Chapter Seventeen

R am hooked the leather straps of his valise and did a visual sweep of the bedroom. He had left nothing here.

He had given all he had. Someday, that would be enough for him. Enough to bring him peace.

But today…

Today he would not conclude anything. That would happen another day. He knew not when.

He swung toward the door and took the hall and the stairs down at a clip.

Gaspard stood in the foyer, his hands folded before him. The poor man knew not how to take the attitude he perceived in Ram. Upon their arrival from visiting the Ashleys, the majordom had opened the door for Amber and Ram. At once, she had adjourned to the salon upstairs. Ram had gone to their bedroom suite to pack. Neither had words for the other.

There was nothing left to say. Only the sorrow was palpable.

Ram took the last step down. "Gaspard, hire a carriage for me, s'il vous pla?t. "

The man snapped to attention, his gaze assessing Ram with dour concern. "Monsieur, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, merci beaucoup , Gaspard. You can close the house properly after madame leaves. I know not when that will be. You must ask her."

The man's pale eyes went soft with worry. "I will. May I say, monsieur, I hate to see you both leave. You have been a pleasure to serve."

"You are kind, Gaspard. Please notify the house agent after madame's departure. Send the invoice for the rent to this address. I will pay the sum." Then Ram pressed a piece of paper with his address into the man's hand along with a few sizable banknotes. "A token of my appreciation."

Gaspard glanced at the denominations. "Monsieur! You are very kind. This is not necessary."

"It is."

"If I may do anything for you in the future, I am at the ready, sir. You will call upon me, I do hope."

"I will remember that."

"Ram," Amber called to him from the top of the stairs.

"Pardon me, monsieur." Gaspard opened the front door and went to the street to hire a hack.

Ram heard Amber descend the stairs. Her skirts swished as she came.

She stood before him, and he summoned the ability to gaze at her one last time. She appeared pale, fragile. "I want to thank you—"

He shook his head. "You have chosen."

She put a hand to his forearm. "I—"

He seared her with his gaze—and she dropped her hand. Yet in spite of it all, he gave her one departing gift. "If you need me, you know where I am."

Her brown eyes opened wider at his words. She stepped backward. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. Her lips trembled. "I do."

He needed air, the street, solitude. " à bient?t ."

*

She was alone again for the umpteenth time in her life. She had no idea why she had thought she'd be different, more assertive, even bold this time. That was not the case.

For weeks after she returned to her own house in rue Dauphine, she went nowhere. She could not manage the stairs down but remained secluded in her boudoir. She did not cry. She did not laugh. She simply sat, stunned at what she had done, leaving the possibility of happiness with Ram. And here she thought she knew herself so well.

Oddly not. Her staff were still there, doing as they had always done. After Maurice's death and Vaillancourt's pursuit of her, she had ordered her banker to pay her servants whether she was in residence or not. All of them were loyal and discreet. She wanted for nothing. She wanted only Ram. Pined for what could not be. Yet she had chosen to save others. Somehow sitting alone, empty of all emotion, she pondered how she had come to this—and had no conclusion. She knew only that she must do this, appease Vaillancourt's need of her. Become his friend, if that were possible. Become his lover, if that were necessary. Though she recoiled at the mere thought, curling into a ball of misery alone in her rooms.

But as day after day eased her nothingness, she forced herself to her duty. As Ram had said, she had chosen. So she dressed, she dined, she feigned happiness before her mirror—and knew it was a farce.

Two weeks after her arrival at her home, Rene Vaillancourt sent her a missive. He was thrilled she had returned to Paris. He would be even more delighted when she returned to Society. She did not rush to respond, but waited a week. She wrote him she was pleased to be home and that she would soon rejoin Society. When she did, she looked forward to seeing him once more. If the man understood the lies in her words, he accepted them with a response that said only, I will wait for you.

By mid-August, Amber ventured out to see Aunt Cecily. The lady had written often and asked to host her, but Amber had begged off. She told her aunt that she was recovering from her trip to the countryside. That was true. But also false.

She recovered, if one could call the aching longing for Ram she felt in the pit of her stomach an attempt to recover. But she'd grown accustomed to his presence, his charm, his love for her. He had remained in Paris. Amber knew because his name appeared often in the libelles . He still worked for Ashley as one of his envoys. He was linked with numerous friends, new and old, British and French, but none of them were ladies. For that, she rejoiced.

