Chapter One

April 30, 1802

Reims, France

A mber paused, huddled in her ragged clothes against the chill of the night, her hand midair ready to knock on her own kitchen door.

"Swallow your reluctance, ma chérie ." Her husband's baritone filled her senses. Maurice was gone now, dead these many months, but she heard him clearly. So like him to come to her here, where they had lived and loved and where she now had to enter to save herself.

"You are brave, mon amour ."

And also stupid to have come to this juncture, Maurice!

" Non! March on!"

His encouragement, always, was dauntless when she hesitated in her work.

Still, she shivered. Fingers to her trembling lips, she breathed deeply to quell her fright. It was not for herself that she feared, but for those in the house. Never would she wish to bring darkness to their lives and sully the years of devoted service they had rendered to her husband and her.

She rapped on the old wooden door. The sound resonated along the narrow cobbled ruelle behind her townhouse—and she flinched.

But no other sound filled the alley. No one walked here. No one usually did after midnight. Especially not on a cold night at the end of April.

Spurred to action, she knocked on the door once more. The majordom , Bonnet, would be in bed. Their kitchen maid had a tendency to stay up far after the other two servants in the house. The housemaid, deaf Nancy, would not hear a thing, though often she compensated for her lack with an uncanny awareness of things gone awry.

Amber cared not who answered the door, only that someone came quickly. She did not want her hired carriage and grooms questioning where she'd disappeared and roam the streets searching for her. They were to circle the ancient cathedral for forty-five minutes, then come to a stop across from the great west door and wait for her. They would return, she knew, because she had to pay them the promised balance of their fare. Then she would dismiss them and vanish into the night to escape the ghouls who pursued her.

A light shone in the kitchen window. Was it the kitchen maid, Mimi, who lit a candle to light her way to the servants' back door? It had to be…unless Amber's butler Bonnet had hired someone new since Amber had been away. She prayed that was not so. She curled her shoulders round her. These days she trusted no one new in her life.

The peephole in the kitchen door slipped aside. One wizened eye peered out at her, and the female's gasp within told her that Mimi recognized her. Even in her men's floppy hat and worn frock coat.

Amber heard Mimi scramble away, the three-hundred-year-old floorboards creaking beneath her feet. She inhaled, at peace as a ray of light appeared above in the butler's rooms atop the old house and spilled out to the alley. The warmth of that light, and the promise of relief that it signaled, had Amber panting in relief.

Sounds of other footsteps down the stairs and around hallways offered her more comfort. Then the kitchen door swung wide.

" Madame! " The broad smile of her fierce and fond majordom , Monsieur Bonnet, thrilled her and filled her with his warm affection. "Come in! Come in!"

The fragrance of cinnamon floated out from the vast kitchen. That brought her peace as well.

Bonnet gave her a little bow of polite welcome, the smile on his thin face broad and effervescent. "Madame, you are cold. The night air predicts a piercing sleet. Let me light a fire and make you warm."

"No, Bonnet." She swept off her hat and tucked it in her coat pocket. "I am not here long. Do not bother with that."

"But surely a drink? Mulled wine? Tea?"

" Oui , that would be quick and good. A drop of good calvados brandy with my tea, s'il vous pla?t. It is all I have time for."

"You do not stay? Je regret, madame."

" Et moi , Bonnet." She swept inside and went up the servants' steep stairs to the main floor, then stepped out into the long hall and paused. Ever was she struck by the Rococo beauty of the three-hundred-year-old house, especially the circular stained glass window that sparkled as the moon poured all the colors of the rainbow upon the thick red and blue Turkish carpet runner.

She hurried on before she let her tears fall. This had been her beloved home with Maurice. Now she had none. None! She clutched at her throat and swallowed her despair.

"Forgive me," she said as Bonnet followed her into the salon. She smiled and pointed toward one large Louis Quatorze overstuffed chair. "I must sit in one of my good chairs. I've been riding in a terrible carriage, and the jostling hurts my back."

She had developed tenderness in her spine after she miscarried her baby last year. She had writhed so in the ordeal that she had put her bones in distress. Ever after, she'd had to sit in well-upholstered chairs.

"You have come, madame, in a carriage not your own?"

At Bonnet's question, she realized not only his surprise but also the fact that she'd imparted more information than was good for the man to know. The less he heard from her, the less he could repeat if ever Rene Vaillancourt's men came here to call upon him.

"No." It would not have been wise to ask her Aunt Cecily's grooms to bring her here. She had not because they too could be arrested and interrogated by the deputy chief of police, Vaillancourt. The man wanted too much of her that she could never give.

