Chapter Five

June 12, 1802

Charleville, Ardennes Forest

"W hen have you been here before?" Amber asked Ram as the coachman took his time opening the door to their carriage. She could not wait to climb down and put her feet to the earth. The two of them had traveled via public coaches the past week. This particular conveyance could not have been more rickety, the squabs more lumpy, and the horses any older. The journey from their last town of Buzancy had taken eight miserable hours, stopping for one very ill, retching coachman and one damaged wheel. All of it made her aching bones feel as if she were eighty.

She fidgeted, happy to be in a new place she'd never been, freer each day from most of her worries about her safety, serene at odd moments when she forgot her predicament—and that in itself was attributable to the jovial company of the man who had found her and vowed to aid her. Posing as his wife, she gradually threw off her care of discovery.

As she gazed at his amicable expression, she admitted that their journey now was more dedicated to him and his pursuits. She welcomed the change.

She needed it. After all the years when she had devoted herself to the ruin of corrupt officials who jailed her and her friends, she hailed this reprieve. Even though you feel guilty that you've abandoned your mission.

Guilty? Yes. But at threat to my life.

"Don't fret," Ram said, as if he'd read her mind. He grinned in solace at her impatience and covered her hands in his. The embrace of his large, strong fingers was a comfort she'd learned to admire. To accept. To want. "Once, years ago, I visited here. My distant cousins live just near the edge of town."

That explanation warmed her. They had good reason to be here, not simply Ram's desire to learn about the production of muskets and nails and whatever else the townsfolk produced in their forges. She smiled at him, grateful for his ease, his savoir-faire . She breathed more easily each day, each hour. Today, when she was farther from Reims and Varennes, she rejoiced that she was sheltered from those who wished to haul her back to Paris and death.

And this man made it possible.

"Come now." He smiled and the world awaited, happier than she expected.

She squeezed his hand and scrambled out. Breathing the crisp air of the north, she was grateful for her new half coat, for her new clean clothes. Amber also appreciated the deep hem in her coat into which she had basted her remaining coins and her wedding ring from Maurice.

She and Ram had left Varennes the afternoon after he discovered her in his room in the auberge. They had taken a coach west to a small village, where the carriage inn offered bad food and straw beds. The next day, they had left for Buzancy. There they had paused for four days while the local seamstress sewed Amber three new gowns, two hats, and two petticoats, and fashioned new slippers. Amber had happily donned one new travel gown in favor of the borrowed gown, petticoat, felt hat, and knitted shawl Madame Verne had given her.

Amber smiled as she remembered the Vernes fondly and hoped no gendarme came to bother them. The four gold Louis that Amber had left in the old Verne family coin jar was small remuneration for the generosity the family had shown her. They had offered their barn, their hayloft, and their kindness to her when she had been alone, afraid, and in need of friendly faces.

Now their succor had been replaced by this man. This man who surprised her with his knowledge of her, his dedication to helping her elude Vaillancourt, and his surprising turn of character from demanding agent of the British Crown to debonair foreign traveler—and her fake husband.

She trained her gaze away from him, trying to ignore the tug he gave to her heartstrings. His attentiveness was so gallant. So…friendly. She could only applaud him…and thank him.

But that was becoming—

"Unnecessary," he had said to her more than once when she expressed her gratitude.

He wished no thanks. He performed a service. Nothing more. Nothing…

She sniffed and turned to survey the quaint village streets of Charleville as Ram paid the coachman. Stone and red-brick cottages with decent tiled roofs and a few spring flowers blooming in little wooden boxes near the front doors spoke of some prosperity. People waved and stopped to talk to others. Everyone here seemed to know everyone else.

A shiver rippled through her. It could be a bad thing to be a stranger in a small town. People had looked at them oddly in the last village. They had claimed to have caught the wrong coach. Here, however, Ram and she could say they knew townsfolk.

"Tell me about your relatives," she said as he took her arm to assist her over the cobbles and direct her along the lane toward a carriage inn. A faded white wooden sign, carved in the shape of a fleur - de - lis , swung to and fro in the breeze and proclaimed it was Le Roi Fran?ois . "I came here years ago with my grandmother. French, she was."