The autumn gave way in Paris to a resumption of regular court sessions with Josephine presiding like a queen. Madame Bonaparte received wives of envoys and Napoleon's military with a graciousness noted by everyone. The lady was the little, coarse Corsican's finest social asset. She appeared at the opera and theater. She stunned in the finest gowns and inspired all of Paris to ape her in donning expensive high couture.

Amber went slowly and deliberately back into Society. A dinner party one week, a ball the next. A theater performance. A friend's garden party.

She also returned twice to Saint-Germain-des-Prés Abbey to her bench. No matter—her superior did not appear. She was well and truly done with her work. What remained bright and hot, however, was her need to foil the man who was determined to hurt her or love her, lure her friends and kill them. She took special care to learn all he did, all that was written about him too in the gossip sheets.

Rene Vaillancourt was a bachelor whom many women wished to make their own. Why not? He was attractive, if one liked the looks of a tall, sleek, dapper fellow with handsome sapphire eyes, a sun-kissed Proven?ale complexion—and the aura of a snake. He had had mistresses. Over the years, each woman fell by the wayside in a month or two. For the past few years, he was said to have only one-night rendezvous. But he put it out that the woman he would have as his very own one day was the ravishing widow, Madame Amber St. Antoine.

Bah. Amber cursed him and wished he'd find a new obsession. Alas, that was not to be.

Now that she was in Society once more, Vaillancourt appeared often at events to which Amber was invited. She was the very model of the merry widow enjoying herself. She presented as a leader of Society, happy in her role. Rumor had it that she had mourned her husband, and she had mourned the end of a secret affair with a certain British envoy. She accepted the compliments and flowers from a few men in Society, but none did she honor with smiles and a certain joie de vivre more than the illustrious bachelor Monsieur Rene Vaillancourt.

The man approached her in tiny increments. A glance across a crowded room. A smile another night. A bow and a brief conversation during one of Aunt Cecily's afternoon receptions. At a ball, he approached her and asked for a dance. She agreed.

At the next occasion when they met, Vaillancourt joined a general and his wife in their theater box. Amber too was a guest. Vaillancourt sat beside her, a perfect gentleman.

They grew closer, said the libelles .

It was a ruse. Indeed it was. No man—certainly not the deputy chief of police—could match her darling Ram. But no one knew any of that. Not her maid. Not her aunt.

Add to that, in all these months, Vaillancourt had not arrested any of Amber's friends. He did not go near Augustine, Lady Ashley. Nor did he appear anything but congenial to the contingent of British envoys attached to Lord Ashley.

In November, the British ambassador had finally arrived in Paris to assume his role formally. That man was an experienced diplomat, cool, composed, a man of delicate sensibilities with the ability to talk a person to death. Bonaparte was not impressed.

Meanwhile, the city bulged with British. Hundreds crossed the channel, eager to see the sights of Paris now that the radicals had been eliminated. Charles Fox had come and gone. So too the notorious Earl of Egremont had come, along with his gaggle of lovers. Other British—delighting in strolling the parks, carousing in cafés, and attending the opera and theaters—extended their holidays.

As Christmas approached, Vaillancourt sent Amber little gifts. Hothouse roses one day. Confectioner's chocolate almonds the next. A handkerchief of delicate Norman Alen?on lace. The morning of December 24, he sent her an edition of Candide .

Alone in her library, she snorted. The man could read, could he?

That night, Amber was to attend the opera with her aunt, but her heart was not in it. She had been invited on occasion to the Ashleys' for social events, but she had declined. She predicted that Ram would be invited to most events hosted by them, and she did not wish to see him. She doubted he wished to see her. Amber declined to attend Christmas Eve dinner with the Ashleys and their friends. They had enough friends to enliven the evening—and she was in no mood to act as if she were enjoying herself.

The New Year brought with it the ice and snow that Amber hated. But she was invited to Vaillancourt's house for dinner parties and garden soirees. At first, she feigned frail health. The cold, you see. Then it became apparent to her that to find this list Vaillancourt kept, she had to accept his invitations and go. So she found reason to disappear to find the ladies' retiring rooms. Or feign a headache and ask for a quiet room in which to retire.

She always took the wrong directions and searched in his study, his library, or his majordom 's rooms.

