Chapter Eighteen

February 18, 1803

Paris

R am climbed down from his hired fiacre and hesitated on the steps of the stylish theater. Tapping his hat on his head, he buttoned his greatcoat against the chill of the winter night and resigned himself to this required bit of public display.

"I need you out tomorrow night at the theater," Ashley had insisted yesterday. Ram and he met every other Monday in a café on the Champs-élysées. "Gus and I host Lord Appleby to introduce him to Society."

Tonight's party in the Ashley box was to include many for the sake of appearances. Lord Manning was one. He came alone, his wife curiously indisposed. The Earl and Countess of Chiltern had arrived in Paris, intending to spend the winter.

All did this to show off handsome widower Lord Appleby, who was an expert in finance—and in warding off young ladies who wished to marry his fortune and esteemed title. The Earl of Appleby was from Norfolk, and Ram and Kane had first met him at Eton. Appleby had the formal role to improve the exchange of currency between Britain and France. No small task was that, especially because Bonaparte became increasingly belligerent toward the British ambassador.

Rumors even flew this morning that the first consul had met privately with Ambassador Whitworth last night and they had not gotten on well. Many feared it portended more trouble.

But setbacks in diplomacy were normal, especially with a temperamental man like Bonaparte at the helm. Ram had no illusions about the wiliness of the little Corsican.

The crowd around Ram urged him up the steps. Tonight was an oddity for Paris because the star of the show was a returned émigré. It was said that Josephine had personally asked Talleyrand to authorize the young actress's return to her homeland. This woman was a twenty-three-year-old who had been the rage in Drury Lane for the past few years.

Hundreds around Ram talked of their excitement as they surged toward the entrances. Many mentioned they hoped Bonaparte and his wife would appear to honor the Frenchwoman. The first consul loved the theater and attended often and without prior notice.

Tonight's play at the Ga?té starred the London sensation who performed the Bard's plays as if she were born to it. Though she was known for her abilities as a comedienne, Charmaine Massey had lived a frightful and tragic life. She had fled Paris and the Terror in the middle of the night with her younger sister, her father's mistress and that lady's illegitimate daughter.

Charmaine was the oldest daughter of the guillotined Vicomte de Neufchateau. A notorious minor member of the royal house of Orleans, the vicomte had stepped out of his usual role as roué to espouse a strong republican government. Once a friend of Louis XVI, he had fled to Brussels but been discovered and hustled back to Paris so that his old enemy Robespierre could condemn him to the blade.

The vicomte had preempted his radical foe and dispersed his large family, legitimate and not, to the four winds. Charmaine, the vicomte's mistress, and that woman's daughter had escaped the Paris mobs that night. But one other sister had been abducted from their carriage. The gossip sheets proclaimed that the girl had never been found.

Charmaine had made a living in the theater and supported the other three in her extended family in good style. Tonight was her debut on the Paris stage. She was said to be blonde, petite, and utterly charming. Returning to her country, according to the Paris gossip sheets, she had insisted that she would honor the occasion by performing only comedy, preferably Molière.

Across town, the sixteen-year-old French actress Mademoiselle George had opened the night before last in Racine's Phèdre . Charmaine refused to compete with the more famous French girl who was turning heads with her talent. Charmaine was a scintillating twenty-three—and unlike most actresses, she was said to be a virgin. Many a man was said to be intrigued by that.

Ram, in no mood for comedy or anything else tonight, was here out of duty. He was intrigued that he would see the daughter of the man whose house he had rented in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He thought it a curious tangle that the vicomte had bought the house for one of his mistresses. Ram wondered if the woman so honored was the one Charmaine Massey had fled with to England.

In all, it did not matter to Ram. He was here at Ashley's request. Molière did not thrill him, either. Really, why not give the crowd a right, good, bloody Macbeth or Julius Caesar ? He savored the idea these days of proud men brought low by betrayal.

After giving his name at reception, he swung off his greatcoat and wended his way with the throng toward the wide marble stairs up to the boxes.

He rounded a chattering group and halted. Amber stood alone in the far corner. Cast in the glow of a chandelier ablaze with a dozen candles, she sparkled in a violet gown trimmed in gold lamé ribbons at her bodice and sleeves. A choker of gold and amethysts surrounded her slim throat. Her winter coat trimmed in white fox hung on her arm. She scanned those who passed before her, but when she found him, she locked her gaze on his.

Resistance was impossible. He strode toward her and, for the benefit of the gossips, smiled with the pretense of a former lover, now indifferent to her charms.

" Bon soir, madame." He took her hand. Her skin was gossamer silk. What hell this was to see her.

" Bon soir, monsieur. How are you this evening?"

How do you think I am? He glared at her and bent to her hand. "Surprised."

"Of course." Her voice sounded choked, nervous. But her lashes fluttered with raw desire as he rose to absorb her beauty. Had she not slept lately? Could he hope that was because she missed him? "Shall we go up?"

"You join the Ashleys?" He was surprised at that. She could sit with anyone in Paris. Even Vaillancourt. Did the jealous deputy chief of police allow her out with others?

She stared into Ram's eyes, and something there begged for a truce. "I asked if I might."

"Do you like Molière?"

"No." She took his arm, digging her nails into his sleeve. Hell . She presented such a nonchalant attitude toward the swarms around them that he wondered if it were she who might be the star in the play tonight.

Fury ate up his good intentions to present a friendly fa?ade for this farce. They climbed the stairs to the boxes in silence.

How are you? he wanted to ask like a good actor—and a smitten fool. Instead, he put his hand atop her cold one and patted it like a good swain. Is Vaillancourt not keeping you warm?

