Chapter Twelve

"Y ou did well!" Amber whirled around in the parlor of the house Ram had rented on the left bank of the Seine. The five-story townhouse was small, built at the turn of the previous century, and had sparse but tasteful furnishings. "Did you ask the man you rented from anything about his family?"

Ram stood by the window overlooking the rue du Four. The rich, heavy damask drapes were pulled back. The curtains beneath, trimmed in delicate ivory French Chantilly lace, obscured a clear view of the street. Ram had told Amber he would not open them completely. It was best to keep the view to the inside obstructed.

He and Amber had arrived in Paris late yesterday afternoon. Fortunate to find a sign for a rented house on the front door of a townhouse near the Saint-Germain-des-Prés Abbey, Ram had pressed the owner for the name and location of a registry where he could find good, strong men. He needed three, one for the front door, one for the kitchen entrance, and one to follow Ram wherever he went. The three whom he met, he hired immediately.

"This house is now owned by one of the banking family of Jarre." Ram turned to look at her with a smile. "Before that, it was owned by the Vicomte de Neufchateau for his mistress."

"How quaint." She smiled, pretending she was easy in her skin to be back in Paris. But she had heard rumors about the end of the vicomte's family during the Terror. One young daughter named Diane had been in Carmes when she and Aunt Cecily were there.

"What's wrong?" Ram asked.

"The vicomte's family were robbed by their bankers."

"The Jarre who own this house?"

She clutched her arms and nodded. "So many turned on others during the Terror. Often without provocation."

"Do you not wish to remain here? If so, we can go."

"No. No, of course not." It was irrelevant what had happened here. The city was her home. Everywhere were stories of those who had done evil to others. She was here, no matter that she could not take up the reins of her espionage work to correct old wrongs. She was more than content to help Ram do his duty. "Good that the house comes with a man-of-all-work."

"Monsieur Jarre's man assured me our new majordom is trustworthy. Still, you and I will be discreet around him."

She went to Ram and put her arms around him. "Always. This visit here is for you. I am so heartened that you will do this. I see in your attitude that you are happy we've come."

He drew her flush to him, his eyes bright with humor. "I wish to please you, madame."

"Ba! Please yourself, my darling man. Let's see if we need anything for the larder. Or sheets or covers for the bed."

"Why don't you do that and make a list? I'll go shop for your needs."

Hands on her hips, she had to try to persuade him to her thinking. "I cannot stay here all the time."

He gave her a wry look. "You can."

She pouted and batted her lashes like a coquette. "You cannot keep me caged."

"Honestly, you should not go out at all, and you know it. You cannot go out during the day." He cupped her nape and brushed his lips over hers. "Please don't try me."

"I won't. I promise." But living so very close to the old abbey, the very place where she had met her superior each month for many years, called up her sense of responsibility. Her chances of her control agent going to their meeting places again after so many months were small. But Amber had a spark of hope he might appear. She could then assure the man that she was alive and well. Useless, yes, but alive and well.

"At dusk," Ram said, and tapped the end of her nose. "We will walk out as the sun sets. Only for a few minutes."

She gave him a big, wild kiss. "Wonderful. I will wear my trousers."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't. You look nothing like any man I've ever known."

"Not even a skinny youth?"

"No. Parts of you are not at all skinny. If you wear trousers, people will stare all the more. But I will buy you a wide-brimmed straw hat. We will try to conceal all of this excellent bone structure." He tipped his head as he stroked the arch of her cheeks.

*

Minutes later, Ram went out the kitchen door. His list for groceries in his inside his frock coat pocket, he went first to the nearby café to which their new majordom Gaspard had referred him.

Casting a glance down the ruelle , Ram smiled. Pleased that he did not see his hired man assigned to the back door, he began to walk away to his errands. He was even more pleased that he did not detect how his third man followed him.

Yet a sixth sense ruffled his composure. Ram had always been able to tell when someone tracked him. His third guard did a good job and was definitely not following him. Did someone else?

He would take care. So he proceeded, felt safe doing his shopping—and began to wander and crisscross the streets. If anyone attempted to follow him, he would learn before he headed for the market in the corner place .

A few streets away from his house, he paused at a printer's glass window. The man specialized in history books about Paris. Surreptitiously, he looked at reflections in the glass. No one followed him. Then he dropped into a small café for a coffee and pastry—and took his time. Satisfied he saw no one loitering outside waiting for him to appear, he asked for l'addition to pay his bill and emerged into the bright July sun. Outside, he stood a moment and raised his face to the sky. He rejoiced that he and Amber were in Paris, and safely so. It was time for him to buy items they needed at home. Off he went to the market.

The street vendeurs had erected their tents and stalls earlier. They were farmers or craftsmen from beyond the Periphique city zone who came to the city to sell their produce, animals, and wares. This market attracted about ten families from the distant faubourgs . They sold everything from freshly butchered beef and pork to live chickens. Others offered ripe red strawberries, honey, jams, and a rainbow of assorted vegetables. Ram bought much too much, but he was glad he could. He and Amber had eaten very sparingly the last two days as they traveled to Paris in the most uncomfortable carriage he'd ever sat in. His arse was sore from the jostling.

