Chapter Five

M ontagne House took Viv’s breath away. The front courtyard resembled her father’s at Neufchateau, the family’s country estate landscaped with elaborate parterres. February made it gray and crisp. Winter stilled the few tress and sheared shrubbery, robbing them of all rustle and flow. Like Papa’s, this garden was dead. Inside, the reception hall of blue-veined marble was as chilly as Papa’s, and the walls of robin’s-egg-blue plaster could not warm her.

Why had she come?

“ Resolve, Vivi. ” Her sister’s brusque contralto flowed through her.

Viv stole courage from her purpose. She’d fought coming for hours. It was now after ten, but she’d bear this as long as she could and hopefully be in her bedroom, undressed, by midnight, Louis at her feet.

Start this, Viv. The sooner begun, sooner done.

Tate’s image clouded her vision. He’d stop her from coming here, seeking out men who had hurt her father and her family. She paused, recalling Tate’s presence each morning she rode. He was such a stubborn man, and she loved… no , she appreciated him for it. But, determined he could not dissuade her, she gathered her gumption and donned the bravado of Charmaine. To the flesh-and-blood man who stood before her, she arched her brows in an imperious smile.

Monsieur Montagne’s tall, gaunt majordom batted not a lash at reading her card. But then, the man who ran the household of a libertine had to have a quiet mind and a strong stomach, didn’t he? For Viv, he needed only to know her ancient family name and her celebrity. As an actress, she fit into this brand of Society. As the disrespectful chit who’d walked out on the first consul, she would be the most notorious woman here tonight in this house of ne’er-do-well bankers. Montagne’s own cousins, the Jarre branch of the family, were never ones to celebrate their ethics or their morals. She smirked as the majordom gave her what was a triumphant smile of welcome and turned his trim back to lead her toward the main salon.

She lifted her ivory fan from its tassel on her wrist and whipped the thing in her anxiety. “ Slowly ,” she could hear Charmaine correcting her. “ No windstorms , ma minette.”

The grand salon of marble, gilt, and glass blinded her—and make her run. The dome above, allowing the velvet sky and stars to shine through, inspired her to fly up, far away. Yet stay, stroll, pretend, she must. She would. Could.

The massive room was alive with dozens—perhaps a hundred—of the nouveau bejeweled and silk-clad beau monde . At her approach, they paused; many murmured, some awed, many not. She could not care. She was here to find a few men, marks who would make her sad heart lighter.

“Mademoiselle de Massé for you, monsieur.” The butler presented her to his master and bowed himself away.

Her host was ostentatious in his welcome. A courtier of the last Louis, a sycophant of the Corsican military officer who was so bold as to wish to be as powerful, Cyprien Montagne honored her with a royal flourish.

Her hated fan to her beribboned décolleté, she gave him a trill of her feigned delight. “How charming. I am delighted to be invited.”

“I am so thrilled to have you here, mademoiselle.” He spoke with that precise Parisian elocution that denoted him an aristocrat of the ancien regime . Bold to examine her cheeks and gauge the size of her breasts, he looked far too long to be polite. Arrogant ass.

He wore a Prussian-blue jacquard waistcoat, blazing white stock, and a gunmetal frock coat shot with silver. The look was elegant, dramatic, with the deep blue a strong counterpoint to his small gray eyes and mass of slickly pomaded silver hair. Noticing her appraisal of his attire, he grinned because he assumed she approved. Then he took her hand and wrapped it around his arm. “I will introduce you, but you must at least for few precious minutes allow me to bask in your pristine beauty. The stage is so far distant that it does not allow mere mortals the full perfection of your face or form.”

She let the damn fan dangle. She had all she could do not to quiver at the way his eerie eyes once more took in the rounds of her breasts above the dangerously low-cut gown. “You are too complimentary, monsieur.”

“And I must ask, why use all that makeup on the stage to cover your beauty? Are we not more natural these days in every way? I say that the manager does not know his trade as well as many of us have been led to believe. I will speak with him next week of these things.”

