Chapter Twenty-Four

F or decades, Cecily Ann Struthers-Sumner, Countess Nugent, had made a reputation for doing the outrageous, the unpredictable. At age seventeen she'd become the mistress of the Prince of Wales. But the enchantment did not last. Within months, she had been ordered by him to marry Earl Nugent, a sickly, simple-minded creature. Soon after the wedding, Cecily disappeared from court. Many speculated as to the cause.

But eleven months later, and suddenly a rich widow, she appeared in Paris. She became the talk of the town, a friend of Madame du Barry. Soon, Cecily was the mistress of the infamous Duc d'Orleans. That man, though a Bourbon close to the throne, increasingly voiced liberal causes. Later dubbed Philippe égalité for his sentiments, he nonetheless was carted off to the guillotine. Because of her association with him, Cecily was sent to Carmes Prison along with her young charge, an English girl Cecily had brought into her home. The orphan was Amber.

But Cecily's friendship with Josephine Beauharnais saved her. The young wife of a successful military man, Josephine took Cecily into her home and the new Parisian Society.

Cecily had long been heralded as a beauty. But she was also wily enough to befriend dutifully those in power. She burnished her earlier reputation by never openly consorting with any other men—and saving the fortunes her two famous lovers had generously bestowed upon her.

Cecily had never called on Ram. She had always been reserved with him, polite, never warming. But then, she had no reason to do otherwise. To her, he was an English envoy, a friend of Lord Ashley's, and therefore most likely another agent of the Crown. Her friendship with Josephine, more than any other characteristic, kept Cecily from regarding Ram in any other way than she had. Indifferent and aloof. For her to come here now that he and Amber were publicly estranged was surprising. Unless the lady knew that he and Amber met regularly and that, for some reason, Amber had stopped.

Ram opened the salon doors and closed them firmly behind him. Whatever the woman had to say to him was most likely a tirade, but God only knew about what. In any case, his household did not need to hear it.

She paced before the elaborate alabaster mantel. Dressed formally for calling upon others, she wore a sedate mix of embroidered amethyst silk with fuchsia trim. The colors should have complemented her complexion and made her vibrant. Instead, she was drained of every color, her pallor ghastly. She'd been in such a hurry or in such distress this morning that her attire might be superbly fitted and exotically rich in fabric, but the rest of her was untidy, to say the kindest. Tendrils of her black hair escaped her coiffure. Her gold-rimmed green eyes were swollen, the whites red. She walked stiffly, her fingers working a tall, thick ivory-tipped walking stick.

She appeared aged, much older than her forty-some-odd years. Her full lips were pressed tightly to a thin line, and her greeting to him held no smile. Why she would call upon him, he hoped, she would quickly reveal. He had better things to do than be upbraided for his love of her adopted daughter. Her lovely child who now mysteriously could not meet him. Might the lady know why? She usually knew everything in this city.

"Madam," he said as he strode toward her, "since you have never regraded me with any approval, I doubt you come to me now with a change of heart. Will you sit?" His gaze dropped to her ivory stick. "Or will you run me through?"

Her green eyes flashed, and in that moment, he thought he saw the same look of another woman, Gus.

But Ram shook the thought away as the lady mashed her lips together, unhappy with him. "No assassination, Ramsey."

"So then…" He offered the nearest chair.

She dug her hefty stick into his Aubusson carpet. "We've no time for that."

"Very well." He put his arms behind him and clasped his wrists. If he did not hold himself together, he would fly about the room in helpless rage. "I've much to do to leave Paris. Whatever you want, both you and I are in a hurry."

"I have been to see Amber."

That struck him. Whatever means she'd used, he might use too. "Vaillancourt let you in?"

"No. I have friends on his staff," she bit off.

"How good for you," he said with venom.

Cecily narrowed her eyes upon him. "You have not seen her lately, have you?"

"I, unlike you, am not welcome at Monsieur Vaillancourt's house."

Canny woman, she eyed him as if she speculated whether he told her the whole truth. "I went this morning, Ramsey."

"Good of you."