Surprise inspired a smile on her lips. "From this eastern part of France?'

"Yes. She was the youngest daughter in a large family when my grandfather saw her from afar."

"And why was he in France?"

Ram slid her a silly grin. The humor stunned her. He too was becoming more carefree these past few days. His ease transformed his stark masculinity into a radiance of magnetic allure.

She longed to taste his charm, and foolish as she was, she pressed his arm against her breast.

Ram set his jaw, blinking away his notice of her seemingly innocent embrace. "Simple. My grandfather was traveling. It was his grand tour."

"But this is so far into the countryside," she said, relaxing her grip on him. To lead him on would be unkind. He was so chivalrous. In that, he resembled Maurice. Her dear husband had been a man of manners and restraint. She had been enraptured by his tender regard of her. So few men had treated her like a treasure. To most, her red hair marked her as a hussy. Her ample breasts and hips said she belonged in a whorehouse. Ram treated her as if he must protect her from the rabble. As his prize—and his wife. And she loved his devotion. She had to pretend nonchalance. "What is there to see here in this town that your grandfather included it on a quest to see fine art and architecture?"

"My grandmother's beauty."

Amber chuckled. "Her fame had spread that far and wide?"

"It did. My grandmother is not so much vain as she is notoriously proud of my grandfather, who grew to love her other qualities."

"The lady still lives and tells everyone of her fame?"

"Not shy, my nana. My grandfather was with his own father, and both had beauty of all types on their minds. The story goes that the two men introduced themselves to my grandmother's father. My paternal grandfather, not shy himself, praised the Frenchman's daughters. Then he quickly wooed the youngest, married her, and took her home to England. The art the family possesses is notable, too. A painting by Leonardo da Vinci and one of his machines. A flying machine, as I remember."

"But I thought Leonardo lived in Rome? How did the family gain possession of his works?"

"One of my grandmother's ancestors had lived at the royal chateau of Amboise when King Francis resided there and invited Leonardo to come live and work there. The painting and flying machine were gifts from the artist to my grandfather."

"I would like to see both of them."

"Tomorrow," he said as they approached the entrance to Le Roi Fran?ois , "we will knock on the door of the family Boyer and see if my grandmother and I are remembered—and hopefully you and I are admitted."

"How will that aid us in learning what you wish to learn here?"

"It will," he told her. "Everyone knows the product for which the town is famous. You and I will keep our ears open and perhaps learn from gossip any useful news."

It was not until the propriétaire had shown them to their room that they spoke again.

"My wedding ring? I need one, remember?" There had been no goldsmith in Buzancy.

"We can stroll around town after we dine and hopefully find one. Tomorrow morning, we will go early to have you fitted, and as we go, we will examine the layout of the town. We'll go to the city hall and stroll along the river."

"The armory should be easy to find."

"I remember where it is. I just don't want to appear too eager to examine it. We must tell any and all that we have stopped here to visit my family."

"When do you want to go see them?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Then we tell them that we are on our way to Sedan to visit a friend of mine."

She set her new little reticule on the bed and opened the straps. "A geologist like you?" Ram had told her that was to be his unique reason to travel around the countryside.

He set down his own small travel case and put a hand to his chin. "I think so."

She laughed. "You do lie so well."

He gave a small bow. "Thank you."

"Now explain to me what reason you have to visit this mysterious friend of yours?"

"Ah, Madame le Vicomtesse , I am a noted expert on French chalk and rock, and I write a treatise on the natural geographical formations used by one of Louis XIV's military generals to build fortifications."

"Vauban." She nodded. The famous engineer had built defensive rings around France on mountaintops and along coasts. He had even dug forts into rock to store supplies. "Of course."

"You know of him?" Ram paused, surprised.

She winked at him. "Every woman does, don't they?"

Hands on his hips, he threw back his head and chuckled. "Just those who have lived under their aunt's house in the tunnels of Compiègne."

"Exactly." She resumed unpacking her reticule. "You are so fortunate that you have such a knowledgeable assistant."