She changed the subject as she sank into the huge chartreuse silk chair near the fireplace. "I apologize for disturbing the household, Bonnet."

"Madame, we are delighted to have you at any hour of any day or night."

"You are sweet, Bonnet. I've missed you," she said, and absorbed the beauty of the shadowed room where once she had laughed and loved oh so well. The lively pink walls and lime-trimmed paneling was usually sweet. Tonight, it was forbidding in the solemn dark. Bonnet had not lit a fire in this room. Nor had he indicated, in this room at least, that she was gone indefinitely by throwing cloths over the delicate furniture. She appreciated her butler's care of her charming home.

"Rest," he told her, his hands out in the manner of a priest giving benediction. "I will get your tea and brandy. Enjoy the chair." Then, with raw concern in his large brown eyes, he spun on his heel.

She melted into the plush chair cushions and ground her teeth that Vaillancourt had taken this from her, this pleasure, this satisfaction. But then, he had taken much more from so many others. For so little reason. Hatred of him and what he did for the consulate, what he had done over the years to her friends, boiled in her brain.

She wrung her hands, but, noticing, pulled them apart. She would not fret. Must not. But keep going. Always.

"March on," she whispered to herself, and smiled at the memory of her beloved husband's words.

Maurice had supported her in her quest. Shocked as he was initially at her revelation of her purpose, her solicitous, gentlemanly husband had blinked and rallied to her cause within minutes of her disclosure. That she was not a woman of frivolous thoughts and superficial desires he had always known, he told her.

"Why would I think you would sit home to gossip and crochet when the world burns for justice?" he had said.

"I had enough of inactivity in Carmes," she had replied, laughing though her insides crawled with the memory of her months in the Paris prison. The filth and the gruel were awful, yet bearable. But the jeering, salacious guards, who demanded sexual favors from the female inmates, had made life a living hell. Amber had escaped ruin because her dear aunt and that lady's closest friend had forbidden the men to touch her. She remembered the men's leering faces and their threats to have her.

Bonnet's smile took her from the past as he appeared in the doorway of the salon, carrying a tray. "Your tea will be ready in a few minutes. As you wait, I have brought you bread and cheese, jam, and a small cake, too. You appear thinner, madame. I hope you are well."

Bonnet was the closest any man had ever come to being a father figure for her. She accepted his offerings with the kind regard of the girl she no longer was. "I am most grateful, Bonnet. I will avail myself of this and then adjourn upstairs."

"Would you like me to awaken Nancy? Is there any task she may help you with?" Bonnet arched both thin gray brows. She was dressed like a pauper from the slums of Compiègne, and Bonnet did her the honor of not perusing her body in her rough, mannish clothes.

She shook her head. " Non , Bonnet. I will do as I will quickly. Let Nancy rest."

He stood watching over her. "I will leave you, if you wish."

"No, stay, monsieur . I will only be a minute." She broke off bits of the almond cake and enjoyed the delicacy of it. "I will do this fine repast what little justice I have time for. My thanks for it. But now you must listen to me, Bonnet."

He stood at attention, his voluminous vermilion banyan swirling around his frail frame. "Whatever I can, madame."

"I will go upstairs in a few minutes to my rooms to change these clothes. When I come down, I will give you these rags. You are to burn them in a good, high fire."

"Madame!" He bolted upright, shocked.

" Oui . Do it, Bonnet." She had lived in them in the tunnels beneath her aunt's house Compiègne for the past six weeks. They reeked. As do I. "I suggest the kitchen roasting pit. If anyone asks, even Nancy or Mimi, say you were cold this night and could not sleep for the frost in your limbs."

Strained with the horror of her words, he nodded. "I will, madame."

"I was not here. Nancy and Mimi must say that, too. I fear they may notice some little thing about my presence here, but still this is a severe matter, Bonnet. They must not say I was here. Ever."

"Madame, I am very worried about you. Our monsieur would not like this and would argue against it."

She nodded, sad and silent. Maurice would urge me on. He knew the power of the chief of police, Joseph Fouché, and his acolyte, Rene Vaillancourt.

"Can you tell me why you are not in Paris with your aunt, Madame la Comtesse, and your friend, Mademoiselle Augustine?"

"I had to leave, Bonnet. Suffice it to say, I had good reason. I doubt I will ever return." She finished the last of her cake. She hated to leave. The very thought had her recoiling again like a ninny. She hung her head a second, before she recovered herself and struggled to stand. "I must go now. It is best if you not know where I go."

