Almost a Lady (34 page)

Montaine had never taken a woman to the general who left in such a collected manner so very soon after the meeting would have started. It would not have pleased the general, that much he knew. He waited politely for the carriage to start, then, curious to see what effect Madame Giverny had had on General Bonaparte, hurried back into the mansion.

He found Bonaparte in his study, pacing restlessly between the desk and the windows.

“An independent woman, that Madame Giverny, Montaine,” the general declared. “Says she’ll come to dinner tomorrow night but in her own carriage.” He gave a short laugh. “Most refreshing, I find.”

“Indeed, sir,” the equerry said. “I would like to make further inquiries about the lady. Perhaps it’s a little premature to invite her to a private dinner.”

The general turned a scowling gaze on the colonel. “What are you implying, man?”

Montaine cleared his throat. “Nothing . . . as yet, sir. But the lady is newly arrived, no one seems to know anything about her. She’s not . . .” He paused. “She’s unusual, General.”

“Yes, exactly,” Bonaparte said impatiently. “That’s what I like about her. She’s refreshing.”

Montaine tried again. “I would like to be certain she has no ulterior motive in her pursuit of you, General Bonaparte.”

The general’s eyebrows rose. “What possible ulterior motive could she have, man? I am Napoleon.” Then a disarming smile changed his countenance completely. “Besides, you have it wrong, Alain.
I
am the one in pursuit.”

“Yes, sir, so I understand,” the colonel said. “But nevertheless, I would like to make further inquiries. The lady’s reputation—”

“Oh, fiddle that,” the general interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I have no interest in her reputation, only in a brief liaison. And I trust that will be forthcoming. If you don’t like it, then you may take tomorrow evening off, and Gilles will do the honors.”

“Sir, I—”

“No, I won’t hear another word.” He turned petulantly towards his desk. “I have work to do and so have you. Bring me the supply orders for the
Arabesque.
”

“Yes, sir.” Montaine saluted and left the study, his expression grim. He was powerless to stop his general pleasing himself in such matters. And he had no evidence for his unease.
At least not yet.

“I trust you passed a pleasant time, madame?” Cosimo said over his shoulder as he drove away from the mansion gates.

“Pleasant enough, Charles. Although the general is a busy man. Our meeting was rather short.” She smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in her close-fitting gloves, her hands moving restlessly among the folds of her skirt. “He has invited me for dinner tomorrow evening.”

“I’m sure Madame will enjoy herself,” Charles said gravely. “Where will this dinner take place?”

“In the general’s private apartments, I believe.”

“A privilege,” he said, turning the horses expertly into the narrow lane alongside the church.

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice rather flat. She saw his shoulders tense a little at her tone and wished she’d managed to keep the flood of uncertainty that had provoked it at bay. She knew they would have to wait until night, once the house was asleep, before he would be able to bolster her flagging courage.

It was the early hours of the morning before he came to her bedchamber. He wouldn’t let her talk until they’d made love, a much gentler form of the exercise than the previous night, with Cosimo wielding the conductor’s baton and Meg, for once, willing to yield the initiative. Afterwards he lay on her bed, hands linked behind his head, listening quietly to her as she paced around the chamber giving him the details of her morning’s encounter.

“He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t dominate me,” she said as she finished the account. “But I think it intrigued him.”

“It would certainly put him on his mettle,” Cosimo stated. “As we had planned, if you remember. It was the one surefire strategy to hook him quickly.”

She nodded. “I know. But he does frighten me a little, Cosimo. What if he gets angry when I refuse him tomorrow night and . . . and well . . .” She extended her hands in an eloquent gesture.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for her hands, drawing her down onto his knee. “First you need to remember that I will be at the gate the whole time. If you feel the need for me, then find a way to move the curtains aside just for a second. That will bring me.”

“You know which windows are his?” She was surprised.

“Of course,” he said simply, and Meg was no longer surprised.

“But if I summon help, won’t that ruin everything?” she objected.