“Oh, sir, you know we must use the powders and wigs to make us noticeable for those in the rafters.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I would recognize such beauty were I a hundred leagues from you.”

She had to show some sophistication and play to his game. “Monsieur, you flatter me too much.” The bastard must not guess what she really sought in his house.

“Never. Allow me to do so often and I will lay my heart at your feet.”

She lifted a finger and playfully wagged it at him. “No need, sir. I am immune to all but those who offer me sincere companionship. Besides, I am very busy and the work is tiring. But to acquire friends here, I will soon begin calling hours. I will make it one of my afternoons when the house is dark. I do hope you will consider yourself invited every day.”

She had planned this approach. Ladies in London had hours when others might come to visit. But she had no idea if French ladies did that these days. She should have asked. But what should she worry, though? If she were wrong, so be it. She was an actress. A British actress. Such women did as they wished.

“How good of you.” He beamed and led her to the side of the room, where their conversation was more private, yet more noted by many. “I do hope I will be among those who are invited.”

“Monsieur, your presence is one I do welcome.” God help me. “I am new here, and I confess I need a friend. A companion and a confidant.”

“You have me, mademoiselle, as your chevalier.”

She preened. Now, what about your cronies? I have a few names I must pin on faces. “I am honored. Now, please, lest we set tongues to wagging, do introduce me to your guests. I may not be the height of Society, monsieur, but I do remember the particular nature of Parisian etiquette. I am from a well-regarded family.” She would not let him forget it. Though her mother had not been wed to her father when he took her as his lover, she was his wife’s sister and had been his brother’s wife. Viv was illegitimate, but she’d been doubly related to her half-sisters and considered herself nearly their full-blood equal. “I must hold high the reputation of my loved ones.” And search out those who hurt them.

“I do agree. Those of us who have returned have so much for which to be grateful.”

I will be grateful when my duty is done. “Precisely my thought. But I think to exemplify by my good behavior the refinements of our shared past.”

He shook his head. “A pity so much has been buried and forgotten.”

“I wish to remember all who have gone.” She put two fingers to her rouged lips and leaned coyly forward to allow a glimpse of her cleavage. “I should not say it aloud.”

“You are safe with me, mademoiselle.”

“Cyprien! You cannot keep the lady to yourself!”

A man approached them, boldly positioning himself so close to Viv that she inhaled his strong bergamot cologne. He towered over tall, lean Cyprien and smiled liked a prince who ruled the city. She had no idea who he was, but his good looks could enthrall many a woman. He wore his fashionable clothes precisely cut to his broad shoulders and trim thighs. His silky black hair complemented his bronzed Provencale complexion. But his flashing dark-blue eyes told her that he was a shrewd man who could strike her down with one blow.

In her reverie, alarm colored a memory. She had seen this man before.

Her host smiled with stiff displeasure at the interruption. “Mademoiselle, allow me to present Monsieur René Vaillancourt.”

His name meant nothing. Only his stance—and her memory of his handsome face sent fire through her blood.

He gave a slight bow. “I am honored, mademoiselle. I have been very busy lately and have not seen your performance yet, but I understand you carry it off with aplomb.”

“ Merci beaucoup. ”

“Perhaps I will come next week?”

What was he expecting? A complimentary ticket? An invitation to her dressing room? Inwardly, she flinched, afraid all at once. “Come whenever you can, monsieur. We are there five nights a week.”

“Indeed.” He possessed a thin baritone, but he used it on her as if she were his servant…or his pawn. “And you perform for how many weeks?”

Her skin prickled at his tone. “Until the end of June.”

“And afterward what do you do?” he asked with an arch of his elegant black brows. He sounded as if she had no right to go anywhere.

She could not get away from him quickly enough. He was rude. “I will go to Neufchateau.”

“Really? Why? What is left for you there?” he asked.

Recoiling, she dropped open her mouth.

Cyprien smacked his lips as if he’d had enough. “The lady wishes to see her home, René.”

“Of course she does.” The man bowed. “I realize it now.”

She gave him what small smile she could summon. Then he excused himself.