Once more, she used her stick on his carpet. The poor rug would have a hole if she kept that up. "Amber is ill."

His heart stopped. It took him a moment to process that odd news. Amber, who had lived in a cold, dank tunnel under Cecily's house in Compiègne. Amber, who had walked the streets of Reims and Varennes in the chilly nights. Amber, who had cold hands…unless they clasped his. She was ill?

He took care not to show how his mind reeled. "What's the matter with her?"

"She is weak, cannot eat, tries to drink but loses anything she puts in her stomach. She is pale. Her skin…" Cecily touched her own cheek. "Her skin is drawn. She has lost weight."

With each of her words, she drove her nails into her skin.

He felt his stomach turn. "What does she say?"

"Little. She is hoarse from all her vomiting. Her eyes are clouded. She is so weak, she is not cognizant of all around her. She recognized me only after I forced her eyes open and demanded she tell me who I am."

His head swam with a torrent of disaster. Amber ill. Amber barely conscious. Amber unable to recognize her aunt who had saved her and loved her. Like I did. Like I do.

He strode to the window overlooking the boulevard. Outside, the sun shone. Carriages clogged the streets. Pedestrians hurried past. The British were leaving and in a mad rush. Life and tragedy converged in the streets…and his beloved was ill.

"What did she tell you? What is the problem?"

"She lolled her head upon her pillows. I doubt she understands. She is so weak. She needs tea, broth. Water."

He grimaced. "Did you speak with Vaillancourt?"

"I did. I asked him how long she has been like this."

It's been three weeks. Three since she has not met me in the cemetery in Montmartre.

Cecily came to stand behind him. "He says she has grown worse this past week."

Ram squeezed shut his eyes. The last time when they walked together, Amber had seemed distracted. He worried she was losing her focus—and her love for him. But she had been pale and thin then.

Had she been ill that day? Yes, most likely that was the beginning, and he had not noticed. Fool. Fool.

Cecily grabbed his arm. "I know what she did."

He blinked. If she meant his and Amber's collaboration… "You know nothing." She could not know the facts that Amber had fed to him. If Cecily did, it was only because Amber had, in her delirium, recited them to her. Could his darling be so ill that she would share such information?

Whatever Cecily knew or thought she did, no one should know but him. And Kane. If Amber had murmured any hint of what she did to anyone, the news was her death warrant.

Had Amber told Vaillancourt what she did?

Did Vaillancourt know Amber had searched his desk and found lists of those he would jail? Was he angry, desperate that she had betrayed him?

All was nothing, however, to the news that Amber was weak, unable to digest or keep food down.

He turned toward Cecily.

"Ramsey, Amber says Vaillancourt poisons her."

Ram grabbed the back of a chair to keep from reeling.

Dear God. The man had no boundaries. And if he knows that Amber used him, he would rather kill her himself than have Fouché or Bonaparte learn he has failed them.

Vaillancourt had told Amber he craved her. But love? No.

He does not love you, my darling.

Ram clasped his hands together. He could not stop them from shaking.

"Ramsey," Cecily said, calling him from his reverie, "you must take Amber from him."

"I have planned it myself, coincidentally today."

He examined Cecily. For the first time in more than a year, he saw beyond the picture of her created by the dossier of her past that he had read in London. He gazed past his personal interactions with her. The social events that denoted her as a leader of the court, a confidante of those most high. Now, he saw her as the surrogate mother to two accomplished young charges. The undaunted young woman who had saved both girls, encouraged them, fed and clothed them, then educated them in the ways of the French bon ton , in the manner of survival in a land of snakes.

So had she also by precept or example taught them more? Taught them to love freedom? How to prevaricate and subdue? How to…spy? No, surely not.

"Who met you at Vaillancourt's door?" he asked. Amber had told him Vaillancourt's butler was a fine fellow of like mind, once associated with a man on her aunt's staff.

Cecily gave him the half-smile that said she was pleased at his turn of mind. "The majordom . An old friend of my own man."

"Who else is in the house?"

"Two footmen and Vaillancourt's valet. I know neither."