"I miss you," she whispered blithely, gutting him as surely as if she'd done it with her little stiletto.

He fought for breath.

Her arm through his, she smiled and nodded to others as they reached the landing and made their way round the circle.

He spotted an alcove where no one stood—and he paused them both there, his back to the crowd. "Why are you here?"

"I must talk to you."

"There is nothing—"

"Please."

"No."

"Come home with me tonight."

He questioned her anxiety—and decided his own needed tending. "No."

"I know no other way. I must… Ah, bon soir ! Madame et Monsieur Dubonnet. How lovely to see you here. Might I introduce you to my friend, Lord Ramsey? Here on diplomatic duty. Oui ."

Ram had no choice but to grit his teeth and contribute to her charade. When the couple departed, his shock at her proposal had died at the hand of the obscene desire to accept her offer. To be alone with her—here, at her house, anywhere in the damn world—was not his wisest decision, but it would bring him more relief than he'd ever hoped for, at least for one night. "Do Gus and Whit know why?"

"No, monsieur. Please smile and pretend we are friends. I need you," she said as if they were discussing the delights of being here for the entertainment.

"You have news?"

"Of many things."

*

The group in the theater box was subdued. Amber attributed it to the news that the relationship between Bonaparte and the British ambassador lately had grown chilly. When the Corsican frowned, many among the Parisian beau monde shivered. The fact that so many British appeared tonight was expected. For months, British in droves had taken the opportunity to come to Paris. It was indicative of their curiosity to taste the Parisian high and low life, but also to see what the French had become since the Terror. Certainly, the English aristocrats in their box this evening crowed over the fashion and the manners of those around them.

Kane, who expressed regrets for the absence of Gus tonight because of her delicate condition, occupied himself with introducing their newest countryman, Tate Cantrell, Lord Appleby, to society. Appleby appeared a jovial fellow. Or he had, until he froze once Charmaine Massey appeared on stage.

"Do you know her?" Amber asked, leaning toward him. She knew the actress as the sister of the young woman, Diane Massey, who had died so brutally at the hands of guards in Carmes Prison.

"Very well." His broad, angular face had gone to stone at the sight of the petite blonde who commanded the stage. "Too well."

Amber asked no more because her memories of Diane's death were so dark. Over the years, she had heard of the Massey family's troubles, fleeing the Terror with what they could wear and what they could pile into their pockets.

When Amber and Ram had lived in the house in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, he had told her it had once been owned by the family of Neufchateau. But she had pushed horrid memories of Diane's death from her mind.

Meanwhile, Appleby was definitely interested in Charmaine as he leaned forward to examine the actress. Lost to anyone's conversation, the man focused on the blonde beauty. He was mesmerized.

Amber was pleased at that. Seated to the left of Appleby, she was positioned closer to Ram. She could devote herself to getting him to talk to her.

That was difficult, but she had expected no less. He sat beside her, cool, composed, one long, muscular leg crossed away from her. His program in his hand, he pursed his mouth in a such a way that she saw etched there his desire to avoid her.

"Lord Appleby knows the actress," she tried. "Have you heard of her before tonight?"

Ram did not even deign to look at her, but nodded. "I have seen her in a few comedies in London, yes. She is accomplished."

"Word is that she supported her father's mistress and her sister with her earnings in the theater."

"So I have heard." He did look at her then.

What she saw written on his features was a melting of his ice to the warmer fires of his regard for her.

"She is lovely," she said, because her mind clouded with her desire and she could do nothing else but gaze at him.

As his pale blue eyes traced her hair and brows and lips, he met her regard, wordlessly telling her torrid tales of his longing. "Is she?"

It was no question, but a compliment to her.

Her racing heart picked up.

The performance was long. But the hours found him whispering now and then about the play. If he did so because he wished to appear congenial for the other guests, Amber took what she could get.

She'd make a better play to get him to agree to talk at length with her.

His desire had always been her leverage. Now, however, she would not use it and be unfair to him. Tonight, she wished to aid both their causes. Only that.

*

The party dispersed into the night air. The Chilterns and Manning thanked Kane for the evening and called for their own carriages. Appleby also excused himself, with regards to Kane for the evening. He said he would find his own way home but hurried off for the theater's backstage to find Charmaine, who had so enthralled him. Kane, who called for his own large town carriage, offered Amber and Ram to ride with him.

Amber spoke first as she gathered the white fox collar of her opera cloak to her throat. It was now or never if she was to persuade Ram to come home with her. "I hope you'll excuse me, Kane. I wish to hail a carriage myself."

"You cannot go alone," Kane objected.

She gave him a look that said otherwise. "I often have."

"I'll go with her, Whit." Ram stared at his friend.

Kane, surprise written in his narrowed eyes, checked the expressions of each of them. "I return home alone, then."

"Give Gus my best wishes," Amber told him.

"Mine as well, Whit. Good night." Ram took her arm. "Come," he said to her with the first smile of the night. "We'll have a better chance of getting a good carriage if we leave the crowd and stand down there."

Minutes later, Ram hailed a cab and gave the groom Amber's address. The two of them climbed into a well-appointed fiacre that smelled fresh and clean.

Ram sat opposite her.

The horse took to the streets with a regular clip-clop that punctured her composure—and left her planned speech full of holes.

In the flickering shadows of night, Amber watched him remove his hat and run two hands through his hair. He wore it longer these days, a pirate's appearance that suited his endearing swagger.

She had to shut her eyes to his allure. She was not here to seduce him.

"Now then," he said as he cocked a long black brow at her, "what is it you want to tell me?"