Chapter Three

Rue du Bac

Paris

T ate Cantrell invaded her dreams.

He always had.

Viv blew out a breath and rolled over in her bed.

The Earl of Appleby and his easy charm, his blinding good looks, his understanding of all vicissitudes of life, his dislike of dissolute fathers and unethical siblings—she had loved him for that…and more.

She punched her pillows. Why did she even try to sleep?

He had always robbed her of sleep. When she was an impressionable seventeen and he was her morning riding companion, her adviser on raising chickens and on how to ignore Charmaine. When he overwhelmed her with his kindness, so unusual contrasted to other Englishmen’s regard of penniless French émigrés. When she had fallen in love with him against her mama’s advice. When he had come to her, held her close, and revealed that he must marry another. Ah, oui , she had lost many nights to the relentless love she bore the chivalrous Tate Cantrell. Tonight was no exception.

Last night at the theater, his appearance had robbed her of her reason. She hated herself for it. But Tate Cantrell could steal anything from her. The greatest thing he’d taken from her, she had tried to snatch back years ago. But hearts were difficult to retrieve, she’d learned bitterly. Now she concentrated on flirtations to carry her through any trials of life.

Even this one.

She sat up, angry at herself. To the devil with hearts and Tate Cantrell.

She put her feet to the cold floor, felt around for her slippers, and stood. Alice had closed the drapes, as she was supposed to each night after a performance.

Louis roused from his bed of old sheets and towels. In the reflected moonlight, she could see him lift his noble head, stare at her, and wait for her signal to return to his dreams. She smiled and waved a hand. With a groan, he lay down again.

Viv stepped to the window and flung wide the heavy blue velvet. She needed room-darkening drapes, total blackness, and silence to sleep. Even that did not bring her peace. Not in Paris. Not with what she’d promised to do.

“Give over,” she urged herself as she gazed out her bedroom window. She’d demanded the manager of the theater find her a house with bedroom suites facing the rear, away from the street. She did not mind the tinkling sounds of the little men who collected the midnight soil or the kitchen garbage in the ruelle . They tried to be unobtrusive. Unlike anyone in the broader boulevard of rue du Bac who bustled about at all hours. What she had minded was that he chose a house in Saint Germain. True, it was close to the theater. But too close to the past.

She’d stop complaining. She’d count her blessings. She liked the dawn, the discovery of a new day and fresh opportunities, preferred it when she was not a woman of this ridiculous occupation with need to stay up half the night, preening and carousing, flirting with men she’d never allow to come to her bed, let alone take her heart.

She padded to her wardrobe and, in the light from the moon, pulled down from its hanger her old riding habit. Worn navy-blue serge of last year’s fashion, the outfit had one bright feature of convex buttons of dead gold. Buttoned at the waist, the lapels opened for a froth of cambric to spill out. The costume declared she was a lady, but an odd one. She might once have had fashion sense, but now had no notable means or endeavor. She was simply some young woman with limited means—and a taste for trousers out for a morning ride.

Eager for her outing and her anonymity to enjoy it, she slipped behind the coral Japan screen, relieved herself, and washed with the basin of cool water Alice always left for her.

In minutes, she slipped out the door, down the stairs, and through the kitchen to the ruelle .

Sinking back against the solid oak door, she inhaled the fragrance of this part of town. Swept by the soft breezes of the Seine, this was sweet Saint-Germain. The part of the city from which she’d departed one night with her mother, two sisters, her dog Beau—and nameless crowds chasing after them. This house she rented was many streets away from that house of long ago. That one was in rue du Four. The house her father preferred. The house smaller than his official h?tel particulier near the Place Royale across the river. But the smaller house, quaint but as lavish, was the one he’d purchased for his mistress, her mother.

That house was close enough for her to walk to view it, if she wished.

She did. To behold it was one of the functions of her purpose here, wasn’t it? To face the past. Conquer it. Settle all hatreds. Then never think on it again.

But that was a process.

She ran a hand over her brow. Of course it was. She’d gather her stamina for it. Save the house for later. Today, she had other views to see.

This morning, she would begin at the stables, where her majordom, on her orders, had contracted to hire a spirited, responsive horse to give her the daily exercise she required. A fine mare who knew the city as she did not. One who allowed her to survey the town she had left as a thirteen-year-old, cringing at the mobs who banged on the door of an old hired carriage, stabbed at their horses, and abducted Diane.

