah, yes.” He grinned once with those dead eyes. “I have to salvage something from this disaster. If I cannot have the beautiful female spy who worked for the British against me, then I take one of the ones the British have sent.”

“No. Where is he?”

“Why gone to Carmes, my dear. Where else would I send him? Carmes Prison.”