“I apologize for his rudeness, mademoiselle. The fellow thinks he runs Paris.”

She could not take her gaze off him. “Does he?”

“He is the deputy chief of police.”

“Ah,” was all she could manage in her horror. Smooth, well-dressed, debonair René Vaillancourt was police—and a snake.

“Think no more of him.” Cyprien took her hand and led her to look up at him. “I am here to bring you new delights.”

Laughing, she leaned toward him and gave him a glimpse down her bodice. She wanted a barrier between her and Vaillancourt. “Onward, then!”

But she needn’t lure Cyprien. His eyes were already eating her up. His lips were wet, his mouth already salivating. And she knew why, too. Her full breasts were one enticement. The other was the latest rumor about her. And she had not fabricated it. The whole of it was true. In fact, her majordom implied today that the first consul liked such tales told abroad of his masculine prowess. Or in her case, the man’s greater attention to his work than to her.

“I trust you, monsieur. There are so few true gentlemen.” She sniffed. Bonaparte was one. Certainly he had not exhibited anything to her other than his boorishness. That she was glad of it and proud she’d escaped his bed were added boons. Vaillancourt was a different breed of cat.

“The rumor is damaging to the fellow who was rude. You saved yourself.”

Cyprien spoke of Bonaparte. She nodded. “A lady must. I hope others see it my way.”

He was so bold as to lay a hand on her cheek. “They do. I do. Now you will allow me to repair all of your sensibilities, ma cherie . First, a little wine.” Cyprien arched a thinly plucked silver brow, and a footman appeared. He swept two crystal flutes from the tray and placed one in her hand. The touch of his fingers to her own repulsed her.

She would not show it, and looked deeply into his tiny eyes and leaned toward him like a coquette. “I am hungry too.”

“What would you like?” he crooned, his tone salacious, and her skin prickled.

Not you , was her first thought. Then, before thinking, she blurted, “Beef.”

And he took it as risqué, throwing back his head to laugh. “Well, voilà! If you wish such sustenance, I can give it to you. Come.”

She swallowed hard as he led her through an inner vestibule and into a small octagonal room with mirrors from floor to ceiling on each wall. “Oh, this is spectacular!” And not designed for dining, is it?

His beady eyes widened with pleasure. “A room of many delights. Tonight it is to showcase my chef’s supper menu.”

“How grand!” She could guess what the room usually showcased. Charmaine had been succinct with her instructions about many in Society, especially Cyprien. But to Viv’s relief, tonight the round supper table at the center of the room was piled high with hot and cold dishes, small crudities and rolls of meats dressed in herbs and spices. Pastries in pastel icings and gateaux dripping in chocolate and raspberry sauces were arranged in colorful display. The offerings on the platters could feed an army.

“Astonishing array,” she managed, and patted Cyprien’s arm. But her instinct that he’d accept her gesture as friendship was wrong. He swung around before her, two hands now to her bare shoulders, and pressed himself against her. She stared at him, shock chilling her. “I—I’m sorry, monsieur. Did I give you the impression—?”

He leaned over her, towered, in fact, and moved one hand from her shoulder across her bare chest to lift her chin. “You are no innocent.”

His whisper only served to make her heart beat like a drum. “Please…” She tried to pull away, her fright no pretense.

He grinned, the satyr, and put his palm flat against the bare skin of her chest. “Charmaine, ma tigresse . I have heard of your preferences.”

Viv was no tigress. But her sister had had her hungers—and satisfied them liberally. Viv had known there were those in Paris who might catch her in their claws, thinking she was Charmaine.

“ Ma belle , you are excited.”

Terrified.

He settled his hips against her own. “I am complimented.”

“Monsieur.” She felt his interest rise too high and hard against her skirts.

He pressed closer, his personal musk, thick and cloying, making her gulp back despair. “You are no virgin.”

“ Monsieur ,” she said as she stiffened and stared him in the eye, “neither am I some lamb to be led to your lair.”

