Chapter Eight

H er euphoria at Tate’s declarations drifted away like the ripples in the Seine. She watched the river rush past as she took her town coach to the theater late that afternoon and admitted that she was overwhelmed with dread of what she now had to do.

Viv diverted herself with the task that had long eaten away at her. Now she must make haste. She had to prepare. Going to rue du Four was the first step.

She took the groom’s hand and nearly leapt from the coach in her haste. Louis was tucked under her arm, wiggling to be let down.

Alice harrumphed and scurried along behind her into the backstage entrance door. The English maid was rigid in her daily chores, and when it was late afternoon, she preferred to sit and nap. Today, Viv had other plans.

Her nerves had been a jumble since her encounter with Tate earlier. The house was dark tonight, but she decided to go to the theater to talk with the manager. She had one thing in particular to discuss with the man. He’d delayed doing her a favor, and though she did not need the service immediately, she would soon. Since she had kissed Tate, she had to hurry her actions, find her marks. His presence everywhere all the time told her of his dedication to following her and discovering her plans. She also had to dampen her delight that Tate had come looking for her last year—and kill her anger that Charmaine had not told him where she was.

Was that another example of Charmaine’s cruelty? Or had her sister been wise to deny Tate any knowledge of where she was? Viv went from one conclusion to the other.

By June of last spring, she and Charmaine had already decided on the outline of their plan. Viv was well on her way to impersonating her sister. She’d convinced the manager of the London theater where Charmaine had opened in a new production of Romeo and Juliet that she was indeed the acclaimed star who was known for her ethereal French beauty. She’d also convinced him that she would disappear each night into her own world—and her solitude had to be complete.

Charmaine retired to the country with another name and a new maid. Viv was launched as the star who would accept the offer to return to Paris and appear in the land of her birth in a play by Molière.

“Good afternoon, Giselle,” Viv bade the house seamstress who sat at the rickety table near the backstage corridor. Alice trotted along behind her. “Is Monsieur Lamond in his office?”

The old woman raised her pinched gaze from the hem of a wine-red cloak she sewed. “ Oui, mademoiselle. Il est ivre comme un putois. ”

Drunk again? Why am I not surprised? “Merci , Giselle. You need more light to work on that cloak. Come, I will give you two more candles from my room.”

“ Non, non. Ce n’est pas nécessaire, mademoiselle. ”

“It is necessary, Giselle. We’ll do better than one candle. Come with me.” She hooked her arm through the old woman’s and lifted her up. The lady had a crooked posture and wobbled whenever she walked. If her feet and legs did not do well for her, neither did her weak eyes. She needed every bit of help she could get.

“Mademoiselle, s’il vous pla?t . You go too fast for this old woman.”

“My apologies. Alice, will you take Giselle’s other arm and escort her to my room? Light all the candles for her. And yes, get Giselle’s mending and let her do it in my dressing room.”

Viv left them at the turn for Lamond’s hideaway. He liked to be invisible. Actors, he claimed, wanted the moon, and he had only stardust to give. A frustrated thespian, the man gave speeches worthy of a candidate for prime minister. Viv had seen many in her day try for public office and counted them better actors than many she’d seen on stage.

Sidestepping the coiled ropes and stage furniture piled on top of the other, she maneuvered through the close hall to the back wall. At the left was a makeshift old door, which she rapped upon. “Monsieur Lamond?”

“Go away.”

“It’s Charmaine de Massé, monsieur.”

He grumbled and groaned. “Wrong day, madame.”

He always called her madame . She shook her head. “Monsieur, only a word, please.”

He grumbled more. Then his door swung open on its creaky hinge. Ordinarily a good man to deal with, when drunk, he was a bore. “What might you want, eh?”

“Might I come in?”

He waved an arm in elaborate circles. “You’re in now, chatte .”

In his cups, he could be crude. She had no energy to chastise him, only to get what she needed. So she sat.

He put his jowly face near hers, pressing his lips together as he curled a brow and established that, indeed, this was the lady of the hour. “Not open tonight. Why’re you here? Hmm?”