Of no help, then.

"But in addition, there is the maid, young Marie. She adores Amber. I know because I saw it today. She is"—Cecily sent Ram an evil smile—"the daughter of Vaillancourt's majordom ."

"Useful?"

"I know she is. Her father, too. They receive, shall we say, a stipend from me?"

Ram cocked a brow. "After this day of helping you and me, they may need more from you than that."

She inhaled. "I am ready."

He needed only one more thing from her.

"And the location of Amber's bedroom?"

*

Corsini took more than an hour to find a Berline he could rent.

Ram met the Italian and the coach best used for traveling at the corner, lest anyone watch his house. He'd noticed no one. He expected no one, either. After Amber had decided to part from him last year, no one bothered to watch his house nor track his comings and goings.

He climbed into the shabby cab and thumped on the roof to signal the coachman to drive on. He had instructed Corsini to tell the man to go to Amber's address and find the servants' door.

It was mid-May, so dusk came half after nine at night. Ram had set ten for the time of his arrival. Corsini had learned that Vaillancourt gave a dinner party this evening. Ram could not care. He had his pistol and a knife. Not that either would be to hand with his arms full of his darling, but he would nonetheless be prepared. Still, he hoped he'd need neither.

He climbed down from the cab and pulled out the extended seat concealed in the opposite bench. It added three inches at most, but it was better than nothing. Amber could lie down, even if the jostling of the coach would hurt her back.

He took a deep breath and rapped on the kitchen door.

"Your majordom , s'il vous pla?t ," he said to the young girl servant. Ram hoped he'd enter with help, but if the man balked, he still had Cecily's map of the house.

The maid scurried off, leaving him in the cramped scullery.

Minutes later, the majordom appeared.

"I am the friend of Comtesse Nugent, monsieur. I ask for your help finding Madame St. Antoine's bedroom."

The man lifted a hand as if to listen for voices and movement, then he crooked a finger.

Ram followed.

At the servants' stairs, they paused. The butler raised a staying hand. Off he went, and in a moment he returned with a young girl. "My daughter, Marie."

The girl nodded at Ram and tipped her head toward the stairs.

She opened the door, and Ram noted the width of the staircase. It was so narrow, he'd never get down this with Amber in his arms. He'd need to take the main staircase. Being discovered by the deputy and his illustrious guests would work in Ram's favor. What man would admit to giving a party with his paramour ill unto death upstairs? Ram would walk out of that house with Amber, so help him God.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to Marie. "Continue, please."

Up the steps they raced. At the second turn, Marie stopped and, with a finger to her lips, slowly opened the servants' door to the hall. She stepped out and surveyed it, and with another tilt of her head, Ram followed.

Down the hall they went with careful footfalls.

Ram noted that Marie led him past the landing of the center stairs. Rising from below were the sounds of many voices, mostly male, conversing and laughing. Good. They were well occupied.

At the second door, Marie stopped. Again with a finger to her lips, she opened the door and stepped inside a moment, only to turn back and urge him to enter.

Rushing around her, Ram came to a pause when he realized that this was a sitting room and sat at the rear of the building. He whirled. At either side was a doorway. This meant the rooms were built enfilade —one after another. He raised his arms in question.

"This way," she said, and spun toward her left.

At the threshold, he had to stop. The sight of Amber on the bed weakened his knees.

She lay on her side facing him, her mouth open, her eyes closed, one hand tucked under her chin. Her child's pose was one of pain and abandonment.

But you are no longer alone.

He charged forward. Bent down. Went to his knees beside her. Alarmed at how slowly her eyes opened, he groaned.

She looked drugged, hazy, dreamy. "Godfrey DuClare." She did not so much speak his name as mouth it. Then she gave him a smile. Weak. Tortured.

He put his palm to her cheek. He felt the bone beneath. She was thin, cold.

"A blanket," he said to Marie.

He lifted her bed covers back from Amber's torso. She huddled into the mattress.

"I'll keep you warm," he told her, and shook out the folded blanket. "Come away with me now, my darling. Put your arms around me. Can you?"