“Not necessarily. No one need know you summoned me, and you may safely leave the management of such an intervention with me. It’ll be sufficient to dampen the general’s ardor temporarily and we’ll trust not permanently.” There was a grim edge to his customarily even tones.

“And if I can’t reach the window?” She swiveled on his knee to look into his face. His expression was as grim as his voice.

“As a last resort, you will faint,” he said. “Bonaparte detests weakness of any kind, and embarrassment even more. A swooning woman in his bedchamber would be enough to send him scuttling.”

“But that would put him off permanently,” she said.

“It would certainly be a setback,” Cosimo agreed. “But I have faith in you, love. You will bring this off with aplomb, I promise.”

And there was something about the utter confidence of the statement that gave Meg all the courage she needed.

She
would
bring this off and bring Napoleon Bonaparte to his assignation with death.

“You need to sleep,” Cosimo said swiftly, seeing her sudden pallor, the darkening of her eyes. “One last thing, though.” He turned her face towards him. “You need to watch Montaine. It’s his job to vet candidates for the general’s bed. Be very careful around him, he was snooping around the secretaire this morning.”

“He was asking some very pointed questions,” Meg said. “But I can’t think what he could discover about Meg Barratt from Kent.”

“No, neither can I,” Cosimo said, but he had a little niggle of doubt that he kept from Meg. She had enough to concern her. He lifted her off him and tucked her into bed, kissing her eyelids shut. “I will be watching that window every second you are in there.” He snuffed the candles and left soundlessly.

Meg curled up on herself under the coverlet. How would she feel when her part in this deadly mission was completed? It was so close to fruition now that for the first time she could see a time after it was over. How could she ever resume an ordinary life again?

Cosimo had said they would rejoin the
Mary Rose
and return to England. But how could she ever continue with a love affair tainted by the blood that would stain both their hands? Oh, she understood the reasoning behind this mission, but her intellect had very little to do with her gut. She had no stomach for it.

But she had even less stomach for seeing Cosimo’s death.

The next day passed minute by minute. Meg paced the salon, resenting every interruption and yet welcoming it. The usual parade of officers came and went and she smiled, bantered easily. She accepted an offer from Major Guillaume to ride with him along the corniche in the afternoon and regretted it immediately. But then she reflected that riding would clear her head, and she hadn’t been on the mare’s back for two days.

“You seem to have attracted illustrious attention, madame,” the major observed as they turned their horses onto the broad green swathe of grass that bordered the harbor.

“Indeed, Major?” Meg raised a questioning eyebrow, but there was a warning in her eyes.

A warning the major foolishly failed to heed. “General Bonaparte, madame. It’s said that he is smitten with you.”

“Is it, indeed?” she said, her nostrils flaring a little. “I’ll thank you not to bandy my name about, Major Guillaume, and most certainly to keep the gossip of scuttlebutts to yourself.” She nudged the mare with her heels and the horse, responsive as always, picked up her gait.

Guillaume urged his horse forward, his face rather red. “Forgive me, madame. I was out of order.”

“Certainly you were,” she said coldly and rode on in a flinty silence. The major kept pace, made a few hopeful conversational gambits, and then lapsed into a defeated silence. At which point Meg took pity on him.

“It’s very hard for a woman alone to avoid malicious tongues, Major. I had thought you above such gossip mongering.” She sounded hurt and sorrowful.

“Oh, my dear madame, I pay no heed to the rumors, I swear it,” he said earnestly. “Forgive me, I wished only to alert you.”

“Then I thank you for a warning that is, however, quite unnecessary,” she said with a wan smile. “I am not unaware of the honor General Bonaparte’s notice does me, but I own Colonel Montaine’s disapproval is hard to bear and I’m afraid I took that out on you. He doesn’t say anything openly, but there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes it clear what he thinks of me.” She gave a heavy sigh.

“Oh, my dear Madame Giverny,” the major said, leaning over to pat her hand. “You need have no fear. Everyone knows that Montaine is a suspicious gossip. Rest assured no one takes any notice of him.”