"Vaillancourt," Bonnet said. "He did not like my Monsieur St. Antoine."

"He hated that I loved and married Monsieur St. Antoine, and he seeks his revenge. I will not allow it, Bonnet."

"No, madame. And rightly so."

She nodded, then turned for the hall and took the stairs. At the top of the landing, she felt the kindly glow of the moonlight through the dome above. No sounds came from the servants' floor above. Nancy had not awakened, and Amber was pleased she hadn't. The girl slept soundly, working hard each day, deaf though she was, and hampered by the club foot that she dragged along with her every step. Amber would miss seeing the girl who always hurried to embrace her each time she came home to Reims.

Frowning, Amber hastened down the hall to the master suites. She opened the sitting room double doors and smiled at the wonderful, yet heartbreaking, familiarity. The last time she'd been here was months ago during a fierce snowstorm. Gus had been with her, her friend, her finest comfort in her grief over the death of her husband, Maurice.

She strode to the window overlooking the cathedral where kings and queens of France had always been crowned and who now must turn in their graves in St. Denis at the catastrophic end to their kingdom.

"For lack of moderation of your arrogance and greed," she murmured in insult for their failures, for which they were now replaced by others with the same foibles.

She sucked in air and marched to her dressing table. As per her instructions to Bonnet when last she was here, this piece of furniture was not covered in a clean white cloth. During her all-too-brief marriage, she would sit and Maurice would stand behind her to comb and brush her long red hair before he took her to their bed and they made exquisite love to each other.

Before her lay her combs and bushes, her hand cream, her perfumes, all five of them. The bottles and jars were in their exact spots. The ivory comb, sleek. The china-handled brushes, without a trace of her hair. That was how it would remain, too. She would leave nothing behind.

Still, she could not resist pulling open the right-hand drawer. Her face cream lay there, untouched. Giving in to temptation, she applied dabs to her dry cheeks and chin. Who would know from their movement in the drawer that she had been here? That she liked using them. That she needed such amenities to soothe her.

Gus would know.

Amber stood a long minute, considering her next move.

Should she leave a note for Gus? The question tormented her so that she crossed her arms and strode about the room, circling, thinking.

Augustine Bolton was the closest person to Amber in this world. Gus would panic when she realized she had left Paris without any indication of where she truly went, or why, or how long she would stay away. Gus, to Amber's dismay, had become involved in the same work she was. For that reason alone, she would most likely come here searching for her. At her own risk.

Amber considered opening the last drawer and penning some words of comfort. A directive or a line of consolation could be helpful.

No.

Gus would come.

But she would find nothing.

It would be safest for her to know nothing.

Vaillancourt would snap at the chance to detain Gus and harass her for information. And the man was capable of such atrocities. Especially against women.

So no. I leave nothing.

Instead, Amber made quick work of the wall safe and took a suitable amount of gold Louis pieces and small silver coins. She'd sew them into the hem of her trousers tomorrow.

And when she used all that?

She froze.

Then what? Return here for more?

She ran a hand through her short-cropped curls. No.

On to business.

She removed her boots and socks, then laid aside her dagger and dropped her tattered clothes in a pile. Hat, too. But she kept the cotton binding around her breasts. She had little time to fiddle with that. Instead, she donned a fresh set of Maurice's aged vineyard breeches, shirt, and wool coat. Old boots and a floppy, dark-gray wool hat finished off her look. The fine stiletto she carefully inserted into her thick knitted socks, then spun away.

But she caught sight of herself in her grand cheval mirror. She stood, paralyzed as sudden tears stung her eyes. Far from the fashionable wife of the dashing, gray-haired vintner, this woman looked like a thin, sad man.

She swiped her tears away and stood a moment. Rallying, she pondered how to find the priest who was in hiding in the town in some brave soul's cellars. Pere Josef, the former canon at Reims Cathedral, was a crafty fellow who for years, at risk to his own life, had still tended to the city's pious Catholics. In addition, he also aided those like Amber who tended to the country's dissident democrats. Far from a religious zealot, Josef was a believer in the rights of men and women.

But at one in the morning, she would not find him. Anyone who hid the priest was tucked into his bed, sleeping the rest of the righteous.

"Christ, too, was hunted," she blurted as she pushed away thoughts of Josef, caught up her pile of dirty clothes, and headed for the stairs down. "I flee Herod's kingdom and I hate that I fear him. More, I hate myself for the coward that I am."