Amber gazed at him. "I dreamed you here." She smiled to herself.

"Here, sweetheart." He tugged her toward him. She was a dead weight. But she was lighter than she'd ever been.

She shook her head. "Hurts."

"I'm sorry." He pulled her toward him more securely.

"He's bad, Ram."

"I know."

She clutched his cravat. "He poisons my tea."

Ram stared at her. No, no. "He will no longer, sweetheart." Then he lifted her and stood. "The door, Marie."

The maid hurried around him.

"Ramsey," Amber whispered, her voice rough. "Are you here?"

"I am, darling. I am."

Into the hall, he trod slowly with her, Marie in the lead.

Below, men debated some issue.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to walk down the main stairs and out the front door.

"Marie," Ram called to her, "get my carriage to come round the front."

"But monsieur," she whispered, "that is not wise."

"But necessary, Marie. Do it."

And away she went, down the servants' stairs.

Downstairs, the majordom conversed with a man whose voice became louder, angrier. Two men continued to argue.

All at once, footsteps were on the circular stairs below.

Ram heard people charge upward.

Merde.

Marie's father, Vaillancourt's butler, ran behind Vaillancourt as the two of them reached the first landing.

"Monsieur le Vicomte Ramsey," said the deputy, coming to a halt steps below Ram. "Where in hell do you think you are going?"

"Away from you, Vaillancourt."

"You cannot have her."

"But I do." Ram gave him a sardonic smile and took the steps down to face the man. "Out of my way."

"No. She is ill."

One well-dressed man appeared on the steps below. A visitor, Ram assumed.

Good, an audience. He would nail Vaillancourt to his own cross. "And what have you done to nurse her back to health, eh?"

"She is sickly. I have had a physician." He glared up at Ram. "Given her medicine."

"Really? And you have also fed her poison?"

"Never!" Vaillancourt darted in front of him. "She will not go!"

Ram scoffed. "But she does. Step aside, Vaillancourt!"

Their voices had risen, and a commotion below resulted in three more men appearing at the landing of the first floor.

One of them was an assistant to Talleyrand. At sight of Ram, the man, whose name was Didier, circled the others and looked up at Ram. He knew the Frenchman well, having met him at court when he, Kane, and Fournier first arrived more than a year ago.

Vaillancourt saw his guests assembled and stiffened in his bravado. "She is mine."

"Monsieur, she never was." Ram meant to walk around him. "Move."

Didier mounted the stairs, his expression a mix of shock and anger.

" Bon soir , Monsieur Didier," Ram bade the diplomat. "I take Madame St. Antoine from Vaillancourt, who treats her badly."

"Poison," Amber announced to him loud enough that Didier heard—and blanched.

Ram rejoiced that Amber could tell her own tale.

"He put poison in my tea," she moaned. "In my wine."

"I did no such thing!" the fellow objected, indignant.

Five people regarded Vaillancourt with curled lips. With the wall to one side, Ram took the rest of the stairs down, balanced with his hip at the railing. Step by step, he descended to the foyer. In his arms, Amber kept repeating a breathless "Poison."

If Ram had ever thought he might smote another where he stood, he'd have killed Vaillancourt in that moment.

But as he gained the foyer, and the various guests joined Vaillancourt, Ram had the impression that Didier would do much of that work for him. Spreading the word that Vaillancourt was accused of poisoning his mistress—the illustrious niece of the honored Countess Nugent—would do much to hamper the influence of the young deputy of police. Didier's superior, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand, had a fine opinion of Cecily. Plus, Didier would tell Vaillancourt's superior, the vainglorious chief of police Joseph Fouché. That man was a bastard to anyone he remotely suspected of any crime. But in private, the minister of police was a devoted family man. Fouché believed one loved dearly. And one did not treat loved ones so basely as to try to kill them.

In Ram's arms, Amber trained wide brown eyes on the deputy. She appeared now for the first time this evening to be aware of what was happening.

"Monsieur," Ram addressed the majordom , "the door, please."

Ram stepped out onto the wide front step just as his carriage rounded the corner.