With the possible exception of Bonaparte, Meg reflected, as she thanked her champion with a sweet and slightly sad smile. When he left her at her door, she went up to her chamber, satisfied that Guillaume would defend her in the officers’ mess with sufficient vigor to give his fellow officers second thoughts before deriding the widow’s reputation. It might even give Montaine pause, at least in the short term, which, after all, was all that they needed.

Chapter   24

M
eg was once again surprised at how calm she felt as she swept down the stairs that evening, the train of her dark red silk evening gown caught over one arm to facilitate her step. The gown was strikingly sophisticated, its slender cut skimming her body, the waist high enough under her bosom and the neckline low enough to make the most of her breasts. A black scarf provided a dramatic counterpoint to the deep red silk and she wore black opals at her throat and in her hair.

When she’d asked Cosimo how he’d managed to provide the jewelry that augmented her wardrobe, he’d merely smiled and shaken his head, leaving her to wonder whether someone else had been involved in their acquisition, someone whose identity she mustn’t know. Either that or he’d been carrying them with him across France, in which case she had no idea where he could have hidden them. But that was hardly surprising. The privateer’s secrets were too numerous to imagine. The jewels themselves would have been chosen with Ana in mind, of course, which explained why they so perfectly suited her own coloring.

As she stepped down into the hall she unfurled her Chinese fan of black painted silk and raised her eyebrows infinitesimally at her majordomo, who stood at the front door waiting to escort her to her carriage.

He gave a tiny nod, then opened the door with a ceremonial flourish. “Madame, your carriage awaits.”

“Thank you, Charles.” She bestowed a distant smile on him as she walked past him, and gave him her hand as she stepped up into the carriage. He squeezed her fingers in quick reassurance before leaning in to tuck a rug over her lap.

“You are magnificent,” he whispered.

“I know,” she murmured back and was rewarded by the flash of appreciative amusement in his eyes as he straightened.

She knew that if her appearance was vital to the part she had to play, then it was faultless. It was that, perhaps, that gave her this unexpected confidence.

Cosimo drove the carriage through the gates and into the courtyard of the general’s mansion. They were obviously expected. The guards at the gate jumped to attention with a salute, and when they drew to a halt in front of the doors at precisely eight o’clock, an equerry hurried to the carriage.

“Good evening, Madame Giverny.” He opened the door for her. “General Bonaparte is expecting you.” He gave her his hand to help her down.

Meg, who had prepared herself for the dour Montaine, was relieved at the fresh face and gave him a warm smile as she stepped down. “My coachman will wait with the horses at the gate,” she said, sending a haughty nod in the direction of said coachman, who sat ramrod still on the box, not presuming to glance at his mistress.

“If you will come this way, madame.” The equerry gestured towards the doors that stood open, sending a river of yellow light into the courtyard.

Meg’s heart seemed to pause for a second and her earlier calm vanished, but then she swallowed once, let her shoulders relax, and was in control once more. “Thank you.” She put her hand on his proffered arm and was escorted into the house, the doors closing behind her with a decisive click.

This time the general was waiting for her in the drawing room, standing before the empty hearth, hands clasped at his back. He beamed at her when she entered, and hurried over, taking both her hands and bringing them to his lips. “My dear Nathalie, how charming you look, how delightful. Do let me give you a glass of champagne . . . Gilles, a glass of champagne for Madame Giverny.” Still holding her hands, he took a step back and gazed at her in clear appreciation. “Charming,” he said again. “Absolutely charming.”

“You are too kind, General,” she responded, gently removing her hands from his clasp and turning to take the glass from the equerry. “Where is Colonel Montaine this evening?”

A frown crossed Bonaparte’s bright eyes. “Montaine is off duty,” he stated. “You should not concern yourself with him.”

“Oh, I wasn’t. I’m simply accustomed to seeing him at your side.” Meg offered a careless smile as she sipped her champagne, wondering if the frown and the absence were significant. Had the colonel unwisely warned his general off the widow? She didn’t think Napoleon would take kindly to personal advice from his equerry. If Montaine had queered his own pitch, so much the better for her.