*

This beautiful February morning was crisp, the winds off the Seine brisk but refreshing. Viv sat tall in her saddle. This was her element. Her fingers caught the tendrils of her pale blonde hair escaping her tidy jockey’s bonnet. If she was to wish Tate Cantrell out of her hair, this was the weather in which to do it.

She grinned.

Only one man will do today. Her hired groom.

The fellow, riding close behind her, his pistol at his hip, was the very type of brusque male specimen she had requested from the stable master. Fortin was his name, Robert Fortin—and he was all she needed this morning to begin to familiarize herself with the city she’d never thought to see again.

From the cloudless skies and the blazing sunlight, she could say this placid place was a city she favored. Unlike her ugly memories, this city of gleaming white stones and glossy rose bricks buzzed with the early morning vendeurs who came from the countryside to sell their products. Housemaids strolled around to fill their baskets with eggs, winter turnips, and potatoes. The trinket sellers and pickpockets were not yet awake to irritate the crowds. Instead, the road along the Seine at this seventh hour of the day was filled with horsemen who came out for the air—and not for the company.

She liked her morning jaunt that way, too. Alone. The privacy, the serenity was what she needed, and would need often when she was here in Paris. Her mission was too roiling for her to be congenial to any and all. She would keep her acquaintances dear, but not close. She had little energy for friendships. Her best friend had been Tate, and that relationship gained her few satisfactions. Fewer as years rolled by.

Now she did not have the time or charms of duplicity to hold a friend. She hated her late nights at the theater, but she would simply drag herself out on as many mornings as she could find energy in order to find some balance to her task. No matter her fatigue. This morning, however, she had vowed she would force herself to view only a few places that marked her life here—and doomed her family.

Head high, she crossed the Seine on the famous old Pont Neuf. She surveyed the dark old frontage of the ancient royal palace of the Louvre, looted by the mobs so often during the revolution. But recently, First Consul Bonaparte had reopened a few of the rooms to show off the priceless art he stole from the Italians he had conquered. His belief that war should pay for itself in such booty made her smirk. The penalties that rubbed the noses of his enemies in the dirt of their defeat would come back to haunt him. For excess demanded revenge, didn’t it?

She snorted. An unladylike comment on the ways of Renégades, but then, only her groom was witness to her sneer.

She turned away from him so that he could not see her next expression. Because it was ironic—or perhaps diabolical—that her own reason to be here smelled of revenge. That she disliked the odor of her own goal spoke volumes of the dislike she had for the job she’d agreed to do.

Wrong you are even to debate it, Viv!

Angry at her wavering, she spurred her horse to trot onward. The Tuileries palace loomed before her, a gorgeous place that once she recalled she had visited with her family. She remembered only a thousand bright flames, probably candles in cut glass chandeliers. Now it was the abode of Bonaparte, the house given to him by the generosity of the government he so eagerly led. The gardens, rather a shabby gray in the February chill, were still a grand parterre design, once the pride of the Bourbons. Even her father, minor member of that family as he was, had often remarked at their beauty, wishing he had the ability to duplicate it at their chateau so far away in the east.

Poor man. He had tried repeatedly to improve his lands. But he’d failed so often at agriculture that he had no money for the likes of parterres. He would instead bemoan his inadequacies and smother his shame in too many lost card games and too many conniving mistresses. In fact, until he took her own mother, his sister-in-law, as the one woman who could tame his excesses, he had not known any devotion to his crop production, his credit, or his mortal soul. Too bad it was too late to save his finances or his failing estate—or even his reputation as a roué.

Viv turned her eyes away from that part of her past. Her mother had loved the man. Why, only Mama knew best. But that she had done so with her whole heart still had not absolved the hurt that Vivienne—who exactly resembled his oldest daughter—was the one who had no legal right to stand in his light. Instead, Viv had the heritage of Pierre, his younger brother, the man who had died eleven months before she was born and who was her father in name only.

Viv halted her mount. The sight before her brought tears to her eyes. Cringing, she caught her breath at the sight of the huge, vacant plot where, according to witnesses, her father had been marched up a platform, hauled to Mademoiselle Machine Horrible , and murdered in the middle of the square.

“Come away, my dear.”

She sniffed back her tears, caught and yet not surprised by the sound of the bass voice in her earshot. Tate Cantrell again. Was he her personal Paris plague? She chanced sight of him. So broad-shouldered, muscular, and bold, he presented that vibrant mix of flashing blue-green eyes and sugared cinnamon hair that made her mouth water. As if she weren’t in his thrall already, he added to the drama of his presence in a magnificent mahogany-brown riding habit. “I should expect you everywhere I go now, is that right?”