He strode down the remaining steps. If Vaillancourt were to try to stop him, it would have to be now.

The coachman halted the carriage and climbed down from his perch to yank open the passenger door.

Ram placed Amber inside as best he could and stepped in carefully beside her.

"Go quickly," he told the coachman before he shut the door against the evil before them.

In the flickering flames from the lamps on the porch, Ram watched Vaillancourt glare at the departing coach. Around the deputy stood Didier and his four other well-tailored guests. None was happy. Least of all the deputy chief of police.

*

The next morning, Ram surveyed the traffic in the convergence of streets from the bedroom window of his and Amber's former house in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Intent on secrecy, he had gone to Gaspard before he went to Vaillancourt's house. Ram was overjoyed to learn from their former majordom that the house was empty, and paid a handsome sum for the letting of it for an extended period.

He turned to watch Amber. She slept peacefully in the bed near him. He had tended her all night. Her retching had lessened in frequency. She breathed more easily. Slept less fitfully. And she drank—sipped, really—everything he offered.

Outside, everyone scurried to and fro, like wild animals caged. They had good reason. Gaspard came in at dusk with a handful of gossip sheets. News came from London late yesterday that Parliament had declared war on France. He and Amber were therefore illegals. Caught, they could be sent to prison. Fouché and Vaillancourt were already at it. Rounding up British of any ilk, French gendarmes could arrest and detain anyone with papers of passport or without.

This house was the best place to bring Amber. It was on the left bank—out of Society. He had always liked the house, small, comfortable, close to a main road to the south, but far enough away from the abodes of the highest Parisian Society that few of any import would note that these particular chimneys belched smoke again.

*

Corsini came to check on them every night at ten.

The first night, Ram said, "See if you can find a vintner among those in the Halle by the name of Bechard. Luc Bechard."

"I know him."

"You do? How?" Ram asked.

Corsini grinned. "He came a few times to meet Monsieur le Comte Ashley."

Amber trusted Bechard and so did Kane. That meant the man worked for both? Intriguing. Ram shook his head.

"Monsieur, may I suggest that you go south to leave the city? The Paris streets north are at impasse. The roads northwest to Rouen and barges along the Seine, too. None of it is safe. The gendarmes, monsieur, are out in force to capture any British, young or old."

" Merci beaucoup , but I have my own plan, Corsini." Ram would not share it in total with anyone, however. "I'll need a coat and hat for madame. Something modest, old, and worn."

"And you, sir?"

" Merci , Corsini. I have my own disguise to go incognito . As for madame, I also need many clean, old blankets for her comfort. She is weak and cold. Get me good brandy."

"A few petits four as well?"

"That might entice her as little else." Ram wanted to smile amid his fear for her. "She will appreciate that you thought of her so dearly."

*

Ram knew not how long it would take Corsini to find Luc, nor how long for Bechard to make the right connections to get them out of Paris. Still, Ram saw by Amber's improvement the third morning after their departure from Vaillancourt's that his decision to come here, where she could feel comfortable, was right.

"I dare not bring her to your house," Ram had told Cecily that day she visited him and drew him a diagram of Vaillancourt's floor plan.

"Never. But he will come looking for her there and everywhere."

"We will leave Paris, madame, and I will not tell you how or where. I will simply go as far as I can as fast as I can."

Cecily had nodded once. "I want to know only when you both are safe. Whenever that is, find a way to get word to me. She is my darling. One of my two children who came to me by choice and circumstance. I am proud of each. Mad with sorrow to lose them. But I know Augustine went with a good man who loved her. I take comfort that Amber also leaves with another good man who adores her."

He took Cecily's hand and kissed the back.

"I leave her to your care," she had said, choking back tears, then dug from her reticule a leather folio. "For Amber's eyes only."

Ram turned to view Amber now, tucked up securely in a mountain of bedclothes and pillows. She slept, pale, her chapped lips open as she breathed in a steady pattern. He checked his pocket watch. For more than four hours, she had not awakened to cough or vomit. A good sign.