When, at last, she did find a bit of news at his house one evening, it came from a source rather than Vaillancourt. The occasion was at midnight among a gathering of Bonaparte's generals, their wives, and other assorted dignitaries. A general was newly promoted and wished for more honors. His family had money and connections. His wife was dead. No children cluttered his halls. The man had ambitions to find a Society lady to help him secure his future. Poor fellow had not read the gossip rags before he pounced, and he had the gall to try for Amber.

She was gracious in her polite acceptance of his favors. Of course, she watched as Vaillancourt examined the military man with the slitted eyes of a jealous man. She soon found herself in a worthy discussion of the value of the Charleville musket. Lightweight, easy to use.

"Indeed, we have increased production numbers." The new general puffed himself up, so proud of himself that he could boast of such things.

"Sound," she agreed, and fluttered her eyes like a vacuous female. "One can never have enough, eh?"

"Exactly." He grinned, showing all his bad teeth. "Especially since we have ambitions."

Do we? "I hope so," she told him. "We French are so much more civilized than many."

"Especially the Germans and the Austrians."

"Oh, but don't we like those Germans close to us?" She pretended affection with a hand to her bosom. It was printed in the libelles and sung in the streets that Bonaparte had asked for troops from German princes, one of whom was the former margrave of Baden, now for his services anointed a duke. "Those in the Alsace and Lorraine."

He smacked his lips. "They are really Frenchmen. But those in Baden and Württemberg, a few others in the south, come close. That's why we have a new shipment of muskets going to Baden and Strasbourg."

"Really. How good."

"It is. That city sits on the Rhine, and we must use it to march into the northern plains to Prussia. We will be shipping many munitions to that city."

"So wise," she said, bursting to leave this hideous man. Now she had to figure out how to convey the information to someone who could use it and forward it to those who needed it.

Kane would welcome it. But she could not go to him easily. She'd be noticed, even followed.

Soon she'd be in Vaillancourt's house more often…and she'd have more information to send onward.

She must choose another.

*

"You dislike the new general for the Rhine," Vaillancourt said to her with a smile when all had gone home. She'd stayed behind, as she usually did lately. It burnished Vaillancourt's reputation to say that the widow St. Antoine favored him more and more. She wanted him to see how necessary it was to go slowly with her. To get into his house often, she wanted him primed, beside himself with lust. Drooling would be best.

"Dislike? Hardly!" She adored the new general who had a loose tongue and a poor opinion of women's understanding of weaponry. Accepting her glass of cognac from Vaillancourt, she took a sip. "I hope I was not obvious."

"No. Never. You are such a good actress."

"Thank you," she said with hope Vaillancourt never thought that of her with him.

He took a chair opposite her, dangling his snifter from his fingers, his reptilian eyes all over her. "Do you tire of your solitary life yet?"

God, yes. May you never know how much. She could only bite her lip and gaze at him with all the sorrow in her heart.

"I would like to make you happy."

You could if you told me if you have no list of my associates and friends ready for arrest . "You are too kind, Rene."

"Not with presents, ma chérie . But with my company."

She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. "Rene…"

He sat forward. "You have known for a long time that I cannot get you out of my mind."

She tipped her head. "Rene…"

"Your coyness thrills me, my darling. Do not take me for granted."

Believe me, I do not.

"I want you to allow me to court you, Amber."

She gave him a devastating smile. "Rene, I am no coquette ."

His eyes flashed, brilliant and hard. "You are finished with your previous enchantment?"

Ram. Never. Lest words betray the truth, she merely lowered her lashes.

Vaillancourt reached for her hand. His skin was cool. Bloodless. "Allow me to thrill you. Thrill you regularly. Will you?"

I cannot go to bed with you. Not yet. Not ever. If I can stave that off…I will. She forced herself to appear torn but tempted. "You could begin, oui , Rene."

"Begin, then, I will." He grinned at her. "I want you to act as my hostess."

That is marvelous. "You plan to entertain more often?"

"I do. I want you by my side for that." He raised her hand and kissed her fingertips. Christ, he was cold.

"Let us begin, then."

"Soon. I give a party for a few on the staff of the first consul. Friday evening."

"Wonderful."

"Will you come consult with my chef and my housekeeper?"

"Of course. When would you like me here?"

"I'd like to have you here often." His eyes lit with a salacious glint.