“Forgive me.” He backed away, chastised for now. “I was too enraptured and stand corrected. In the flesh, though, you are quite irresistible.”

She smiled, giving by her ease a sense that she forgave him. “You are kind.”

“Many a man would love to describe your beauty in detail.”

She looked up into his cool little eyes. Pretending to find him attractive was a chore. “Few have said the right words.”

“I wish to try.”

She hoped she blushed. “I cannot be rushed—or ignored.”

“Clearly. What we hear of the other night in the Tuileries tells us tact and kindness are required.”

“I must know a man well,” she said with a frown. “So many assume a lady of the theater can be charmed quickly and offered delights for an hour’s worth of her time.”

He squeezed her hand. “ Ma cherie , I would take from dusk to dawn.”

“Monsieur Montagne!” a male voice called him.

“Monsieur, so good of you to have us!”

She hung in Cyprien’s arms, grateful for the disruption, shocked because the only sound ringing in her ears was the bass voice of Tate Cantrell. How could that be?

She looked over Cyprien’s shoulder at none other than Tate with another man.

With a smile of her relief, she stepped away from her captor.

Both men strode forward. “Monsieur Montagne, bon soir ,” Tate said.

“Ashley and Appleby, of course, you are welcome,” Cyprien greeted them in a hearty fashion that told her the Frenchman knew both well. “And I wonder if you have met Mademoiselle de Massé?”

“ Bon soir , mademoiselle.” Tate took her hand. “Indeed we have met. I am delighted to see you again. My friend Lord Ashley does need an introduction, Monsieur Montagne.”

Viv fumed. She did not want Tate here to see her at work among these people. Must he be everywhere? Following her. Riding with her? Here she was striving valiantly to show a few of her acting skills. She politely responded to the formalities.

Ashley spoke up. “Monsieur Montagne, I came tonight because I thought you and I needed to get on with our initial discussion of a few days ago.”

“Ah, Ashley, you English may discuss business on a night of pleasure, but here in Paris we frown on it.”

“But if Bonaparte and our Ambassador Whitworth argue like they did the other night, we may not have the chance to discuss the five or six percent more I may now offer on those Lyon silks.”

Cyprien’s brows arched, and with a look of regret at Viv, he extended a hand toward a small collection of chairs. “How can I refuse?”

When the two had left them, Viv let out a breath.

Tate’s arms came around her from behind. “That was close.”

She clamped shut her eyes and allowed herself to relax into the refuge of his embrace. This was so much more than a friendly embrace. His hold was definitely amorous. Viv was stunned but lost to his tenderness.

Tate’s subtle fragrance drove away Cyprien’s flowery cologne and Vaillancourt’s heavy bergamot. For just one moment, she could rest here.

“You are fine now, sweetheart.” He held her securely to him and pressed his lips into the hair on her crown.

She pulled away from the temptation to remain. “Thank you. He became troublesome.”

Tate lifted her chin. “Do you know what he is? What you’re—?”

She was recovered, and a fool to have sunk into Tate’s embrace. He might be her savior at the moment, but she did not want him chastising her. “I know what I’m doing, yes.”

“Getting yourself raped?” he seethed.

She caught her breath. “Not if I can help it.”

“Sweetheart—” He stepped forward.

She evaded him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t stop wanting to save you? Whatever in hell this is!” He waved an arm to denote the crowd beyond.

“I do not want your salvation.”

“But you need it. They are nothing like you. They are without any bounds and will do whatever they wish.”

“Stop following me. Stop tormenting me!”

“I won’t. You are precious to me, and—”

“Am I? How good to know.” Precious but never loved.

“Let me help you. I can. I will. I have always wanted to give you all you desired.”

She sniffed. Oh, the arrogance of him. To think she’d take him as hers, when all he felt was duty. Angry that he pitied her, she lashed out at him. “You failed.”

Her accusation froze him. But only for moment, then he pressed against her. His body was a shield she could stand beside to fight the world and all its tragedies. But he’d never loved her…only stood by her because he believed he owed her and her family for not rescuing Diane.