His eyes danced. But of course , said his look. “I know you well.”

Indeed. “Too well. You cannot annoy me into conducting a conversation with you.”

He gave a laugh. “Then I shall annoy you enough to protect you.”

Once she would have kissed his cheek for that. Now, congenial as his promise was, that irritated her. She ground her teeth and urged her horse back toward Pont Neuf. “I have enough protection.”

He rode beside her, easy as if he’d been invited. “He does look the part. I hope you pay him well.”

“Ba! Look at him, monsieur.”

She nodded toward her groom. Older, gruff with a day’s growth of beard and a bulbous nose long disfigured by too many brawls, Fortin flashed his black eyes at Tate. Then, with suave menace and a hand to the butt of his pistol at his side, he said, “Monsieur, if you please.”

“I assure you, sir,” Tate cooed in the sweetest French as he raised both gloved hands, “I am a friend and I mean no harm.”

She sniffed the air.

Her guard grimaced. “The lady does not want you, monsieur.”

Tate checked her eyes. “I believe she does. In fact, she always has.”

Viv opened her mouth to object.

“No, monsieur,” Fortin cut in, angry now.

Tate shook his head and reassured him with the most benevolent of smiles. “I have only a few sentiments to convey, monsieur.”

Fortin cast her a glance and tipped his head at their intruder. “What say you, mademoiselle?”

“Speak your piece, Cantrell.” She would not honor him with fine addresses. He tempted her. She could not let him see it. “Be brief and be gone.”

“Of course.” He kept to English now, making her grumpy French groom snarl. “Obviously, you are here pretending. But I cannot fathom why.”

That Tate would not say—even in English—that she was impersonating Charmaine was prudent, even kind of him. But she could not tolerate his revealing anything more. He had to go. “Stay away, Tate.”

“I have thought on this all night. I know what you used to want,” he said, cool as a charming friend in some coy conversation of no import.

A dream. Never possible.

“When you were thirteen, my dear, you prayed for a return to Neufchateau. Especially because you never thought you’d have safe means to do it.”

“When we are children,” she said, staring straight ahead, “we all want things we can never have.”

“But now,” he argued, “with a peace treaty and émigrés welcomed back to France, all of a sudden you have a passion for being someone you never wished to be? Someone you even disliked?”

Indeed. Charmaine’s character was never one I applauded. But opportunity comes rarely. “People change, Tate.”

“Not you. Not like this, ma cherie ,” he ventured, his voice full of longing, and her heart pounded at his endearment. “I don’t know how you have accomplished this—shall we call it transformation? Or why. But I will.”

“Do not meddle, sir, in my business. This is my quest.”

“And that of your oldest family member, as well?”

Again, he did not name Charmaine. She was obliged to him for that discretion and that alone. “More, I cannot say.”

He snorted. “I bet you can’t.”

“Sarcasm buys you nothing with me.”

“Really?” He pretended affront. “I thought I was being diplomatic.”

She set her teeth. “Do go away.”

“Why?”

She rode on, ignoring the way her skin heated at the force of his stare.

He was not deterred and rode beside her. When her groom dropped back because of the surging crowd, Tate leaned toward her. “Why, Mademoiselle de Massé? What do you plan?”

The fragrance of his cologne, the nearness of his stalwart body and the memories of how dear he once was to her, roused her heartbeat. But she caught herself. Irritated at his never-ending allure, she shot a fierce glance at him. “I am earning a salary.” Charmaine’s .

He dropped his jaw. Then blinked and nodded. “You are good at it, I grant you. How did you become so accomplished—and rather quickly too, eh?”

“Study,” she snapped. Imitation.

“Books. You read books. Plays.”

“A fine education,” she tossed back at him. “You did so yourself.”

“To pretend that you are something you are not is dangerous.”

She laughed, halted her mare, and glared at him. “And you of all people should know that is true.” She had often told him she suspected he was a spy.

“Touché.” He had the courtesy to blanch, but recovered quickly. “I work for king and country. But what is your motivation?”

She rode on.

“I do not believe you are here only to earn a salary that should go to another.”

“That is your problem, sir.”

“Was your coach attacked by highwaymen?”

She did not flinch. Tate often tried to catch someone off guard by a shift in topic. This question, however, did not surprise her. The manager of her theater had shown her a few gossip sheets with news of the attempted robbery. Evidently, Tate had read them too.