His laughter gone, he looked at her with respect—and an enthusiasm tinged with sweet desire. "I could not do it without you."

*

Just after noon the second day Amber and Ram were in Charleville, they had walked from town up to the residence of his distant cousin. The old white stucco chateau they approached was a sedate beauty.

Ram expressed his concern that his cousin might not be alive. If he were, he might not be keen about meeting him or welcoming him to his home. "My cousin Georges was a member of the first Estates General . He remained for two years until radicals took over and the Terror began. I heard that then Georges left Paris for home and remained here, running his shops and writing his travel books. While many from the National Assembly were hunted down and thrown in prison, he escaped notice. I do hope he lives here in peace."

Amber took Ram's hand and squeezed it in sympathy. It was the first time in their relationship she had sought to comfort him. His hesitant nod showed his surprise, but his arresting blue eyes showed his gratitude. "As do I," she said.

Ram turned and lifted the knocker.

It took only minutes for hope's transformation to joy.

At once upon gazing at Ram standing in his foyer, Ram's relative beamed and opened his arms. " Monsieur le Vicomte ." He patted Ram's cheek.

"S'il vous pla?t , Georges—to you I always was Godfrey. Let it be so once more."

" Naturellement, mon ami . Allow me to introduce to you my children. Since last we met here, I have had two girls and a son. They will be delighted to meet you. Sadly, my wife, Corrine, died last winter. She would have loved to have met you. But we gladly welcome you to us!" He motioned to his children to come forward from their observation spot at the end of the hall. "Come meet your cousin, mes chers enfants ."

She and Ram greeted the man's offspring with the same enthusiasm he and his children showed to them. Adele was the oldest girl, shy and polite. Edouard was Georges's son, pensive and quiet. Sophie was the buoyant one, resembling her father in his joyful character.

The Boyers took the two travelers to their bosoms with ease and laughter.

"A success," Amber said to Ram, waggling her brows at him as they sank into their comfortable bed that night.

They had eagerly accepted Georges Boyer's invitation to spend a few days.

*

"You cannot leave us Tuesday, but must remain for the June festival," Georges insisted the next day at luncheon.

"Especially for the ball Friday night," the youngest daughter, Sophie, declared. "It's the town's grandest occasion."

"I planned to be finished with my rock samples before then," Ram claimed. He was privately overjoyed to stay, because from Georges last night at dinner he had learned nothing about the production of muskets at the old armory.

Amber joined in. "We will not be a burden to you for so long, Georges."

"Nonsense!" The man was determined to be a good host and the finest of relatives.

Ram gave in. They would stay.

A good thing, too. Because they had learned little from local residents about production of weapons. Their visit to the local goldsmith had resulted in a lovely, if simple, wedding ring for Amber, but that man did not gossip. Neither had the propriétaire of their auberge or the pretty town boulangère. Georges Boyer concerned himself only with pumping details from Ram about their recent journey to Buzancy. Ram said he needed any changes in the town so that he could include them in his updated travel guide. Georges's three children shrugged, confessing they knew little about the armory. The only fact they learned was that two of Edouard's friends had fathers who worked there.

*

Later that same afternoon, Sophie tugged Amber up into her lavender bedroom and took up her favorite subject, gowns for the town's summer ball Friday night.

"It is to be a grand occasion on the plaza outside the h?tel de ville . You are so lovely, madame. Everyone will be in awe of you."

Amber thanked the girl for her sweet compliment. "I must think on this, Sophie. I have no gown for such a grand occasion."

"Anything you wear will make it grand! Besides, what if you borrow my blue gown?" The girl clapped her hands. "I am an excellent seamstress, and you will never know the dress was altered."

Amber could not refuse such generosity from so sweet a child. The girl regarded her as a lady of taste. Why that was, Amber didn't know—she showed no hint of her life in Paris. She was dressed in her simple attire sewn by the Buzancy modiste.

When Amber mentioned the conversation to Ram that night as they undressed for bed, he waved a hand and dismissed her concern.

"Ah, fear not, ma femme ." Calling her his wife these days in increasingly endearing tones, he took up her hand and kissed the back. "Sophistication shows in everything you are. The way you walk, the way you speak, how you look at the world as yours. Sophie sees a woman who knows what she wants—and who she is."

