Elizabeth Boyle (58 page)

If he hadn’t known better he would suspect she was the professional spy sent to outwit him.

He glanced over at her again and shook his head.

Crumb covered, hair out of place, smudge of jam on her cheek. One moment the siren of his dreams, the next his frustratingly familiar hoyden.

Professional spy? Hardly. Sent by his enemies to drive him crazy? In all likelihood.

“Really, Webb. It is one night.” She licked the jam from her fingers. “Tomorrow we’ll find the journals and be gone. What possibly could go wrong in one evening?”

With her in his life, he didn’t want to consider the possibilities. But perhaps if he could keep from kissing her, could keep bottled up that temptress who seemed to well up from out of nowhere, he’d live long enough to return to England.

And hand in his resignation.

Not long after Troussebois left, Webb announced he had business in town and left as well. At first glad to see his glowering presence gone, Lily suddenly found herself alone in the house that was supposed to have been her girlhood home.

Alone as Adelaide, when she hadn’t the slightest idea what Adelaide should be doing. Mme. Costard solved her dilemma by asking her if she would like a tour of the house to “reacquaint” herself with everything.

“It must feel strange to be back here,” the woman said as they climbed the stairs to the upper stories. “You were such a small mite when you left, I’m surprised you even remember where your room is.”

Lily nodded. The house wasn’t so unlike many other houses in Paris, and not that much different from the house her parents had kept in the
Fauberg St. Germain
. The brocade covered furniture, ornately carved molding around the doorways and staircase, the smell of lemon oil and beeswax.

In many ways it did remind her of home.

A home she’d been forced to leave at about the same age as Adelaide.

She and Henri’s daughter had more in common than Lily cared to admit.

A beaming Mme. Costard guided her every step, proudly opening the doors to the carefully preserved rooms. Lily spent her time cataloguing places where Henri might have stashed his journals.

Yet what struck her most was how the de Chevenoy house appeared to have been passed over by the sweeping tides of the Revolution.

Caught in a magic spell, the little house and its occupants had ridden out the storm with nary a picture out of place.

This, she knew, had been due to Henri’s wily maneuvers and his cache of gold.

How much, she wondered, had the man spent to keep himself and the Costards from coming under suspicion? From being turned in? From being arrested in the middle of the night?

Plenty, Lily guessed, as they toured from the attic back down to the ground floor.

“We haven’t gone in Papa’s study, Madame,” Lily said, recalling what Webb had said about the locked door. Her hand went to the handle, but she found it was still locked.

“Where is the key?”

Madame ignored her, spending the moment polishing an imaginary spot on the gleaming walnut hall clock. “Oh, your father always kept it locked and I guess I just forget he is no longer here.” Madame turned as if to head back to the kitchen. “You must be thirsty after all that climbing about. How about a nice cup of tea?”

“What I would really like to do is finish our tour.” Lily held fast to her position at the door. “Do you have the key?”

She hadn’t been born a D’Artiers for nothing, and she made her statement in the same no-nonsense tones she’d heard her mother use to issue orders to servants when she’d been the chatelaine of a great house.

Mme. Costard responded by reluctantly fishing in the pocket of her apron and drawing out a large ring of keys.

“Your father spent much time in here,” Mme. Costard said as she unlocked the heavy oak door and pushed it open. “I’m sorry, mistress. It’s just that I don’t want you to blame me for the mess. Your father had the strictest orders that I was never to clean this room.”

The smell of dust and something else, a faint hint of roses, assaulted her senses as the door opened.

No wonder Madame was reluctant, Lily thought, as she entered the cluttered room. Where the rest of the house was in a state of tidy order, Henri’s private study seemed at direct odds with Mme. Costard’s proud, shipshape custody.

Mme. Costard
harrumphed
from the doorway as dust billowed about Lily’s hemline. The lady’s prominent nose and rather obvious mustache wrinkled as she followed Lily into the dark room. The windows were shuttered over, and what light did stream into the room from the cracks between the boards showed a maelstrom of dust motes at their entry.