“It was.” She went onward, showing lack of concern for the incident that riled her still. At least it had until Tate Cantrell became a bigger challenge by appearing in her dressing room and disassembling her life.

“Did you defend yourself?”

She frowned. “It pains me that you have to ask.”

“Many reports gave different details.”

“Ah. The way of gossip.”

He grinned. “However, I do believe that anyone who touched you or yours would find themselves shot to pieces.”

“Thank you.” She had learned the art of marksmanship from him. Standing in his embrace, balancing, sighting, calculating, and swooning every moment for his regard, his touch. “They took my pistol. But I surprised them with the carriage shotgun and winged one thief in the arm. My maid frightened off one with her screaming.”

He gave her a pained look of shock. “Your maid is a harpy, is she?”

“‘Every woman should have one defensive skill.’” She quoted him directly.

He chuckled. “So they got nothing?”

“One carried off my reticule, my money, and my lovely little pistol.” And my necessary arsenic in Charmaine’s étui. “But he got not a hair on my head, nor Alice’s either.”

“Commendable.”

“Thank you.”

She gave him no more, and they rode in a companionable silence.

“Whatever you plan here,” he said with sudden pain in his voice, “it is not wise.”

She would not grace him with another refutation. Plus he knew her so well that she was putting up a front.

“Diane is gone. Your mother and father. Any friends the family had are most likely not alive to comfort or help you.”

That she knew. Had known all along. She was alone in this.

“And where is your other family member, hmm?” He was tight lipped with anger, then reached out and grabbed her reins.

Her horse halted.

She caught back a gulp. “Stop this.” To her horror, that was not an order, but almost a plea.

His hand went from the reins to cover her fingers. His were long, strong as iron, and covered in blood-red leather. “This is Paris, my girl.”

She bristled at being his girl . Once she had yearned for it. Now, she was inured to his charms. Totally. “What of it?”

“This is not Norfolk and the quiet of your cottage.”

His words made her ache for the serenity of the land she’d left behind. The rustle of wind through the lindens and oaks. Rain as it pattered on the slates before her little blue door. The sweet lowing of cattle. The brays of Fred her old donkey and the ripe smells of her chickens and ducks. “It certainly is not.”

“You know nothing of the dangers here.” He spoke rapidly in English. “Nor of the profession you have adopted. In London, an actress might avoid the toffs who would toss a girl for a penny. Here they are tough to tame. This city is filled with different menaces, even after all these years, for one who bears blood so blue.”

“You do not frighten me,” she said, tipping up her chin. Of course, she lied.

He blew out air and gave up his hold on her. “I will be near.”

If he acted the swain, he’d scare off those she needed to attract. “I don’t want you near.”

“Has that changed?” He sounded…gutted.

“It never was,” she blurted, and cursed herself for it. He shocked her with such a statement, and she could not allow him to become more to her than…he’d ever been. A friend. Just a friend.

“A bit of acting? Don’t, my darling.”

“I am not your—”

“You are. Now that I have found you—”

“You can leave me, Tate. Please, just go.” She could not have hm near her. He knew not what she’d agreed to do. She could not have him learn. He’d hate her.

His thick, caramel-colored lashes flickered. His chiseled features, so manly with his added years, at once resembled stone. He was flummoxed because she had never shut him out. Too sad for her sore heart that she’d been so silly. “I will return.”

“You’ll find nothing,” she said, praying her acting skill proved her words.

“You hope,” he muttered.

“ Adieu , monsieur.” Clicking her tongue, she urged her mare onward.

This time, he did not follow.

Success rippled through her. But only for a minute.

He would return to her and ask for more. Of course he would. He was incorrigible.

He was the young man who had jumped from their carriage when Diane was snatched by the horde. He was the lad who’d failed to take Diane from the mob, but who had scooped up Viv’s little dog Beau and saved him for her. He was the one who’d demanded his father give her family a cottage on the Appleby estate. He was the young man who had held her in his arms and apologized when his father required he marry another girl, an English girl, for her money. He was the man who had offered to marry her…but never declared he loved her.

He was the man who carved for himself a name in the British Parliament for improvements in roads and bridges. He’d published a treatise on crop rotation. He was an earl of the realm. Rich. Dashing. Her friend. Once that. Once more. Now no longer.

The indefatigable Tate Cantrell. He’d demand anything. Of anyone. Even her.

But this knowledge of where Charmaine was, and why, he would not get.

Because this time, unlike all others, Vivienne Marie Annette de Massé was in charge of her own destiny. She had plans he could not change. She had promised—and unlike so very many, she never broke her promises.