He took her question as a double entendre. She fought shutting her eyes to the very thought of him having her often . Alone. "Day after tomorrow, then? Say at two?"

He looked like an eager schoolboy. "Two it is. I will be ready for you."

She lowered her lashes. Blushing was not in her repertoire any longer. But she had to feign it, didn't she? "Please, René. I may not seem like a delicate person. But I am. I truly am. Please don't expect that I can rush into a relationship…"

He stood and led her to stand, too. Against his hard, slim body, she forced herself not to scream. He lifted her chin and began to kiss her.

She turned her head. "Please, René. I beg you to allow me to decide the time and place."

He kissed her cheek. "Of course, my darling. You will be my guide."

*

Ram moved through his days a man outside himself. Riding a particular stallion he favored and rented from a stable nearby. Dining al fresco in his own gardens. Perfecting his aim with his pistol—knowing his real target was a certain deputy of police.

In the beginning, he declined invitations to social events. He had no ability to carry a conversation. Nor did he dance.

He would take himself to cafés on the Champs-élysée, idling for hours examining those who passed him by. He drank coffee. Avoided alcohol. If he started, he would never stop.

He wrote to his mother and grandmother. The letters were perfunctory but kind. He knew how to hide his feelings in print. He performed his work for Ashley, traveling to northern towns seeking more information on supplies and increasing military standards at depots and forts. The increase in Charleville muskets was only one such.

More cannon were ordered, cast, and sent not only to northern and eastern forts but also to Bordeaux, Lille, and Amiens.

By September, he was able to attend dinner parties without grinding his teeth at the vacuity of conversation. He read the scandal sheets. In late autumn, Amber's name had begun to appear. Ram found it intriguing that she had not jumped into the role of mistress. Instead her name was not linked to any man. Some speculated she nursed a broken heart.

God knew he did.

In January, Ashley assigned him the duty to follow a French émigré who was sent to Paris by Scarlett Hawthorne. Ram's duty, said Ashley, was to track if she met with any officials in the government. Scarlett had questions about the trustworthiness of the woman.

Ram trailed the lady to the left bank one afternoon, and she disappeared into the old church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Bonaparte had made peace with the Catholic Church and all churches were open to the public once more.

As Ram sat in the sun that rare warm day following the suspected double agent, Amber walked across the street. The sight of her was like a shot to his heart. With narrowed gaze on her, he watched her casually stroll to the church and take a turn toward the bench where she had waited for her contact. He stood, paid for his coffee, and walked along his side of the street. Amber sat on the bench, spoke with no one, stayed only a few minutes, then stood to leave.

When she turned her back on the meeting place, he caught a glimpse of her face. She had changed. Determination that had once etched her features in bold lines had waned. She wore a vulnerability on her softened features. Was it real? Was she using that to appeal to Vaillancourt? Or was the change a reflection of something else?

Whatever it signified, she was no more the woman he had held in his arms.

Lest he put too much stock in that, he strode quickly away. To see her with her guard down surprised him. Had she changed—or did he merely wish it?

If she had, he did not know how much. Nor why.

For that, he would wait…bide his time, follow her, and assess any lasting shifts in her behavior.

*

One evening after a theater dinner party, Amber wandered in Vaillancourt's house as she usually did. His house was orderly. No elaborate furnishings were there. He was a bachelor, and the house reflected that, well appointed and comfortable as it was. The colors of upholstery and draperies were blues and whites, cool and indifferent. In his library, his bookshelves were orderly, the books in such strict alphabetical order that she perceived he never read them.

Tonight to justify her wandering, she feigned a horrid headache. She found in his library, in a small drawer of his desk, a set of two keys. He kept all his desk drawers locked. One of the two keys fit the small drawer at the top right. At the noise in the hall, she replaced the keys and scurried to a chair. One hand to her brow, she grimaced.

The footman who entered found her thus, apologized for his intrusion, and departed.

Three nights later, she returned.

The prize she found, not in the top right compartment, but in the blind drawer behind it, was a small leather folio with names.

Dozens of British. Kane and Gus, Ram and Fournier.

Scores of French. Two of her dearest friends.

Many émigrés. All of whom she knew well.

She memorized one list five at a time…and returned home to scribble them down.

She just needed a way to transfer the information. Some discreet, reliable way.