Chapter Twenty-Two

May 3, 1803

10 rue Saint-Martin

Paris

B y lunch, Amber questioned why she had moved in with him this morning. She could not bear his presence. Oh, he was more than gallant. He practically oozed ardent attendance on her. His pandering disgusted her. She had the impulse to gather up her skirts and avoid the contamination of his touch. What a struggle it was to tolerate him.

But he persisted. Escorting her into the luncheon room with a kiss to her hand, seating her too close by his side, dropping a kiss to her shoulder, he was the perfect gentleman. "I am so delighted you are here, ma chérie . For us to be together leading Society is what I have wanted for so very long. I promise to make you deliriously happy."

You will never be capable.

She smiled, the actress in her in full bloom. "Merci , Rene."

But as the luncheon progressed, she noted he was preoccupied. He was a good actor, but not superb. At odd moments, he seemed to seethe.

What niggled at him? The quality of the entree? The sputtering candles? The service? Indeed, he watched the head footman serve the portions of soup and fish and dessert with an eagle's critical focus. Meanwhile, he did lead their conversation to tonight's dinner party, who would attend, how he was delighted she would be his hostess.

"At last, you are mine," he cooed in a tone that to most ears would have seduced a dedicated nun. His lips as he blessed the back of her hand between courses were a chilling horror.

She had all she could do to force her body to absolute stillness. She feigned a corpse. Dear heaven, she could not even dine next to him. How was she to tolerate this man all over her body, inside her, filling her with his venom?

She swallowed hard. The fish gurgled in her stomach. Or was it the mushroom soup?

The dessert came. A galette de roi , a pastry filled with crème and almond flour, a tasty concoction that resembled a light cheesecake. She usually loved it and asked for a decent portion.

Vaillancourt had none. "Not to my taste. Too rich," he explained.

Her enjoyment of the pastry was the highlight of the meal. She took her time, partly to relish it and partly to see if she could outlast him in the luncheon room—and give her time alone.

But Vaillancourt remained.

Stubborn but suppressing her frustration, she said, "I will have a cup of tea, then withdraw to see how the maid does with my belongings. I assume there is no need for me to discuss with your majordom the service for this evening's dinner party?"

"None , ma chérie. However, he has requested to meet with you."

"Oh, very well. I will ring for him when I am ready."

"No need. Your maid Marie is his daughter. Simply tell her when you wish him to appear. He is at your service."

"I will. Merci beaucoup. "

Then an odd thing occurred. The footman who stood by a sideboard dallied so long pouring her tea that she turned toward him. He stood with his side near her and stirred the poured brew. Had he put something in there that needed to be blended? She'd not seen that occur but…still.

As he served her, she noted her tea seemed a natural color. She turned to Vaillancourt, who waved the footman away. "You do not like tea?"

"Too British for my taste," he said with a sly smile.

She'd seen him drink it before…but rarely. She lifted her cup and sipped. It tasted fine, and she finished it.

Minutes after Vaillancourt excused himself, Amber went to her rooms to survey the area.

The young maid, Marie, was at work unpacking Amber's trunks and putting her clothes into the two tall matching bureaus.

"Madame, are you well?" Her sweet blue eyes ran over Amber's features.

"I am." I am not. I did not feel well this morning. Nerves ate me up. Worse, now I am imagining something silly. Her upset stomach was due to her abject fear of what she was about to do in the house of the man she'd grown to hate.

Now that she was here, she admitted to herself, she was very afraid.

"Shall I fetch you some tea?" the girl asked.

God, no. The worst thing I could want. "A mix of apple juice and ginger, perhaps?"

"At once. Will you sit down and wait?"

She did. As the girl hurried off to the kitchens, Amber sat replaying in her mind's eye the scene of the footman and the tea.

Through her bedroom window, she watched the sun drift down to the edge of the earth and mourned all she had surrendered to come to the bedroom, this house, this terrible point in her life.

Today, she had missed her scheduled meeting with Ram in their little hidden cemetery in Montmartre. He would worry. He would wait. He would even investigate as much as he could. Which, really, was very limited. Vaillancourt let little slip from his house. Hell, that was why she was here. To steal from him. Just as he and his nefarious colleagues stole our peace and our very lives from me, my friends, and those like Diane Massey.

She shook off her doldrums.

Today was just one day she would miss her regular meeting with her charming Ram. She would go next week. Then she would share with him anything that she had learned here. Ram never asked how she had obtained it. He hated for her to ever describe it…and she would not. Nevertheless, dear man, he passed on again and again whatever information she learned.

She nestled into her plush chair and put up her feet on the cushions. Proud of what she and Ram did together, she could say she was pleased. She could never say she was happy. That was for another woman who loved another man, far from this terror. Far from this life she had created for herself. Here she would do as she must. For what she learned here would be so timely, so accurate, and so useful.

Scarlett in London would recognize it for its pristine value. After all, it came from the reliable source of Vaillancourt's whore.

*

That night, Amber excused herself from Vaillancourt's dinner guests right after dessert and took the stairs to her rooms.

She had not seen the footman with the wine pour hers. He had his back to her, and her wine tasted…odd.

She had just stumbled past her sitting room toward the bed when Vaillancourt burst through the connecting door to his suite.

"What in hell are you doing? Trying to disgrace me in front of my guests?"

A hand to her forehead, she swayed before him. "Don't. I—"

She sagged.

He caught her up his arms and set her down on her bed. " Ma chérie , you perspire."

She stared up at him. His face swam before her eyes. His features, so classic and elegant, could have marked a dashingly handsome man. But Rene Vaillancourt was no heroic figure. Enthralled by his own power, he had ruined so many over the years, including many she knew, imprisoning so many, abusing them. Innocent victims. And I am just your obsession. Your symbol of revenge against Maurice…and Ram. "I don't feel well. I could not go on, Rene…"

The anger drained from his face. He loved it when she addressed him by his given name, as if she truly cared for him. She smiled, a pitiful thing. Such a false illusion that was. He took crumbs. She hadn't meant to give them only to persuade him to leave her alone.

"What can I do, ma belle femme ?"

"My maid. Get her." The girl was so solicitous. And for a reason Amber could not explain other than instinct, she trusted her. "I want to get these clothes off."

"I can—"

"No, no." She didn't want him touching her intimately in any way, not now, not ever. Certainly not when she felt so dreadful. "I cannot. I will be ill and ruin your clothes, Rene. Get me Marie, s'il vous pla?t ."

He kissed her forehead, his lips cold and hard. A lizard's fond regard.

She shivered.

"You have caught a chill."

"I have. I have." From you. Always from you. She squeezed shut her eyes and squirmed in misery. "I hate a dank, dark place."

Visions of the weeks, alone and freezing, when she had hidden in the tunnels of Compiègne floated back to her. Endless hours without the sun or the wind in her hair before she emerged into the light and found the brilliant refreshment and comfort of the man she loved.

Tears filled her eyes. Ram, Ram. I need you. But she bit her lip. She must not utter his name to this man.

" S'il vous pla?t . Marie," she beseeched Vaillancourt.

Off he went.

She was alone in her misery. "Ramsey, darling," she whispered to the shadows closing round her. "He knows I took the names from him. He knows."