The woman
tsked
several more times at the unsightly mess. “I never could convince him to let me tidy up. And even after he died, Troussebois refused to let me clean, saying that it was better if he organized your father’s papers lest I throw out something that had better be burned.”

Lily glanced up from the bookshelf she’d been studying. “Burn my father’s papers? Whatever for?”

She had no doubts about why Troussebois didn’t want the room disturbed, but she wondered why the formidable Mme. Costard had followed the rather timid solicitor’s directions.

“Well, uh,” Mme. Costard said, waving her apron over a particularly battered old chair, “it’s just that your father, he was a bit worried that others might find out about his … well, his studies.” At this the woman brightened. “Yes, with all these books. He studied in here—that’s what he did. He loved his books and wrote many papers on his studies. He corresponded with very important men on a number of subjects. He was quite fearful of losing anything. Troussebois says your father wanted his papers left just like this until someone trustworthy could be found to carry on his work.”

“Why would Troussebois go to so much bother?” Lily asked, distractedly running her finger first through the dust on the bookshelf, then across the spines of the books.

“Oh, attorneys. Busybodies all of them. ‘Tis a wonder any of them are left, times being what they were.”

Lily smiled. “Kill all the lawyers,” she muttered under her breath. “It seems you have kept your word, but what say you and I spend the afternoon straightening up this room?”

Mme. Costard’s features turned to horror, and on the rather homely woman’s face, it was a sight indeed. “Oh, no, mistress. You cannot do that.”

Lily only smiled, moving away from the bookshelf toward a small writing desk shoved into one corner. A guttered out candle sat in its holder beside a bottle of ink and a well-used pen.

It gave Lily a moment of pause to realize whatever was on the desk might be a clue as to what he had been working on.

A true spy, she thought, never missed such a golden opportunity. She moved toward the desk entranced, her curiosity outweighing her caution.

Mme. Costard was instantly at her shoulder. “Oh, mistress, I don’t think you want to start nosing around here. You’ll be a mess in no time, and then where will you be? Late for your party tonight.” This time her tone brooked no resistance, and her firm grip at Lily’s elbow only added to the finality of their time in the study.

Lily wondered how many spies had to come up against the likes of Mme. Costard?

Her newly appointed duenna clucked away, even as she towed Lily out of the room. “Now a lady should be resting during the afternoon and thinking of all the bright, witty things she will be saying that night. That was your mother’s secret.”

Frantically Lily drank in every detail of the room, trying to discern some place, a clue as to where Henri had hidden his journals, but only clutter beset her vision. That is, until something bright, something shiny sparkled before her.

At that moment, Mme. Costard released her grip and began fishing again in her oversized pocket for the key ring.

Lily took a step back and looked again.

Tucked beside the door frame, hung a brass key on a small hook.

A spare key to the library? To a strongbox? To a hideaway?

Lily hadn’t the time to consider it, only the mere seconds it took to snatch the key from its spot and hide it in her fist.

Wouldn’t Webb be proud of her? she thought, ashamed to realize it did matter to her what Webb thought of her capabilities as a fellow spy.

As a partner.

No, she told herself, as she climbed the stairs to Adelaide’s room to lie down and rest as Mme. Costard had “ordered.” She didn’t care what he thought of her.

Oh, yes you do
, a small, waiflike voice whispered.
You care. You always have.

She hurried into Adelaide’s room and closed the door behind her.

“Have not,” she muttered to herself, flouncing down on the narrow bed with its pink silk coverlet and white lacy trim.

Then forget Webb. Forget his kiss. Forget …
the voice taunted her.

But Webb’s kiss and ardent touch, and the tension flowing between them, hinted of something far more passionate.

Lily studied the key.

If this was to be her one chance at adventure before she returned to the Copeland plantation and settled for another husband, as her parents and neighbors had been hinting for her to do once she completed her period of mourning, she wanted to make sure the secret tale of this mission, which she’d have to carry hidden in her heart, would sustain her for the long years ahead.

Next to the dressing table across the room, Celeste had laid out her clothes for the evening. The white silk gown was one of Mme. Pontius’s more daring creations.