Her eyes watered at the sour alcohol on his breath. “I wondered, monsieur, if you been able to get any of those medicinals we spoke about?”

“Medicine. What?”

She cleared her throat. “You agreed to purchase for me a few tinctures at an apothecary you frequent.”

He lowered both brows and let his tongue bathe his lower lip. “Hmmm. Apothicaire? Did I?”

“You said you knew of a good one in Place Royale.”

“ Oui. Not Royale. Vosges.” He stood taller, his head bobbing as he scanned the walls of his littered cubbyhole.

Meanwhile, Viv was bitterly recalling that Bonaparte had changed the name of the famous Parisian square to the part of the country which had paid their taxes to keep up the Corsican’s army. “The apothecary, monsieur? Did you see him and buy my—”

“No. Haven’t”—he hiccuped—“seen him. Haven’t.”

She sighed, but smiled at him. “Perhaps if you were to give me his address?”

“Why not, eh? Wait. Don’t go.” He went to scribble on a loose scrap he had on his little desk. “Know a man came looking for you this morning?”

“No, I did not know. A patron, was he?”

“No. Didn’t look it.”

“No?” Who, then? “Why not, monsieur?”

“Not dressed. Very…”

She pressed her lips tighter at his hesitance. “Very what, Monsieur Lamond?”

He snarled his lip. “Gendarme, I’d guess. Sharp. Cagey. Off, I’d say.”

“A city official looking to cite us for breaking some code?” She ventured at that because the government was known for suddenly deciding some play or newspaper or street vendor was infringing on new orders of banned topics. Bonaparte and his men pretended they were such freedom-loving republicans, when in fact they issued edicts ever more frequently limiting the rights of speech and publication.

Lamond wiggled his nose as he thought over her premise. “ Peut-être. ”

Maybe?

Her mind ran back to the fellow whom she discovered tracking her this morning. “What did he look like?”

“Black hair. Tall. Skinny as a pole.”

Her fellow or not? “Did he leave his name?”

“No. No, no, no. Left like a bird.” Lamond held out his slip of paper with the address of the apothecary.

“ Merci beaucoup. ” She slid it from his shaking fingers and bade him adieu.

Collecting Alice and Louis, Viv climbed back into her waiting carriage. She’d only created more mysteries for herself coming here.

She glanced at Lamond’s handwriting. 2 Blanc was all he’d written.

Wonderful. What help was that?

*

Tate had not slept well, and the horse the stable master assigned him this morning was a massive stallion who had a mind of his own. Tate had long since given up training unruly animals—or men, for that matter. He left horses, cows, and pigs to those who knew how and what they needed. As for men, Tate believed he chose those who were his friends, male or female, with a shrewd eye to their ethics, and those who did not match his own were irrelevant to him.

But this horse this morning was under strict orders to mend his ways. The animal had already kicked up his hooves and affected a faster run than Tate anticipated. The horse almost unseated him. Which would have been a fine mess, if Tate had broken a leg. “Or my arse. So you see, sir, I have no time for your shenanigans. I am here to woo a lady who is most recalcitrant. If you will not help, I will walk you on a lead.”

As if the brute understood, he shook his noble black mane and trod on like a gentleman.

Tate soon saw Viv turning off Pont Neuf toward him along the river. She wore a bright pink riding habit, trimmed in bold fuchsia. The little hat perched on one side of her head was a perfect adornment to her white-blonde hair and sublime complexion. Her blue eyes danced with wickedness when she saw him.

Had she thought well of what he had revealed yesterday? God, he hoped so. That event when he went to her cottage last year, found her gone without word among her friends of her destination, had left him bereft. Even Charmaine did not know where Viv had gone. Afterward, he’d accepted another set of secret assignments from Scarlett, if only to fill his mind and ignore the loss that could send him to the bottom of a whiskey bottle. And then a year later, on yet another assignment, to suddenly see Viv appear in Paris was a jolt to his system.

And now it was a benefit he would not waste.