But all of his wares were purchased for a good cause. He could not be more pleased that Amber was cooperating with his need to keep her safe, hidden from any of Vaillancourt's men.

*

"I like this one." Amber pointed to two small perch in the vendeur 's wooden box.

She had come out with Ram at dusk, wearing her new straw farmer's hat that he had purchased for her this morning. She felt refreshed to breathe the sweet summer air and stretch her legs in the city she loved.

Ram promptly paid the man, took the fish in its old paper, and dropped it in Amber's basket. They strolled leisurely toward the abbey.

The old church stood proudly among the lesser shops and houses. She was majestic, a survivor of the Terror, but she bore the hideous marks of that time. Her outer walls were falling apart. The buildings were pocked with stones that had been thrown, and marred by blackened walls where some had tried to set the whole on fire. At one point, a mob had broken into the abbey prison and killed more than two hundred people.

Amber paused before the west door, knitting her brow and biting her lower lip. This looked so different than when she had been here last. The heat of deep July did not change a place that much. She wondered if the change was only in her mind. She'd been away from here for so long that she'd forgotten how it looked? She did not think that was so. Instead, she wondered how her superior had taken to the news that she had fled Paris in fear for her life.

Did you come to meet me at our appointed time more than the required twice?

Were you here, wondering about me, worrying about me?

I worried about you. I still do.

Ram was beside her, regarding her. "Shall we go home now?"

"Yes. I am so sad that the whole complex looks so old and ragged," she said to Ram as they turned away to head back toward their little house.

"All the churches were attacked during the Terror and many have not recovered," he replied.

"Yes. Many were sacked. Others burned. In Compiègne, the churches were robbed of their altar pieces. The lovely Cathedral of Reims is now taken over by city lawyers. Even the archbishop's residence there wears battle scars." She shivered.

"All that is finished." He put his hand to her back.

"But what we have in its place are men who are just as greedy as those the mobs swept away." She nodded toward two young women who stood on the corner hawking news sheets. "Let's buy them."

This part of town was notorious for harboring and hiding those who wrote pamphlets and news sheets that criticized the government and those who ran it. While the government harassed many who printed them, they were too prolific and popped up everywhere. People bought them for news of the day, but many delighted in those that were gossip sheets.

Ram dug coins from his pocket and paid for both copies. "The news will be interesting."

"When in a vacuum, always buy scandal sheets." She opened one of the sheets and skimmed the tiny print but stopped at once when she saw Gus's name. "Wait, here is a story about—" In the fading light of day, she squinted and read the story. "Ram," she said to him in a hushed tone when she was finished, "Gus and your Ashley are married!"

"What?"

"Look here." She gave him the paper.

He stood reading for long minutes.

"They went away as lovers, and when they returned, they had the British envoy marry them." Amber had a hand to her chest. "I hope to heaven she loves him. That she didn't marry him because of rumors that she was his mistress."

"It says they were away for weeks and visited many towns in the north." Ram glanced up from the sheet, folded the papers, and stuck them in her basket. "Among them, they went to Reims."

"Reims," Amber murmured, thinking about why the couple would go to the city where she and Maurice had lived. "Dear God, Ram. They were looking for me."

He nodded, his face dour with concern. "He had to find you. So did she. And they put the news of their wedding in the sheets. You and they are popular."

"I am too popular, it seems." She gave a forced laugh.

But when she turned, she was looking straight into the faces of two people across the street. Two she knew very well. She could not move. Nor could she turn her back on them.

Ram paused. "What's wrong?"

Then Amber sensed him following her line of sight. He landed on the tall, dark-haired, handsome man and the golden-haired beauty by his side. Neither took their eyes off Amber.

Both appeared to be shopping, dressed in finely tailored clothing indicative of their status as merchants of good wine.

"Ram, you have no cause to worry. I know them well and I cannot ignore them. They are Aunt Cecily's vintners from the Loire. Please. Come. We must greet them."

Amber sailed forward, her manner that of one who welcomed the sight of them.

"Madame!" The young lady beamed and dropped into a curtsy.

"Madame, it is wonderful to see you," said the man.

Amber embraced both with gusto.

"Allow me to introduce you," she said to Ram, hoping he might appear less fierce and more friendly. "This is Mademoiselle Inès Bechard and her brother, Monsieur Luc Bechard. My friend is Lord Ramsey, an Englishman attached to the British delegation. My dear," she said as she turned to Ram, "the family Bechard live near Amboise on the Loire. They grow very fine grapes and produce excellent white wine, which Aunt Cecily stocks in her cellars for all occasions."

Luc took a step nearer Amber. His manner was careful, his expression that of alarm, as he murmured to her, "We are pleased to see you well, madame. Never did we expect to see you in Paris. I assume my sister and I are to say we have not seen you."

"You are correct, monsieur. This happenstance is one you must forget. Please."

"We understand," said Inès with a nod.

"The news of your disappearance has frightened many. Changed much in the city," said Luc with troubled gaze.

"Too much to state here," his sister added.

"I can only imagine," Amber said with regret.

Ram intervened, a hand to her elbow. "We must return home."

"Home?" asked Inès.