“That will be all, Gilles.” Bonaparte dismissed the man with a wave. “You may tell them to serve dinner in fifteen minutes.”

The equerry bowed and left the salon.

“Now, Nathalie, we must become properly acquainted.”

Napoleon reached to take her hand but she gave him a little smile and said quietly, “Excuse me one minute.” She went to the door the equerry had closed behind him and opened it a fraction. “It is a little soon for a tête-à-tête, Napoleon.”

His frown was more of a glower, then he gave a short laugh. “I didn’t think you so nice in your notions, madame.”

“In my position, I cannot be too careful, sir,” she responded, smiling with a touch of invitation that took any offense out of her words as she came back to him, extending her hands. “It is a little different for women, Napoleon.”

The glower faded as he took her hands. “I suppose it is. But come and tell me about yourself.” He drew her towards a sofa and sat down, urging her to sit beside him.

Meg gave him the version of her history that was now so familiar to her she almost believed it herself. “My husband, Comte Giverny, was quite elderly,” she explained as the story came to an end. “His death was not unexpected. Although he was more like a father to me than a husband, I feel his loss every day. He was always a tower of strength.” She touched her eyes with a fingertip as if to brush away a tear.

“Ah, my dear, how sad for you,” Napoleon said, seeming genuinely moved by her story. “To be alone in the world so young.”

“I am not
so
young, Napoleon,” she said, with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “I believe we are exactly the same age. And you have accomplished almost as much in ten years as Alexander the Great.”

He smiled, taking her hand between both of his. “Believe me, my dear Nathalie, I have barely begun. My victories will cast Alexander’s into the shade before I’m finished. The world has seen nothing yet.”

He spoke with such calm conviction, his eyes glowing with absolute faith, that it took her breath away. She knew he was adored—worshiped even—by the men who served under him, and experiencing the wash of that utter confidence in himself, she could begin to understand it.

“I was wondering how it felt for you to be in Toulon again,” she said. “After you recaptured it from the British five years ago. I had always understood that that military success was the turning point for the new Republic.”

His white teeth flashed in a broad smile. “Ah, Nathalie, every minute I spend in this city reminds me of that most satisfying victory.”

“You were but twenty-four,” she prompted, thinking that if she could keep the conversation centered on his exploits, his military victories, his Jacobin philosophy, she might be able to steer a safe course through the evening. “Will you tell me about it? Now that I know Toulon a little, the details of the campaign will make more sense.”

“At dinner,” he promised as an inner door opened to admit a bowing manservant.

“Dinner is served, sir.”

“Ah, good. I’m famished.” He rose to his feet, patting his round belly in emphasis. “Nathalie . . .” He offered his arm and escorted her into a small, private dining room, where the round table was set for two, and discreetly placed candles shed a soft intimate light over the white linen, heavy silver, exquisite cut glass.

He drew out a chair for her and then took his place opposite, saying heartily as he shook out his napkin and spread it over his lap, “What do you have for us tonight, Alphonse?”

A man in a white apron was supervising a server placing dishes on the sideboard. He turned and bowed, reciting reverently, “For the first cover, General, a dish of ortolans braised with white grapes, a roasted bass with a sauce of
écrevisses,
a ragout of rabbit, and the pièce de résistance, a saddle of lamb with a sauce bordelaise and a delicate mousse of sweet garlic and baby peas.” He permitted a small smile of satisfaction to touch his rather thin lips.

“Excellent . . . excellent,” pronounced the general. “I trust it will satisfy you, madame.”

“Amply, sir,” Meg said somewhat faintly. She had a good appetite but so many dishes for the first cover would daunt an appetite much heartier than hers. Not so Napoleon, it seemed, who began to eat with relish.

Alphonse removed himself from the dining room after a few minutes of anxious observation as his master tried each dish and pronounced it good, but the servant remained to serve them, keeping the wine goblets fully charged.

