Elizabeth Boyle (61 page)

And in this case, the flattery worked.

“Hmm. I think you are right. Without a father or husband to look over her, she’s lost. A woman needs the right man to direct her future, not some fortune hunter. And that fellow has the look of one, don’t you think?”

Fouché nodded again.

Napoleon continued. “The de Chevenoy heiress can’t be lost to some upstart American. She should have a French husband. A loyal one.”

“And one to manage her fortune as well.”

Napoleon returned to his seat, his blue eyes narrowing. “The fortune, yes. Such a lot of money. How is it that Henri de Chevenoy was able to amass so much?”

At this Fouché smiled. This was his element. And it was the right time. He spoke softly at first, forcing Napoleon to lean forward, his growing greed evident with each word Fouché spoke. “The de Chevenoy name is one that has been tossed around in the wrong circles for as long as I can remember. And now suddenly he has a daughter. I’ve verified his wife did bear a child—but there has been no record of the girl since the Revolution. At least none that I can find— as yet. Perhaps his daughter will be able to enlighten us as to her father’s source of income. And how she has spent her last few years.”

“You suspect she is an imposter?”

Fouché watched the First Consul mentally tallying the heiress’s fortune, his eyes lit with greed. “To prove her an imposter would leave us with no course but to seize all the de Chevenoy holdings.”

Few in Paris did not know that Josephine’s creditors were once again clamoring for payment. Foolishly Bonaparte had handed over the remodeling of the Tuileries to Josephine, and while her taste was impeccable, the woman paid whatever price the merchant named, no matter how exorbitant.

The idiot woman hadn’t any more sense than the last lady who’d presided over the palace—Marie Antoinette. Greedy, grasping harpies both of them, Fouché thought, though hardly a point worth sharing with the lady’s husband.

Not if he wanted to live.

“We cannot just seize her money,” Napoleon pointed out, his voice a mixture of reluctant justice and regret. “De Chevenoy had too many friends—from the Royalists to the Jacobins to the Directory. He was too well connected. Taking her money and arresting her would anger the wrong people. People whose support we need. It would also discourage many of the
émigrés
from returning. And I need their support.”

Fouché realized what Bonaparte wanted of him was to give him the hope that the girl was a fraud. Find a way to “legally” steal the fortune now held by this mere slip of a woman. He had some evidence, but not anything he was about to share with Bonaparte. Not, that is, until he had his case completely prepared, for he didn’t want anything to ruin his opportunity to bring such a great prize to the First Consul’s feet and his cash-strapped coffers.

“Might I suggest,” Fouché began, “a citizenship hearing. Apply some legal pressure to the situation. If anything, it would give us a good cover with which to do some, how should I put it, some untidy investigations. You know, make her prove she is who she says she is.”

“Yes, yes, that is an excellent idea, Fouché. Set it as soon as possible.”

The Minister of Police knew a note of caution would be best, thereby covering his own neck in case the girl could truly prove her case. “And if she is de Chevenoy’s legitimate heir? Her fiancé will more than likely do everything in his power to ensure his future bride retains all the money due her.”

“What betrothal?” Bonaparte said, his voice rising in anger. “I gave no permission for this
mésalliance
. An American shipowner, bah.” He waived his hand in dismissal. “I don’t like the look of this Monsieur Milne. An opportunist if ever there was one.”

It takes one to know …

Fouché cut off his errant thought as Bonaparte started to spill out his plans for Henri de Chevenoy’s daughter and her impressive fortune.

“You are right, my friend, if she truly is de Chevenoy’s legitimate heir, then we have to make plans for her future, if you understand what I mean.”

Fouché nodded, his mind now awhirl with plans. “How unfortunate for the dear girl if she and her betrothed were tied to smuggling, or perhaps Royalist connections. Treason can be so disastrous for young love.”

“As long as it is all legal. I will not have anyone say my rule in France is not fair and just.” At this, Bonaparte smiled, the two men in perfect agreement.

If Adelaide de Chevenoy and her fiancé proved to be difficult, then Bonaparte wanted the problems removed.