Daring enough to capture Webb’s attention, she thought as she rose from the bed, before, like Cinderella, she returned to her life of ashes and memories.

That evening, Webb discovered keeping Lily’s siren charms out of sight and in control was easier said than done.

He’d left the de Chevenoy house in a foul mood, his pride sorely pricked by Lily’s astute handling and assessment of the solicitor.

His afternoon investigation into Troussebois and his connections hadn’t produced any further information about the man other than that he lived in a bachelor flat behind his office. He rented the upstairs portion to several tenants. Troussebois had no debts, no secrets, no mistresses that Webb could find and, more important, no connections to Napoleon.

In fact most of Troussebois’s neighbors considered him a sad little man, with no real future. To a one, they urged Webb to find legal counsel elsewhere, rather than seek the aid of Bernard Troussebois.

Now he stood pacing in the foyer of Henri’s house, waiting for Lily to finish dressing for their evening at the Tuileries Palace. The Tuileries Palace, indeed! Part of Webb wanted to grin.

He’d been to the Tuileries on numerous occasions, but never as an invited guest.

He glanced at the clock and realized they were going to be late if she didn’t hurry up. Troussebois had kindly lent them his carriage for the short trip and the driver was awaiting them.

That would never do, he thought. He’d laid out a strict plan to Lily before he’d left—they would slip in with the crowd of guests and be as nondescript as possible, make their presence known and get out of there as quickly as possible.

He still had his misgivings about the evening. Today had proven that Lily could hardly be trusted to stay to their script or keep a civil tongue in her mouth. Though she’d been rather astute about Troussebois, this was Napoleon they were dealing with, and it was better if they stuck to Webb’s plan of attack.

Above him Lily cleared her throat.

“You’re late,” he grumbled before he raised his gaze to her. His mouth went dry at the vision before him.

Ravishing.

The word came to his mind unbidden. Even as he tried to fix his gaze on her, he was distracted by the winking and glittering of diamonds.

Diamonds everywhere.

Around her neck a thick string of diamonds glittered in their gold settings.

Not one to be impressed with jewels, having always thought of the cold stones as merely a woman’s security for her old age, he realized he’d never seen a necklace look so alive.

The faceted stones winked and sparkled as if they had just been formed within the fires of the earth.

She literally sparkled with diamonds, winking from her ears in low-hanging earrings, in thick bands around her wrists, and even in her hair, where the white jewels and warm gold of a small tiara seemed to be an extension of the silken and glossy strands.

She started down the stairs, his vision finally discerning the woman illuminating the jewels.

The diaphanous fabric glowed in the candlelight. Her lithe, willowy body moved with the gown as if the fabric were a second skin. The low-cut neckline and the girdle of silk bound beneath her breasts created the illusion of great bounty.

Further down, the gown hung in a straight willowy line revealing the long, coltish length of her legs. Legs a man could imagine wrapped around his waist, legs entwined with his.

She appeared to float down the steps with all the grace and elegance of a woman born to the manners of Versailles. With a regal, delicate movement, she inclined her head to acknowledge him.

Her hair twinkled with the lights of hundreds of tiny gems.

This is Lily, he tried to tell himself. Troublesome, bothersome, hoyden Lily.

His little Lily.

Not for the first time did he stop for a moment and wonder where that girl had gone—and who this incredible creature was standing in her place.

“Do you think the diamonds are too much?” she asked, twisting her wrist back and forth in a sparkle of brilliance as the stones caught the light of the candles. “Madame Costard insisted I wear my mother’s jewelry. They are rather pretty and it is a shame to think of them languishing in a jewel case when they look so perfect with this dress. A fashionable entrance is so very important for making the right impression. I think this dress will make quite an impression, don’t you?” She smiled and swept past him.

Before Webb could interrupt and explain to Lily that the jewels she wore weren’t her mother’s, that she wasn’t going anywhere with half the de Chevenoy fortune hanging around her neck, and she certainly wasn’t going out half dressed in what should be called a shift, and barely one at that, Costard and his wife came up from the kitchen.