He took the chair beside her and sighed with the first small relief of many days. Weeks, really. He had her with him. Finally. Even if, now, her health was ravaged by that bastard. He prayed that Amber was wrong and that Vaillancourt had told the truth and not poisoned her, but had ordered a medication to add to her tea and wine.

Ram ran a shaking hand through his hair. The apothecary he had called here to examine her the day they arrived told him he could not determine if she had been poisoned. True, she was weak and vomiting, but she had no signs of delirium in her eyes or her pulse. Aside from that, the chemist could not predict what would happen.

"Keep her warm. Give her liquids. Tea. Honey. Broth. Anything she keeps down. Fresh water every ten minutes."

Ram had not known whether to hug him or kiss him.

Amber stirred, her large brown eyes drowsy but clear. "Ram?" She slid her hand across the bed covers. "You are here."

"I am." He bent to place a kiss into her palm and reached for the crystal glass filled with fresh water. "Have a sip of this."

She drank and sank back to the pillows. Her beautiful eyes on him, she whispered so low he barely heard.

But his heart did.

"I love you, Godfrey DuClare. I love you."

"I know you do, my darling. Now sleep."

"You will be here?"

"Always."

*

A week later, Corsini told Ram the story of how he had found Luc Bechard leaving Cecily's house on ?le Saint-Louis. Corsini quickly took Luc to a café and presented his proposal. Luc was eager to help Ram escape and asked for his address. Corsini declined to share it. "The fewer who know, the better."

Luc had secured a small house in Amboise on the shores of the Loire, southwest of Paris. He wrote a note for Corsini to give to Ram that included the location and description of the house. It will be ready for them by next Sunday.

Two days later, when Corsini came to the house to check on them, Ram gave him two hundred old Louis to arrange a carriage.

"I will do it," Corsini told him. "The man will ask for you. But who shall I say he must ask for, monsieur?"

Ram sniffed. "Monsieur Debray." The name of a man buried in the old St. Pierre churchyard was the only one that popped into his mind. Amber would smile at that. "Wait for me with the coachman and help me settle madame inside for our journey."

"I will tell the coachman you go far and to prepare," Corsini told him.

Ram smiled and dropped a hand to the Italian's shoulder. "I will tell you how very grateful I am for your help."

"No words, monsieur, are necessary."

They hugged instead.

Ram saw the man out, locked up the house tightly, and went upstairs to sit with his patient. She slept soundly. He picked up the book he'd been trying to read these past few days.

But tonight he would not turn many pages.

He loved her. He had grown up with love all around him. The acceptance of all that he was, the affections for whatever he did, had allowed him to flourish. If it also made him a gadabout, a man-child carefree and careless of his future, that had changed when he saw what happened to countless Frenchmen and women in the Terror.

He vowed such atrocities would never happen in his own country.

For that, he had applied his talents, doltish as they were in the beginning, to Scarlett Hawthorne's spy ring. A stolen document, a bribed criminal, a government MP blackmailed and thereby retired for his abuse of army funds—all were child's play compared to this dire business he did in France. But he had risen to the occasion.

Or rather, he had done all he possibly could to protect Amber, even from herself.

Woe unto him that he had fallen in love with her.

Now he had truly saved her from the vices of Vaillancourt. Taken her from that man's house, his arms, his ability to determine her life or death.

Now, Ram faced a new challenge. He could improve her health. He could sweep her away to England.

But would that please her? Would that be enough to fill her life? Or would she wish to leave him?

He recoiled at the possibility and put down his book.

If she returned to France, took up her role again, she would by necessity operate very differently. She would have to work in anonymity, away from Paris and all she had known. Could she? Would she have the contacts, old or new, to make that worth her while and useful to the downfall of Bonaparte and his minions?

He shook his head.

He doubted it all.

And he could not, would not argue the issue with her. She had to see it for herself. She was not a person who took well to others' analyses of her life or her decisions.

For now, she was here, his to care for and his to love.

That was his goal. All else would come in some far-off tomorrow that he could not color with his own desires for a future with her as his darling, his beloved wife.

