Chapter Six

S he set her mare to a walk. The mid-April morning was bright and gay. Would that she were able to absorb that. Acting required more than she ever knew. She preferred to be herself, by God. Some people could remain who they were all the time. Look at her surly groom. Crabby, no nonsense, spiffy attire, the smell of soap, a pistol at his waist, Fortin was up and working. The man had an approach to the world that worked for him. Would that she could imitate him.

She let out a laugh. Hair loose, stern face, well dressed, good cologne—she felt powerful with a pistol that Fortin had been so kind as to purchase for her in her saddlebag. She was happy at last night’s success with one search. Her frequent evenings at Cyprien Montagne’s house had not yet yielded his two distant cousins, the new administrators of Jarre Bank. But she had information. One by the name of Sylvain, said the gossip sheets, was in the country. The other was ill.

She’d get one of them sooner or later.

She rejoiced too Vaillancourt had not attended any of those entertainments at Cyprien’s house. The man, according to the gossips, was busy at home cultivating a stubborn woman to become his mistress. Whoever she was, she could have him. Vaillancourt made her flesh crawl.

Viv trotted ahead, smiling, loving her solitude. But at the far corner, just as a carriage turned, her peace dissolved. And lo unto her, Tate sat atop his horse. The man sprang up everywhere! And not just out here on her morning rides, either. The theater, the soirees she attended, even Cyprien’s!

Drat his persistence. She had summoned enough gumption to add a new feature to her investigations this morning. With him beside her, however, she would not go. He’d hector her about her reasons, and she would not hear the end of it.

“ Bonjour , monsieur. Do you never rest?” She went on, never stopping for him, as they took the shady Champs-élysées.

Good humor was his hallmark, ease in his own skin the element that gave him levity and popularity. “I am well, thank you. How was your visit to Madame Récamier’s salon last night?”

The beautiful and impertinent lady who had made short hair and simple toga-style gowns the Parisian fashion was married to one of Napoleon’s favorite bankers. The first consul rarely liked men of money, so this affection was one both Récamiers worked to their benefit. Known for her lavish soirees, Julie Récamier was one whose invitation one did not refuse. To appear in her salon was to ensure one became at once the talk of the town.

“I was honored to be invited.” Viv clicked her tongue to her mare and rode on.

Her groom politely dropped back in deference.

“As was I,” Tate said when he caught up to her.

She gave in to the need to look him over. He looked marvelous for so early in the day. He’d complemented his charcoal-gray habit this morning with a bronze waistcoat edged in gold passementerie. His robust complexion was a glory. She wanted to brush her fingers across his ruddy cheeks and sink them into his wind-blown locks. The man had always looked like a colorful feast. He was delectable.

You cannot lick him today, Viv. She glanced away.

“I noticed you spoke with a certain banker last night,” he stated.

She knew it was a question. Armand Vernon of the Bourse was an older man who last night came without his wife. The pleasant fellow was no lech when alone—and he was also of no help to Viv. “So I did.”

“Do you take up only with financiers?” He smiled, but his expression was strained.

She gave him a leveling look. He had no right to judge her. She’d trade barb for barb. “Did I rob you of time with him?”

He grinned. His lips, rich and full, formed words that lured her from her aggravation with him. “You rob me of more than that. Well you must know it.”

He sounded like a suitor. She wrestled down her foolish hope. “Good. Keeps you on your toes.”

“Tell me your secrets, ma petite , and I will cease and desist.”

“Ha!” she burst out. “That, I cannot afford.”

He trotted close. “Then you are stuck with me.”

She turned to argue with him, but he urged his horse to a stop. Then, with a tip of his hat, he bade her good day.

Surprised at his early departure, she admitted to herself she was relieved, but disappointed that she could not spar with him. She brightened, choosing the better of her plans.

“Come, we return to the stables,” she said to her groom.

What she needed to do should best be done soon, when the street markets were open. She’d also go on foot for this expedition. She had to take the chance that Tate was done stalking her for today.

For this, she wanted to go alone.

*

As the sun rose in the sky toward nine in the morning, Viv strolled her neighborhood street market near the old abbey. She had ordered her personal maid Alice to her work, and instead called for one footman and her kitchen maid, Suzette, to follow. The footman and the young maid were Parisians. The maid would provide the cover of knowing precisely what was needed to be purchased for the day’s menus—and how to haggle the price of it.

Viv had come this way on foot only twice before this day. She had tried to walk the street ever since she settled into her house in March, but had postponed it. Curiosity had finally overcome her. She wished to see her former home.

Only twice this past week had she and the maid walked in front of the house. Both times Viv forced herself to behold the house for one more minute than the last. Here in the shelter of a shop doorway, she was away from any audience.

Here she did not have to pretend she was anyone other than who she was. In her bones, she was slow to vengeance. She knew that of herself. So she pardoned herself for her tenderness and delay. She would take her vengeance in her own time. Her own way. Heartened, she did not hide the tears that welled in her eyes now as she gazed upon the front door.