"None that you know, Inès," Amber replied.

"Ah," said the girl, her large umber eyes on Ram as if she understood he was her guard and protector.

Luc took his sister's arm. "We are thrilled to see you well."

" Merci beaucoup , Luc. Inès." Amber had a smile for them. "We must go. Adieu ."

She and Ram had gone no farther than a step when Luc appeared at her side. "One thing. You must know this. We have problems, madame."

Ram cast a withering eye over Luc and the restraining hand he had placed on Amber's forearm.

"Please," Luc said to him. "I know madame is sought by…" He looked around before he continued to speak. "You know to whom I refer, madame. Please listen to me. He promises to bring in any and all of your friends to question them about your location."

Amber gasped. "No. No."

"How do you know this, monsieur?" Ram scowled at the man.

Luc turned to Amber. "I was with your aunt at a dinner party last night."

His sister attempted to appear normal, as if the four of them were having a pleasant conversation.

Ram stiffened. "We must go."

"Amber," Luc beseeched her, "listen to me. He told your aunt he has a list of those who will go to prison. He says it is his goal to strike each name off permanently until you reappear."

"Oh, Luc." She could not breathe.

"He is the very devil, Amber. Take care."

"And you as well, Luc."

She and Ram hurried to their little house.

*

"That was close," Ram said with distaste when they were safely at home in their kitchen.

Amber removed items from her basket and only shook her head. She was the very picture of a frightened woman, pale and solemn.

Ram was bursting with anger that Amber had been recognized, and outraged that the four of them had stood in the streets like deer ready for the hunter's shot. If that man and his sister went to anyone with this story of Madame St. Antoine's appearance in a market on the left bank, word would spread. It always did. "Do you trust those two not to say anything?"

Amber plunked herself down in the old kitchen chair. "I do."

Ram paced the floor. "How? Why?"

"One of them participated in our network."

"Which?"

"Luc."

Ram lost his breath. "You report to him? Or he to you?"

"No. No. Not him. Another."

Ram sank to the opposite chair. "But I thought you said no one knows anyone else but the person who reports downward or upward?"

"I did. That is true. But I once saw him quite by accident with the person who reports to me."

"And there is no other reason for Bechard to speak to this person?"

She winced. "One other reason."

Ram wiped a hand across his mouth. "Should I know this reason?"

"I prefer not to tell you, Ram. Not because I don't wish to, but… I have learned the less anyone knows, the less they can give under torture."

He trained his eyes on her. "I don't intend to be a guest of the inimitable Rene Vaillancourt."

"We never know, Ram. I always fear anything." She flung out a hand. "Here in France, things are so different. Life is cheap. A man who wants power will gladly lie, cheat, steal, or kill to get what he wants. It will benefit you nothing, my darling, to know this."

"I see." He had good reason to worry over this. But it would do him no good. Worry clouded one's judgment. "Very well. I take you at your word."

Ram wished he had another man under his employ to go and follow the Bechards. Amber might trust her friends, but he had no reason to.

*

But as Amber began to dress the fish they had purchased for dinner, she worked over in her mind the full import of what Luc had shared with her.

Her network was broken. She had no one reporting to her. She'd come to terms with those two facts long ago. But it was serendipity that Ram had chosen Saint-Germain-des-Prés to take a house. She was so close, so very close to the spot where she'd met her control agent. She could walk to the place where she had always met him. If her agent came to check on her occasionally, that person would be thrilled to find she was still alive. He could repair Amber's chain. He would be happy to do it. He'd get her another report. Gus was gone, her chain broken by her own flight from the city, pretending to be in love with Kane Whittington, Lord Ashley, and seeking her!

Amber's superior had means. And Amber had motive. She would not see her friends or associates die at Vaillancourt's hand for working with her to save the republic of France. She would not.

But then, there was this other man in her life now. This dashing, stalwart, heavenly creature who made love to her like there was no other woman in the world. This man, this defender of her life, this force of nature, this bulwark, this ram who would not see her hurt. Who stood by her though life and threat of death. Godfrey DuClare, my Ramsey, who would rather die than allow me to do this.

Amber glanced up at the man who had saved her. The man she loved. Yes, loved. The one who would never let her seek out her superior for fear Vaillancourt might appear there instead.

Vaillancourt. Damn him to hell.

She forced back hot tears and made her plan.

She finished dressing the lovely, fat fish and brushed and washed her hands. She had potatoes to quarter…and a wonderful man to help her.

She would finish making their dinner. They would enjoy the fish and potatoes and the frilly lettuce salad. Ram had bought good white wine from the Loire vintner in the square, and they would make a celebration of the meal.

After they ate, Ram planned to go to Ashley's house to announce his and her return to Paris. He would deliver the vital news about the weapons, then return to her, and they would enjoy the satisfaction of his having done his duty. They would celebrate that in word and deed and in their bed upstairs. She would not harm this night filled with so much success and joy.

Tomorrow she would discuss with Ram her need to go to the meeting place of her superior. She had no choice but to try to persuade Ram to allow it.

For what else was the finest love composed of, but the duty to be true to yourself and offer the one you adored the finest person you would ever be?