*

Secure in the safety of Corsini and Luc Bechard's plan, Ram was even surer of Amber's ability to endure the trip south. She had improved greatly, eating and drinking sparingly, but often. She felt well enough to endure the jostling of a coach. For the journey, Ram had Corsini rent a comfortable travel coach, and off he and Amber went. Seven hours after departure, they crossed the river at the fortified palace town of Amboise. Climbing more than one hundred feet above the river, the ramparts of the old palace of the medieval and Renaissance kings of France rose like giant arms to protect those who came.

The town spread along the southern banks of the Loire and around the castle walls. Their house Ram discovered by asking for "a blue cottage with white door facing the huge brown-pink stone palace walls."

"The iron key," he told Amber as he read from the instructions, "is beneath the decrottoir ."

"The boot-scraper?" She laughed. "You may have to lift the stone beneath it to find it."

He did. When Ram opened the front door, he was pleased at the sight of a large room filled with upholstered chairs and sofas. Even the bedroom and boudoir were well appointed. The house was the sort courtiers would have loved to rent so they might with ease attend the court of the kings and queens of France in the lavish Renaissance palace of Amboise.

The two of them stayed for three days, just enough time for Ram to find his friend and colleague, Yves Pelletier, and plan to head west. Yves, once an émigré to Britain, now worked for Scarlett Hawthorne, just as Ram did.

Pelletier ran his own nest of French spies, all of whom worked for the benefit of Britain. He kept it that way. Few in number, rabid in dedication, one agent knowing few others. In many ways, Pelletier had copied his operation on the workings of Scarlett's. His base of operations was in Amboise, and he worked the Loire River from to the Atlantic coast.

Yves met Ram beneath the old town clock that spanned the street to the town center. They went to the local patisserie to drink coffee and eat pastry.

"You will have to start in Tours to sail to Nantes. I could not get any fisherman with a boat big enough who was willing to go from here all the way to Nantes. The town of Tours, west of here, holds many friends of mine who will, for a good sum, do much. The man I have for you is totally trustworthy, and you will be well cared for. My one piece of advice is to have Madame St. Antoine do much of your talking. Her French is undoubtedly better than yours, and your English accent will not be one any will love."

The next morning, Ram and Amber closed up their small, comfortable house and boarded a coach headed for Tours. The medieval town of half-timbered houses and shops was filled with friendly people who offered Amber directions to Pelletier's fisherman. The fellow, happy to see them, suggested the two of them stay in an auberge across from the cathedral of Tours. They left the next morning on Jean Pierre's small fishing boat. Two days later, they docked in Nantes.

A disturbance at the docks had Jean Pierre leaving Ram and Amber to learn the cause. When he returned, he suggested the best way to get transport to the coast of Southern England was to go by carriage to a small village south of St. Nazaire. He said he would accompany them to find a certain fellow whom he was hopeful would take gold coin to take them around the points of Normandy and northwest to England.

"But we have a challenge," he told them. "This area is home to many who still sympathize with those who revolted against the consulate and those before it. They are with the revolutionaries of the Vendée . A nasty bunch, cut your throat for a bite of bread. I will negotiate for you. It's best."

Ram was not happy about that until Jean Pierre returned with news that the man he'd hired to take them to England was a known smuggler. "He'll be taking you to Plymouth or Weymouth."

"He does not know which port?" Amber asked.

"It's all how the wind blows, madame. And how the British fleet and the revenuers work that day."

"You mean," Ram asked, "we could be attacked?"

Jean Pierre nodded. "None of this is guaranteed. But he is a good sailor. Best I know."

For ten days, that last was little compensation for the rough seas that finally took them to a small fishing town near Weymouth.

When the two put feet to dry land, Ram wanted to kiss the ground. He had sickened the first day. Amazingly, Amber did better than he. In fact, she tended to bloom in the sea air.

When they landed, it was Amber who had voice to ask for a local inn where she and Ram could spend a day recovering.

"One aspect of this journey works for us," Ram told her as they planned to leave the next day. "My estate is not far. A few hours' journey north."