Meg drank sparingly, knowing that she would need her wits about her even more when the servant finally left them. She nibbled the flesh off the tiny leg of an ortolan and dabbled her fingers in the finger bowl at her elbow. “From what I’ve read of the engagement at Toulon, General, it was your decision to attack the fort at Point l’Eguilette that drove Admiral Hood and the British into retreat. I rode there with Major Guillaume and he tried to describe the action to me, but of course he was not there in person. I would dearly love to hear you tell it.”

Napoleon wiped his mouth vigorously and took a deep draught of wine. “I will show you, my dear, exactly how the engagement was conducted.” He began to move cutlery, cruets, glasses around on the cloth to indicate the various positions, and Meg, despite her tension, was quickly absorbed by the general’s enthusiastic re-creation of the battle for Toulon. Whatever she might think of Napoleon Bonaparte personally, he was inspired to the point of genius when it came to warfare.

She drew him out about Toulon, his subsequent victories, and about his imprisonment at Antibes as a suspected traitor four years earlier. The strategy worked. He was delighted to talk about his career and to describe his triumphs to such an admiring, attentive, and clearly knowledgeable audience. Conversation didn’t affect his enthusiasm for his dinner either and Meg observed with something like awe the quantities of fowl, fish, and flesh that disappeared into the rotund body.

At last, however, he set down his fork and sat back. “Most satisfactory.” He gestured to the hovering manservant. “Ask Alphonse to introduce us to the second cover.”

Alphonse returned to supervise the arrangement of dishes that this time were laid directly upon the table. A basket of peaches, bowls of jellies and syllabubs, mushrooms and melted Roquefort on rounds of brioche, and an astonishing gâteau elaborately decorated with a naval frigate in full sail, flying the tricolor.

“Magnificent,” Napoleon declared, rubbing his hands. “Alphonse, you have outdone yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.” The chef bowed himself out.

“You may leave us now, Claude,” the general said to the manservant. “We can serve ourselves.”

Meg helped herself to one of the savory brioches and waited until the servant had left, closing the door behind him, before she said, “You must forgive me, Napoleon, but if we are to be alone, I would like to keep a door open.”

“Good God, madame, what are you afraid of?” he demanded. “I am not in the habit of ravishing my dinner companions.”

“No, of course not,” she said with a laugh. “And I didn’t mean to imply any such thing. But I would prefer it to be generally understood without possibility of a mistake, that you and I are simply dining together.”

He pushed back his chair and went to the door that led into the drawing room, opening it wide. “Will that suit you, madame? Or should I send for Gilles to stand guard?”

Meg looked dismayed at the sarcastic tone. “It seems a little unjust that you should be angry at such an understandable request. Perhaps I should leave now.” She made a move to stand up.

Instantly he crossed back to the table. “No . . . no . . . please, Nathalie. I didn’t mean to sound unreasonable, but I really don’t see why you should concern yourself. You are among friends. The only people around are my staff, all loyal to me to the last drop of their blood.”

“I’m sure they are,” she said, resuming her seat. “But I would like them to be able to tell the truth about our meeting with a good conscience.” She gave a deep sigh, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “Malicious tongues will wag at the slightest opportunity. You may already have heard some of the innuendo whispered about me—”

He reached over to take her hand. “My dear, I never listen to rumor,” he stated. “And I don’t permit my staff to do so either.”

“I very much fear that Colonel Montaine . . .” She gave a slightly sorrowful smile as she dabbed at her lips with her napkin.

“The colonel knows better than to bring tales to me,” Napoleon declared.

“It’s very hard for a woman alone to preserve the purity of her reputation,” she said, hammering the point home with another deep sigh.

“Quite so,” he said. “Now, may I tempt you to a slice of this gâteau?”

Obviously he was no longer comfortable with that line of conversation, Meg reflected, but she’d sowed the seeds for the moment. “Just a sliver, thank you. The news from Paris is very confusing these days. I heard talk of another coup d’état before I left.”