“Viv, sweetheart, I came to find you last year. You were gone.”

“Too bad.” She covered her mouth, lest he hear the sob that rose in her throat.

He anchored her to him, his arm around her waist a band of iron. “My year of mourning was over. I came to ask you to be my wife. To tell you all I wanted for us. All I wished to propose we have.”

Ironic, wasn’t it, that when she finally stopped hoping he’d ever want her, he’d come to claim her and offer her a loveless marriage? Simply tragic, but none of that could ever be.

She stepped from his arms.

He cursed under his breath. “You won’t stop this…this lie?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You would die!” Oh, hell. What good could come of his knowing that? She shook her head and took one stride away.

“Viv?” He held her wrist. “If I could die, then you would too.”

“I must cultivate these people.” She swallowed all her tears and anger. She shook back the tendrils of blonde curls obscuring her vision of his ravaged features. God, she had hurt him. Hell surely awaited her for that. He had suffered enough for his failure to get Diane. “And I will do it. You will not dissuade me.”

Impossible man, he caught her elbow and stood so close her head swam with his nearness. “Why not?”

“I have promised!” she blurted. She hated herself for divulging that. But she shook him off.

“Promised what? To whom?” he called after her, his voice that of a hopeless man searching for salvation.

She understood the feeling. But she would not allow the negativity to stop her.

“Retribution,” she threw at him, and he balked.

She could not wait for his reaction and headed for the vestibule, the grand salon, and those she had to court. She stared out at those assembled, then glanced over her shoulder at the exquisite man who had always been her champion and was now her nemesis.

*

Tate seethed at her word. Retribution was so scurrilous an ambition. He took his carriage home that night, went to his library, and had his man bring up tea, sandwiches, and a good bottle of brandy. Then he sat at his desk, naming all whom he could think of who had ever hurt her or her family.

Tate had come into their lives early in 1791 when he was wandering the Continent, tired of his travels and not wishing to go home. He went to Neufchateau. The vicomte received him like long-lost family, which indeed he was. Tate was a distant fifth or sixth cousin by marriage of a Massé girl to one in his line.

But the vicomte, for all his many lascivious ways, was a gracious host and loving father. That he had also been a man who had loved many women, not all of them his wife, was a matter of public gossip in his little estate in the east of France and in Paris. In the capital city, he kept his grand h?tel particulier and a smaller house on the rue du Four. That townhouse he had purchased for his last and favorite mistress, Madeleine de Massé, the sister of his wife and the widow of his brother. By Madeleine, whom he always claimed was the love of his life, he had wished to sire males. His ambition was not so much to get a boy who would inherit, because under French inheritance laws, a bastard could never do so. But the vicomte wished to prove his manhood by getting a boy from Madeleine. The lady loved him and did not care he used her for a broodmare. Alas, by his wife, his other women, and by Madeleine, only females were his progeny.

Of the three children, Tate considered Diane, second born, the wisest and drollest. Charmaine, the eldest, self-indulgent and mean. Vivienne, the daughter of the vicomte and Madeleine, naturally disarming and, yes, vivacious.

Awash in the memories of that first day Tate met them all, he took up his glass of brandy and allowed himself a generous draught. Vivi, as he had called her when she was younger, was all energy as a child. Her mother had adored her. Her father had held her up—to Diane’s agreement and Charmaine’s envy—as a model of fealty. Spirited, inquisitive, industrious, loving her dogs and her animals, Vivi enjoyed her childhood on her father’s lands. The revolution had robbed her of that—and so much else.

But Vivi had blossomed in England. Free of the fear of attack by rabble, she took to the care of the family cottage and the nurturing of her animals. She sewed, she knitted, she cleaned and cooked. Charmaine exerted herself very little. Vivi cared for their mother, who was increasingly despondent and later crippled, body and soul, by what terror she’d witnessed. Through it all, Vivi grew into a favorite among the Cantrell tenants. A favorite of his.

Now as an adult, his Vivi had grown into her fullness, exquisitely lovely with that rippling river of platinum-blonde hair and sapphire eyes, a graciousness of form and function that could make a man weep to hold her.