She was here, for whatever reason. She had kissed him. More than once. She showed signs she had cared for him despite his failure with Diane.

He’d felt the power of her kiss, the eagerness of her fingers in his hair, her nipples hard and yearning against his chest. His Viv might be portraying her sister, but his darling did not feign her desire for him.

It was real. It was right. She could be his.

“Good morning, mademoiselle.” He tipped his hat to her and, with a nod at the dour-faced groom riding behind Viv, smiled at the woman he adored. “A lovely day.”

“Indeed,” she bit off.

“Bad night?”

“Terrible.”

“Wish to discuss it?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

They rode on past a few shops and greeted a few early morning riders. His horse made a few approaches to hers in what passed for his interest.

“Your horse,” Viv said with a wrinkle of her brow, “likes my mare too much.”

“He is incorrigible. I do apologize. He’s given me a fit already this morning. The best I can do is tell you we should return to our stables and walk instead of ride.”

“No walking,” she said with a surreptitious glance to her far right.

He checked her view. Then the other side. “I see nothing untoward.”

She swallowed and shook her head. “Good. About him ,” she said, and widened her eyes to emphasize whom she meant, “everyone in my house knows his description. I made them aware immediately.”

“Wise.” He gave another glance left, front, to the right. No one matched the fellow he had seen previously.

Viv slowed her horse. “He or someone has also been to the theater to inquire as to my whereabouts.”

Tate bristled. “Who told you this?”

“The theater manager. In his cups, he was, but he retained enough sense to remember to tell me.”

Tate noticed no one following her. No one loitering outside her townhouse. “So do you think he is the same fellow?”

“I’m not sure. The description the manager gave me left much to be desired.”

He rode quietly for a few minutes. “Let’s stop at that café ahead to our left.”

She faced him, her pretty pink cheeks gone ashen. “I am afraid, Tate.”

“Not to worry, my darling. I am with you. Let’s stop and have a coffee and pastry, shall we? Then we’ll look at anyone who may have more interest in our coffee than we do, eh?”

*

“Let’s go,” Viv told him minutes later. “I don’t see him.”

Tate checked on her groom. The man sat at another table, and the shake of his head told Tate he did not see anyone matching the description of the fellow.

Tate and Viv returned their horses and her groom Fortin to the stables, then continued down the thoroughfare toward rue du Four.

On their way, numerous pedestrians walked toward the abbey. As it neared the hour for morning mass, the bells tolled and the square was alive with the music of them.

“I never thought to see the likes of that again,” Viv said to him as they passed the entrance to the church. “So many hated the priests and their hold over people. They killed hundreds of them so brutally that same day they came for us. How do they go to mass now? How can they pray for the souls of those gone before when in fact they destroyed them with knives and hatchets?”

Tate took her arm and pressed it through the crook of his elbow. He patted her hand. “Bonaparte opened the churches for masses months ago. He needs peace, and so do the people.”

“They grew tired of their persecution, did they?” She scowled. “How good of them.”

Tate understood how she could vilify those who had come for them that night years ago. “They missed their God and their reason to live.”

She sniffed. “God has nothing to do with the reason to live.”

Such cynicism from her shocked him. “You used to believe that love was the best means to a happy life.”

She snorted, impossibly sad. “Did I?”

He stopped to put his arms around her. They stood near the turn into rue du Four. He cupped her cheeks. “My dear Vivi, I have no idea what you are doing here in Paris, but it has changed you in ways I do not understand. I want to hear you say you believe in love again.”

“A noble endeavor, sir.”

“To which I am devoted, my darling.” He dropped a sweet little kiss to her lips and silently led them both toward the house they both had known so very well.

*

She put a hand out to stop him from approaching the house. It rose above her, five stories tall, serene, stately. Built at the turn of the previous century, the facing was of that special Parisian white stone from a massive quarry north of the city that all prestigious architects bought. The elaborate scrolling above the door in the lintel was of grape leaves entwined with the petunias and geraniums of the east.