"I hope not all of who I am!" she joked, but reveled in Ram's words, including his reference to her as his wife. She was his co-conspirator, a stranger whom he had adopted, a woman whom he'd vowed to save. Since they had united, they had become friends who truly enjoyed each other's company. In that, he played the part of her husband as deftly as an actor at the Comédie-Fran?aise . But the past few days, when he gazed at her across the Boyers' salon or smiled with her at breakfast, she saw him transform by tiny increments from the man who acted as her mate to one who became the husband she laughed with, planned with, plotted with—and slept beside.

He had become so natural a mate to her these past few days that she had no answer for the question that had begun to form in Buzancy. Was Ram, this British spy who had invaded her life, becoming more than he claimed? Was he more than her protector? Was he at once her conspirator? In subtle ways, also her confidant? Her friend?

And if he was all of that in so little time, was she lax, careless? Or wise?

Prudent. Ram had used that word. And she liked it. Favored it. Told herself many times a day as she glanced at him and smiled or nodded in agreement that she was being prudent to accept his kind offer of his attention, his care, his body as her bulwark against the misfortunes those like Vaillancourt could cast against her.

I am prudent. Aren't I?

"What do you think, madame?" The next day, Sophie held up for Amber's inspection another garment she had altered for herself. But the girl's question helped Amber avoid answering her own. "Is my stitching good enough for the alterations to the blue gown for you?"

Sophie was bubbly and lovely. With pale blonde hair and woodsy-blue eyes, she was the epitome of youth and positivity. All of which Amber had never been. Only once had she approached that much joy for life, and that had been in the eighteen months when she was married to Maurice. Now she had begun to accept the help of an agent of espionage to help her escape the price of her own acts of spying. And my acceptance of Ramsey does not challenge what I still feel for my darling Maurice. For Maurice, that was love. This for Ram is gratitude, delight…and friendship. Just friendship.

She regarded Sophie with a broad smile. " Merci beaucoup , Sophie. Your stitching is expert, and I am so honored you will allow me to wear the gown."

"It's not grand, like a Paris gown, madame. But—"

"I love it," she assured the girl.

"Even after I finish, it may not fit well," Sophie said worriedly.

"I think it will be superb." Sophie was a chubby girl, and as tall as Amber. So the length would be right and the wealth of fabric around Amber's large breasts would fit. If she were not in the height of fashion, she was not in the city, in Society, nor in the mood to be au courant .

She took the shimmering icy-blue charmeuse, dotted with tiny embroidered white peonies, between her fingers and rubbed the smooth silk that flowed like water from her touch. "I think it is from Lyon."

"It is. Papa ordered it for Mama, but she was never able to wear it."

"I'm sorry." She put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "It is difficult to lose your mother at any age."

"Is yours alive?" Sophie asked with hope in her eyes. "I apologize. I should not have asked so personal a question."

"Of course you could. I do not mind." Amber looked away for a moment. "I do not remember my mother well." She is a ghost to me.

" Non! Terrible!" Sophie caught Amber's hand. "I am so sorry."

"My father was a duke's aide and became very ill. When he could no longer take care of me, my aunt came to London. I was nine when she took me with her to Paris. I lived with her until I married." Amber paused, another thought of beloved Maurice bringing tears to her eyes.

The girl's brow furrowed. She did not understand Amber's emotion. "But Monsieur le Vicomte is a very handsome man. You must be proud. I would be so happy to have such a wonderful man by my side."

Caught in the moment when she reflected too much on the past, Amber remembered the present danger—and her growing affection for her "new" husband. " Oui, oui ."

Fearing that Sophie would ask more—and that she had told the girl too many facts—Amber hurried to change the subject. "Now," she said with a brightness she did not feel, "fetch your sewing basket. We will tend to this gown."

As they cut seams and basted new ones in the luscious silk, Amber saw Godfrey DuClare's flame-blue eyes and pondered the words she had let slip into her consciousness. Yes, she admitted, she did have affection for her new husband.