Permanently.

Webb put on his most bored expression as he eased back into the party and past the knotted groups of guests, like he hadn’t a care in the world.

No one looking at him would have guessed he’d just heard the First Consul and his Minister of Police discussing the murder of the crowd’s new favorite, the de Chevenoy heiress.

When he’d noticed Bonaparte’s abrupt departure, and overheard Fouché hastily summoned to attend the First Consul’s private office, his natural curiosity had gotten the better of him.

If there was one place Webb was familiar with, it was the Tuileries. His first visit, some eight years earlier, was when he’d been arrested by the Committee of Public Safety. He’d been interrogated in the very room that was now Mme. Bonaparte’s bedchamber.

Since the fall of the Committee and then during the Directory, he’d slipped in and out of the palace on missions for his father, to the point where he probably knew the hallways and passageways, secret and not so secret, better than its current occupants.

Moving silently in the shadows of the doorways, he’d managed to slip into the office of Bourrienne, Bonaparte’s harried secretary. He’d seen him earlier at the party and only hoped the quaint mademoiselle the man had been chatting with was still holding the secretary’s rapt attention. Once he gained access to the office, he quickly found exactly what he was looking for—a stairway that led from Bourrienne’s ground floor office to Bonaparte’s first floor suite.

He knew that stairwell only too well—for it had been after his sentencing by the Committee that he’d been led down the same steps on his way to Abbaye prison.

It had only been a matter of positioning himself behind the door that opened into Bonaparte’s office and listening.

Not that he’d liked what he’d heard, but hopefully the key Lily held was to Henri’s study, and they would find his journals tonight and be gone before first light.

Back to England, back to safety, back to their separate lives.

It was a thought that should have filled him with joy. But instead it filled him with questions. With each kiss, he found himself drawn closer and closer to the little hoyden. She was weaving a spell around his heart, entrapping him with her siren ways.

What could he do? Make her his mistress?

He certainly didn’t want to face Giles or either of Lily’s brothers at the end of pistols at dawn over that insult, but he certainly wasn’t about to marry her just to satisfy the longings she brought out in him.

Marry Lily? He almost laughed.

He had always envisioned himself retiring to some country manor, taking his place in society, finding a suitable miss to marry and raising a respectable brood of well-behaved children.

The little hoyden had too much of the Ramsey lineage in her blood to ever be called respectable.

He glanced casually around the room, looking for her. She was nowhere in sight.

Taking a deep breath, he continued on through the crowds, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

Not that she should be that hard to find, with all those diamonds, she glowed like a walking candelabra.

So where the hell had she gone?

He tried to ignore the fact that he hadn’t heard all of Fouché and Bonaparte’s conversation. What if they’d made plans for Lily before he’d been able to position himself in the stairwell?

He felt his composure slipping as his heart thrummed against his chest and his hands knotted into hard fists. For the first time in his life, Webb found himself fighting a growing wellspring of panic.

That’s what happens when one is forced to work with a partner, he thought, as he edged his way along the dance floor. You spend more time worrying about your partner’s safety than the mission itself.

Dammit! He should never have left her alone.

He spotted Roselie standing just to one side of Josephine, and for a moment, his fears abated. Until he realized Lily was still nowhere in sight.

If something happened to her, how would he tell her family? How would he live with himself? In that moment, Webb realized he would never be able to tear her image from his mind. The gangly little girl might be lost to him forever, but in her place a worldly, intriguing woman was stealing his heart.

Perhaps, he thought, a respectable bride was overrated.

“Monsieur.” Roselie rushed over to his side, her fingers closing around his arm. “Why you look as though you’ve lost something precious.”

He smiled as graciously as he could. “I have, Madame. I seem to have misplaced my betrothed. Have you seen Adelaide?”

The lady looked about. “Oh, she was just here. Madame Bonaparte and I left her in the care of one of these pesky
émigrés
. I didn’t think it prudent at the time, for he had the look of a fortune hunter, but dear Josephine insisted.” Roselie glanced left and right, her gaze scanning the room until it came to an abrupt halt. Her mouth flapped open as if to say something, then snapped shut as she averted her gaze from the far corner.