Now upon the broad front step, Tate gazed at her with compassion. “Pull the bell.”

Of course she would. She reached across the delicately carved front door, now a curious emerald green.

They waited.

“The caretaker may be on holiday,” she told Tate, anxiously tapping one foot to the cobbles. “He did not answer yesterday or the day before.”

“We can return if he does not come today,” Tate said. “It is important that we are here.”

But someone called within the house. A lock turned. The door swung wide.

A tall, gray-haired man stood there, his benevolent smile the warmth Viv recalled—not from him, for he was new, different from their previous servant, their majordom. Dear heaven, what had happened to their man? To all in the house who had served them so well? She had not thought of them. Not until now. Had they fled? Were they hunted? Had they died because they served tea and did the laundry and cooked the meals for the family of Vicomte de Neufchateau?

Viv ridiculed herself for her lack of concern for them. A hand to her mouth, she muffled her cry.

But there was more that stunned her. This man, this majordom before her, for surely he was the caretaker of the house, looked familiar.

Viv caught her breath. She swallowed hard on a vague memory. Could it be that she knew him?

Her mind raced to match his characteristics to those servants she’d known in the past. His nose was terribly large, his eyes bulging. His wiry gray hair was tamed but barely so. Still, he was quick to smile, and his pleasant look seemed the true essence of his nature.

He exchanged a few introductory words with Tate, then his pale gaze traveled across to her once more.

“We have come to ask if we may see the house,” Tate explained. “May I present the daughter of the former owner—this is Mademoiselle de Massé.”

Viv glanced at Tate, who evidently could not bear to call her by her sister’s name. A good thing, given the circumstances. Putting that aside, she smiled at the majordom.

“I am honored, mademoiselle,” the man greeted her with a sudden broad grin, then took her hand to lead her over the threshold. His gaze flowed over her with the kindliness of an uncle. “Come,” he pronounced delicately, as if he invited her into a fantasy.

And he did.

Like a butterfly drawn to a fragrant flower, Viv went. One foot before the other, she sailed into a phantasm of what had been.

“I am delighted you have come. I read that you appear at the theater nearby, and I did wonder whether you would wish to see the house.”

She tore her gaze from the familiar graceful architecture. “You are most gracious, Monsieur…?”

“Gaspard, mademoiselle. I am honored to welcome you.”

They stood in the foyer. The elegant, wide, white-stoned foyer, and the winding staircase up. The ones she and the others had run down to flee.

That night, Charmaine had been in a rush to leave and carried her pearls and small gold necklaces in her case. Barking at Diane, Charmaine had held her head high, superior as ever, but acting as if she had not a care…

The image of Viv’s oldest sister dissolved.

“The owners told me we have few pieces of the original furniture,” Gaspard told them as they climbed the steps to the first floor.

“The owners?” Viv asked.

“ Oui , Monsieur Jarre,” he told her.

“The bankers.” The ones who increased the interest on Papa’s debts and turned in my father to the Paris Commune.

“Exactly.” Gaspard spoke as if it were unimportant and so far in the past. “They bought the house from your father.”

She blinked. That was not true. The house became the property of the state after Papa was guillotined. Jarre had bought it from the government.

“And in here,” Gaspard said, opening the doors to the salon, “only the drapes are original.”

Viv stood, her mouth open at the sight of sky-blue damask drapes against the curtains trimmed in ivory Chantilly lace. Her mother had adored these drapes, which kept the cold out in winter and the heat away in summer. The chairs and settees placed strategically around the salon were nothing she remembered.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” the majordom asked.

Tate deferred to her. “Would you?”

She swallowed. “Indeed, I would.”

Up they went to the third floor. Two tapestries hung, but they had been slashed at two corners and not repaired. One had a burn mark as if from a candle’s flame. All the art was gone, including the portraits of her father and mother, even the one of Viv with her two sisters. Gaspard led them into the small salon dotted with three bright chartreuse chairs. There her mother, father, and Viv would often sit when they were in town and Papa had no obligations at Versailles, or later, after the storming of the Bastille, when he was not sitting in the first National Assembly.