A flash of Tate’s expression grinning at her this morning buoyed her. He would applaud her coming here. That had her smiling as she paused directly across from the house where she once had laughed and frolicked.

The five-story townhouse looked in good repair. How it had survived the assault of rioters who looted and burned so much of the city, she did not know. But it had good moldings on the windowpanes. All were intact. The creamy Parisian stone looked worn, but then, the house was more than one hundred years old. The stone on the street level had been washed lately. She would be proud to live here. Had been happy to do so…until that horrible night when all went wrong.

“ Mademoiselle? ” asked Suzette. “You like this house?”

“I do, Suzette.” I do.

“Do you wish to see it? Inside? It is to let.”

“Is it really?” Viv saw no sign in the front window. “How do you know?”

“My mama is a friend of the majordom who is the caretaker. If you wish, I can rap upon the door and ask?”

“No, no. I have no desire to take a lease. I like our house. Very much.”

Suzette, like all her staff, knew her family history. Viv had read the stories herself in the gossip sheets. The trials and tribulations of the French actress Charmaine de Massé were often reported. Her servants might not know the full of the tragedy that occurred there, but it was enough for Suzette to wonder if Viv might wish to take over the house.

“I could introduce you, the famous actress of the ancient Massé family. Anyone would be proud to allow you to walk through, mademoiselle.”

Viv wavered, her lips parting in eager anticipation.

The girl’s blue eyes mellowed as she read Viv’s expression. “I can do it, mademoiselle. Shall it be now?”

“ Oui , now.” Before I lose my nerve.

The young woman crossed the cobbles. Her basket, full of tiny potatoes and spring asparagus, swung with the sway of her hips.

The motion mesmerized Viv. Courage was a delicate cat, lured by peace, inspired by rabid desires.

The maid stepped up to the door and pulled at the filigreed iron-worked bell. She paused, glancing back at Viv, then smiling.

But minutes passed.

Suzette rang again.

No one came.

Viv nibbled her lower lip.

What would she do here, anyway? Survey what was left? Cry that the house was empty? Gasp that the Jarre family had retained Mama’s furnishings—or destroyed them as cruelly as they had all in the family?

Viv hurried to her maid and took her arm. “Another day, we will return. Another time.”

*

Flummoxed, Tate left Viv that morning and, instead of going home, steered his horse to rue Saint-Honoré. Kane would be up—he rose early. His wife, Augustine, was great with child and would not be able to receive anyone for quite a while. Kane and Tate would break their fast together, as they often did.

Tate also knew that Godfrey, Lord Ramsey, was at odds and ends lately. He did not sleep well and often joined Kane and Tate for breakfast. The reason for Ram’s insomnia was one Tate had recently learned quite by accident.

Ram was recently estranged from Madame Saint Antoine. Tate had not known that night in February, when they were all at the theater, that the reason for Ram’s odd behavior was due to the despair Ram felt at the loss of the lovely widow whom he adored. Their breakup was not recent, but it left a vast crack in Ram’s heart.

Work offered Ram many salves. Tate went about his with a similar lack of zest. Kane offered advice to his two friends with their professional worries and a respite from personal ones.

Tate looped his reins around the iron fence outside the door to Kane’s house and stepped up to pull the knocker.

Kane’s majordom, a resourceful Florentine named Corsini, promptly appeared and welcomed Tate inside. “I’ll have our groom see to your horse, my lord. Allow me to show you to the library. Lord Ramsey waits there too. Lord Ashley will attend you both shortly.”

Once there, Tate was startled when Ram took one look at him and his expression fell.

“Not happy to see me?” Tate joked.

“Not that at all, my friend.”

“What bothers you?” Tate watched Ram as he walked toward the window and clasped his hands behind his back. “From the look on your face, I’d say it is not that our ambassador and Bonaparte continue to carve each other up for dinner lately.”

“Not that, no.” Ram faced him. His cerulean-blue eyes flared wide, the wry humor about politics dying as something more disturbing replaced it. “Something has come to my attention lately. I have time on my hands…and I reminisce more than I should. I really should have put the pieces of this issue together for you long before this, but I have been, shall we say…distracted?”

“Very well.” Tate took a chair, comfortable to be in such old, familiar company. Whatever it was, he trusted Ram. “It cannot be that bad.”

“I have no idea. You must promise to tell me.”

“Anything.” Tate lifted a hand. “Let’s hear it.”

“It occurs to me that I know a few things that you should. The whole matter may be of no import to you. But we work in puzzles and missed chances. It might be useful.”

“Go on.” Tate reached for the coffee service Corsini must have provided earlier for the morning meeting.

“I am in my own house lately in rue d’Orleans. This is the one I let when Kane and I first arrived here last April. Soon after that, I left Paris to search for Madame St. Antoine.”