That she should now be considering some sinister act was totally against her character. With all that had happened to her family, Tate could identify causes for retribution. Yet that was more than ten years ago. So much had changed in Paris since then. Many had died. Of disease, despair, chaos, and war. He hated that she would indulge in it.

But whom would she hurt?

The list was short. Two people seemed a paltry number, given the enormity of the trauma they had suffered that night in ninety-two, before and afterward. He was certain there might be more who were complicit in the arrest of the Vicomte de Neufchateau and the attempted capture of all in his family. Many Tate could never name, let alone trace.

One he knew was dead. Alfonse Jarre, the banker, had called in the vicomte’s loans and created such a scandal about it that the Committee of Public Safety put Neufchateau on their condemned list. The vicomte had decided his family should leave France, and he would see them off himself before he fled somewhere else—he told no one where. But the committee and their gendarmes were dogged in their search, found him north of Paris, and hauled him back to the guillotine.

The other person Tate remembered whom Viv might want was the former scullery maid who worked in the house of the rue du Four. The young woman had taken to offering herself to men. One Tate thought may have been a gendarme. Told by the majordom to rid herself of him, the maid did not. And to now find the least important servant who worked in the house ten years ago would be most difficult. Was the woman still in Paris? Was she even alive? Who would know?

Aside from those two, who might Viv want? He did not know.

But he would try to learn. For Viv to ponder their destruction was nigh unto laughable. Yes, certainly she portrayed herself as an actress. Worse, she dubbed herself as her older sister, a virago. An exact opposite, black to white, up to down.

Still Viv had somehow insinuated herself into Charmaine’s life as an actress. Whether Viv had worked in London as Charmaine, he had no idea. But here in the Théatre de la Ga?té, Viv received sterling reviews for her performances. That, he attributed to her love of books, an odd combination of cookbooks, medicinal books, and plays. Furthermore, Viv had managed her charade to date because she was far from London. Yet like him, some canny person could spot the differences. Many British came to Paris to enjoy the sights. One discerning person could see that off stage Charmaine de Massé was too sweet, too charming, too selfless to be real. They would ask. They could probe. Their curiosity might lead them to search for Charmaine.

But Tate had no idea what the two sisters had contrived.

Or was he suspecting too much? Was Charmaine not involved in Viv’s scheme? He could not imagine otherwise. Viv was never one to plot deception.

Why now?

Why here?

The only answers he had were obvious ones. Viv did this now because of the treaty. She had Talleyrand’s approval and could cross the border into Paris freely. She’d not been able to do that prior to this. But then, Tate knew her strength of will—and the immense challenges she had lived with all her life.

The odd thing was, until the age of twenty-one, when last he saw her, she had accepted what she had lost with a stately equanimity far beyond her years. She built a life for herself in the cottage on his estate. With her animals around her, she sold eggs and butter. She wrote little instructions on housekeeping she intended for new wives. Though she had not yet secured a publisher, she planned for it and kept writing. She wanted to be known as an English lady who wrote useful articles by which young women learned efficiencies and found satisfactions in their daily lives. Fine Ways to Run a Household , she titled her works. “A loving home will sustain a person through all vicissitudes of life,” she had often said.

She had made her own loving home, even if her mother and Charmaine could not or would not appreciate it. And though Viv accepted what she had lost—land, home, money—she had taken years to accept whom she had lost.

Tate understood that. Terrorists had taken her father. Illness and heartbreak had felled her mother. A mob had captured Diane. He, who had been her friend, however, had disappeared from her life the day he was forced to marry another for money.

He had never become more to her, not because he did not wish it. Since she was sixteen, he had wished for her in his arms as his wife. But his father and his debts and his diabolical negotiations with an heiress’s father had cast him from Viv’s life from that day forward. Irredeemably.

The knowledge roiled him.

He downed the last of his brandy and stood. But none of that, he vowed, would block him from trying to save her from herself. Or regain her good graces.

Or kill his love for her.