Further along was the girls’ bedroom. The frilly pink and white of the room was now painted over with pale blue, but to Viv it was as it had been that terrible night. She grabbed the bedpost as a vision swept over her of the three of them here packing. She saw Diane folding her dearest blue and green gowns. Charmaine was sniping at her.

“Monsieur Gaspard, did you ever hear of some group called the Bonnet-Rouge or…or…”

He nodded, a solemn look in his eyes. “Bonnet-Rouge Section, it was. Oui , mademoiselle. Many knew of it. All in that tribunal lived in this part of Saint Germain. They are gone now, thanks to God. They were ruthless—notorious, in fact. They worked with the local police, those in the Croix-Rouge—the crossroads in this faubourg. Together, they sent many to their deaths with only a few minutes of trial.”

Tate took her hand. “Why do you ask?”

“Diane had gone earlier that day to watch them hold a trial. Char—Charlotte was our maid.” She made that up to cover her blunder of the name. “She was afraid Diane went to watch them too often.”

“Who is this Diane, mademoiselle?” Gaspard asked.

“My sister. She was abducted that night from our carriage. We…we never saw her again.”

But more about that night disturbed Viv. She could not put her finger on the point, either. Meanwhile, Gaspard ushered them around to the master bedrooms and her father’s little study. Then the tour was done and the three of them took the staircase down.

In the foyer, Viv had to ask if Gaspard had any news about the former servants.

“A few. My mother’s cousin was your majordom. He is gone now these past five years. Aside from him, I know only two. Your mother’s personal maid lives with her son north of Paris in Compiègne.”

“And the other?” Viv had to hope he might know about the scullery maid, whom she and Charmaine often talked about as being the one who informed on the family’s departure and got the Section’s sans-culotte hoodlums to harass them as they left the house that night.

“Ah. Gatel. Once one of your family’s maids. Oui. Jocelyn Gatel. She worked for your mother and afterward for the Jarre family here for many years. Promoted, she was, to first kitchen maid. She is pensioned now. Crippled.”

Thrilled to know she still lived, Viv could not find any compassion in her soul to pity her. “Do you know where she lives? I would love to visit her.”

“Ah. A fine idea. She would welcome you, I am certain. She likes a smile. An old friend.”

“You have her address?”

“I think the house agent knows it. I will try to get it for you.”

“Wonderful. I can return tomorrow to get it. Will that be convenient?”

“The house agent is not the generous sort. He may take persuasion.”

“Does coin help persuade him?” Tate asked.

“Sadly, oui .”

“Allow me, then,” Tate said, and reached in his pocket for a few shiny new francs.

“ Merci. He will appreciate it.” Gaspard gave a rueful smile. “When I get the address, I can bring it to you, mademoiselle.”

Tate and she left with many thanks. He accompanied Viv home, strolling slowly as they both absorbed how fine a reminiscence it had been to visit the house.

“No one follows us,” she said, having examined the pedestrians all around them.

“Even if our man does, you are protected. You are not to worry about being attacked.”

“I’m not,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is because you are with me.”

“Perhaps that is a sign you need me with you all the time,” he said with a smoldering smile. As they approached her front door in rue du Bac, Tate paused and took her hands in his. “Look at me, please. What is it about the scullery maid that compels you to visit her?”

“She was friendly, too friendly with a man whom Diane said was a runner for the local Bonnet-Rouge tribunal. Yet I overhead another maid say her lover was police. I must learn who he was—and if he informed the local police that we were leaving that night.”

His gaze turned hard as stone. “What merits it now if you see her?”

“I must hear her explanation, mustn’t I?” She gave him a lift of her chin in defiance.

“No.”

“But I will.”

He winced. “I will come with you.”

“That is unnecessary.”

He clutched her hands. “I will not let you go alone.”

“I do not invite you.”

He traced the arch of her cheek with a fingertip. “But you trust me and you should want me for this—and for more. I am your best shadow, my darling. I promise you no one will hurt you ever again.”