Tate knew how the lovely redhead had disappeared from Paris for many months. She had left the city early last spring. When she returned in July, she came with Ramsey but soon parted from him. Ram, who had never married and never shown any permanent interest in a woman, had cared for Madame St. Antoine with an undying passion. Kane had told Tate the story, not to spread tales but to inform him of Ram’s occasional dismal moods. The full story of Ram’s affection for the lady was not one Tate wished to press either friend to reveal. Ram, usually so forthcoming on any matter, had never shared much about his tendre for Madame St. Antoine—and Tate knew him well enough not to intrude, nor to embarrass him by asking.

Ram turned toward him. “I accompanied Madame St. Antoine for a few weeks last spring in her journeys in the countryside. Last summer, we returned to Paris, as she and I both had reason to report here.”

That was new information to Tate. Was Ram implying that Madame St. Antoine was an agent? For Kane? Or for someone else? Surely she would work for the Crown or some entity opposed to the Consulate, else Ram would not have, as he obviously had, fallen in love with the woman.

“For a while, we lived in a house in Saint Germain. Near the abbey. On the rue du Four.”

Tate regarded Ram with new interest.

“It was once the home of the Vicomte de Neufchateau, one he purchased for one of his mistresses. Often, he lived there with his whole family instead of in his mansion on the right bank.”

The hair on Tate’s neck rose. The house on rue du Four was the very one he himself had lived in with the Massé family before he accompanied the women in their flight from the city—before the vicomte fled Paris, was caught, and returned to it. The mistress for whom the old vicomte bought the house was Vivi’s mother, Madeleine. “I know it well.”

Ram flourished a dismissive hand, appearing as if he thought Tate’s stillness implied the house meant little to him. “In any case, after Neufchateau was chased down and sent back to Paris and the guillotine, the banking family Jarre bought the house from the government.”

At the mention of the family who were related to that roué Cyprien Montagne, Tate sat forward. He did not like the alarm that rang in his ears. “The committee confiscated the properties of those they condemned to death.”

“They did.”

“The house could be used as government property or sold to private citizens who had enough money. The Jarre family wanted the prestige of owning such a house. The vicomte even complained that Monsieur Jarre told him that,” Tate went on, remembering how the vicomte disliked the resentful, gray-haired banker. He frowned, angry that he had not thought of the Jarre connection to Montagne. But Viv had been to Montagne’s house often. He’d seen her, been there too. Three times now, she had flirted with the danger that Montagne might hurt her. Drug her. Rape her.

But going nonetheless…so that what? That she might cultivate Cyprien? Or come across the old man Alfonse, who’d testified against the vicomte? Tate was fairly certain he’d read the little bugger was dead.

He rose slowly.

Ram went on, apology in his manner. “I only lately recalled that you told me years ago some of this story of how you’d been here in Paris and had to run from the Paris gendarme. But you seemed too devastated to talk about it in detail—and I never asked specifics.”

“It’s true I was disturbed about it and did not wish to speak of it. Only lately did I tell Kane more about what happened here in ninety-two.” Tate needed more information. “What else do you know about the house? Those who own it?”

“The caretaker for the family acts as the majordom. A good man. Fair and kind. I liked him. Might you wish to talk to him?”

“I might,” Tate said, speculating what niggled at the edge of his memory. Why would he meet the majordom? To learn of his connections to the Jarre family? Find old Alfonse’s young successor before Viv did? If she even wanted him at all!

Ram tipped his head in consideration of Tate’s thoughtfulness. “If you wish an introduction, I could do it.”

Tate nodded. “Yes. Yes, I might. What is his name?”

“Gaspard.”

“I do not know it.”

“He never mentioned being related to the Jarres. Only employed by them,” Ram said.

Tate nodded. “Not unusual. These townhouses on the left bank were not as elaborate as the mansions on the right bank. But still they are fine edifices, some untouched by mobs and standing with all their fine furniture intact.” Many of them, whether owned by the government or vacant, needed the careful touches of those who knew when a roof needed repair or a cellar cleared of rats. “To withstand the tests of time, the houses need experts to look after them properly, and so many of the old retainers were carted off to Madame Machine or were frightened off.”

“Let me know if you wish to go. Mademoiselle de Massé, too,” Ram offered. “I’d be happy to do that for you.”

Tate pondered whether Viv would wish to visit. But why would she? It would be a walk through the hell of her last days in Paris. Wouldn’t it?

But such an act might jar her to give him further evidence of what she did here in Paris.

Her “retribution” sounded dark. And such evil was never in her nature. He knew what terrible consequences a human could inflict on another when retribution was the goal. His wife Belinda, may God rest her soul, had earned all the evil from her own acts of revenge. He did not want Viv to suffer that, and hoped he might save her the sorrow.

Going to the house might then be a sound venture. It might soothe her. Restore her equanimity.

Or spur her on.