“Um, perhaps you should look for her in the hallway, monsieur,” the lady lied feebly, pointing in the opposite direction. “Some of the young people have moved their dancing out there.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Madame,” he said, his gaze having followed Madame’s to the damning evidence. Even now he spotted Lily tucked away with a newfound companion, their heads bent together intimately.

He could see Lily’s face clearly, but all he could discern of her companion was his broad back and dark auburn hair.

As he moved closer, he realized her hand sat resting on the man’s knee. Then to his shock, her newfound paramour curled his fingers around her chin, a move filled with familiarity and more than just casual acquaintance.

While he’d been nearly out of his mind with worry, she’d been dallying in a corner with some court ne’er-do-well.

A jolt of jealousy rocked Webb out of his earlier fears.

Whoever the hell this amorous cad is
, he thought, murderous intent turning his vision red,
he has about two seconds to get his hands off my betrothed before he finds himself propelled from the nearest window.

My betrothed?

He didn’t bother to correct himself, at least until he found out whose life, Lily’s or her lover’s, he was about to cut short.

“How is it that you are here in Paris and not in London?” Lucien demanded. “And parading about as Adelaide de Chevenoy?”

“Would you lower your voice?” Lily smiled at a couple passing by. Obviously Sophia’s note had not reached him. “As I said it’s rather hard to explain.”

“I don’t need any explanation. This has Sophia’s doing written all over it!” Lucien leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest. “The next time I see her, I’ll throttle her for endangering you so.”

“I am perfectly safe. And this wasn’t Sophia’s doing, I volunteered to come,” she lied.

“As if you could do this on your own.” He shook his head as if it was an impossible notion. “Sophia may be capable of these types of escapades, but Lily, you know as well as I, you’ll end up getting yourself, and who knows how many others, killed.”

Lily bristled at her brother’s unflattering and cutting conjectures. They had never been close, separated as they were by so many years. He’d been married and long gone before she’d gotten out of the nursery. The changes wrought by the Revolution had only added to that distance.

Now he presumed to know what was best for her.

“I am perfectly able to make my own decisions about my life, Lucien. For now you have to trust my judgment and leave me be.”

Lucien blew out a loud breath. “Leave you be! I hardly think so. The last time you were left to your own devices you ran off with that Copeland lounger.” He reached over and patted her cheek. “Don’t you see, I have only your best interests at heart.”

She looked away from him, not so much to keep him from seeing the tears stinging her eyes, but to hold her tongue in check, biting back the reply burning in her throat.

So what if she’d run off and married the wrong man?

It was her life, she wanted to cry out. A fact no one ever seemed to remember.

Not Lucien, not their parents, not Sophia, and not even Webb.

“You’re a foolish, headstrong girl. And I am sure neither Mama nor Papa would approve if they knew what you were up to.” He rose, taking her hand in his and pulling her to her feet. “You are coming with me tonight and tomorrow I will see you personally to the coast where you will find yourself on a ship to London.” He paused from his speech for a moment. “No, make that Virginia. You’ll go back to Mama and Papa where you rightfully belong. Why they ever let you continue to live at the Copeland plantation after that rogue’s death, I’ll never understand. You should have been brought home right then, where you could be properly supervised.”

She did her best to ignore Lucien’s more pompous assertions. Go away with him tonight?

Not when she had other plans for the evening.

Foolish, headstrong plans though they were, they were her plans and not her brother’s business. But Lily didn’t get the chance to tell her brother what she thought of his designs for her.

Webb did it quite nicely.

She didn’t see him at first, only the hand catching Lucien at the shoulder. Suddenly her brother spun in a quick circle as if he’d sprouted wings.

“Unhand my betrothed,” Webb said, in a low menacing voice.

For a moment, the jealous, raging tone of his voice sent a thrill through her veins.

Jealous? About her? If he wasn’t about to make a terrible mess of their mission, she would have danced for joy.