Susan Johnson (2 page)

“Maybe Korsakov’s corps will be in retreat by next week.”

“And?”

“I thought—I mean …” Colonel Bonnay’s voice trailed off under the general’s sharp scrutiny.

“I could send her back through the chaos of a retreating Russian army?” Duras coolly inquired, his brows raised in cynical speculation. “Even her Cossacks couldn’t protect her in that anarchy. How many does she have with her?”

“Four.”

“Four fucking men between her and the rabble. Perfect,” Andre Duras disgustedly muttered.

“Could the Countess Gonchanka look after her?”

“I don’t think so,” he sardonically replied. “Natalie isn’t known for her kindness to women. In fact,” he went on, quickly glancing at the clock on the wall, “you’ll have to divert Natalie posthaste. She’s planning on having dinner with me very shortly.”

“She doesn’t listen to mere colonels.”

“Relay a note from me,” the general said, reaching for paper and pen. “I’ll postpone dinner tonight … and don’t mention Korsakov’s wife is here.”

“She may have heard already. News like that travels swiftly.”

“Which means the Austrian spies will soon have the information.
Merde
,” General Duras swore, swiftly scrawling his regrets to his current mistress. “I don’t need this added problem right now. All the men and supplies have to be in place by the morning of the fifth,” he declared, waving the sheet of paper briskly for a moment to dry the ink before folding it and handing it to Bonnay. “Will the trestle bridge at Trubbach be finished in time?”

“The engineers promised to have it ready by midnight of the fifth.”

“Good. Give Natalie my note and offer her my sincere regrets. How strong do you think the fort’s northern defenses will be at St. Luzisteig?” he went on, his mistress dismissed from his mind, his gaze once again on the maps before him. His energies the past two months had been consumed with planning the offensive.

“The spies say it’s impregnable.”

The general studied the topographical drawings for a moment more, and then his head lifted and he smiled at his young subaltern. “Then I’ll have to lead the attack myself.”

“The fort is as good as ours then, sir.” Henri Bonnay’s smile flashed in the room shadowed by the winter twilight closing in.

“It better be. We need that river crossing. Now off with you. I don’t want the countess descending on my household with Korsakov’s wife there.”

“Perhaps they’re acquaintances.”

“Let’s hope not. One temperamental Russian countess is enough to handle.”

“You
should
go and see the woman, sir.”

“You handle it, Bonnay.” Duras turned back to his maps.

“There’s nowhere else to put her, sir.”

“I’ll sleep in your lodgings, then. How would that be?”

“She seemed frightened, sir.” His aide-de-camp’s voice held the merest remonstrance.

“Well, console her, then. She has her attendants, doesn’t she? I’m not playing nursemaid to Korsakov’s wife, Bonnay, no matter how woebegone a look you cast my way.”

“How could it hurt to offer her your assistance? Tell her she’ll be returned once the offensive is past. Korsakov would do the same for your wife.”

“My wife doesn’t journey beyond Paris, my dear Henri. So unless the Russians march into the city, Korsakov won’t be required to play courtier to her. Not that she wouldn’t be accommodating should he prove the victor in this contest,” the general softly murmured. His marriage had been bereft
long ago of all but chill politesse; his wife’s indiscretions were legion. But one did not divorce the niece of Talleyrand, political adviser to the Bourbons and the Directory alike, without jeopardizing a hard-won career. And his wife gloated on the position of consort to France’s most victorious general.

“Five minutes, sir. I’ll tell her you’ll stop by.”

Duras’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Still trying to make me a gentleman, Henri?”

“You’re more of a gentleman than the Bourbons, sir. The young lady seemed anxious, that’s all.”

“With good reason, I suppose. Very well, Henri, tell her I’ll offer her my compliments.”

“In five minutes.”

Duras grinned, his handsome face taking on a boyish cast, the weight of his command disappearing for a moment. “
Ten
minutes, Henri, because I’m still in command here, but don’t ask me to bow to the lady,” he added, his dark eyes full of amusement. “My corsair father would never approve.”

“No, sir, very good, sir, I’ll tell the lady, sir.”

It took more than ten minutes, though. In fact Colonel Bonnay had to remind Duras twice more before he set his maps aside and left his makeshift office. Dark had descended by the time he crossed the frozen mud that passed for a street in the small border town on the upper Rhine, the night air damp, chill. His thoughts were on his engineers working around the clock in the icy waters of the Rhine. Two days of warm sunshine had melted enough snow so the river was in flood, the fords impassable. He desperately needed that bridge to move his men and matériel across the river to attack General Korsakov’s Russian corps, Austria’s newest allies.

What exactly did one say to the wife of the man one hoped to destroy in three days? Not the truth certainly.

There were guards at the front entrance of the burgomaster’s house he used as quarters. Bonnay was always thorough—a prime requisite in an ADC. Duras chatted with the men briefly, his easy rapport with his troops the reason they’d follow him anywhere. And they had since he’d first earned his general’s stars at twenty-nine and in the years before as well, his success due in part to their devotion. Although those who knew him well understood he had certain natural gifts of leadership separate from the loyalty of his troops—the power of quick decision, faultless judgment, boldness, dynamic tactical skill, and an indefatigable determination.

All of which fueled jealousies not only in Napoleon but in the War Ministry where political intrigues motivated promotions and assignments more often than ability. But they needed him here in Switzerland. He knew it and they knew it. He’d been given command of the single outflanking position between France and its enemies; the possession of Switzerland was of vital strategic importance.

And in three days he began his offensive.

He knocked once on the parlor door before opening it and stepping into a blaze of candlelight. He didn’t realize he had so many candles. And on second glance he saw he didn’t; the scented tapers were all set in heavy silver Russian candelabra.

A servant watched him from the fireside with wary, timorous eyes, her features Asiatic, her costume Russian. There was no sign of the countess.

“Where’s your mistress?”

“In here, General,” a clear, direct voice replied in French. “Have you eaten? Do you play chess?”

And when he crossed the carpeted floor and stood in the open doorway to the small dining room, he saw the countess for the first time, seated before a small chess table, apparently playing both sides in the game.

Her dark brows arched delicately against her pale skin as she gazed at him. “Your engravings don’t do you justice, General Duras. You’re much younger.”

“Good evening, Countess Korsakova. And you don’t appear to be frightened. Bonnay led me to believe my presence was required here to allay your fears.” If she thought him young, she was younger still, he reflected, and exotic-looking. With Korsakov’s family well connected at the Russian court, Andre didn’t doubt that Korsakov had his pick of women.

“The young colonel mistook my reticence for fear,” the countess replied, a luscious small smile lighting up her brilliant green eyes.

“You’re not afraid, then.”

She made a small moue of negation. “Certainly, General, we both understand the rules. You’ll exchange me for one of your officers now languishing in Austrian hands—when the opportunity arises. He’ll be glad to come home and I”—her dark lashes lowered marginally—“will return to my husband’s household. Do you play chess?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth curved upward in amusement. “
Will
you play chess?”

“I’m sorry. Perhaps some other time.”

“Have you eaten?”

He hesitated, debating the lie.

“You haven’t, have you? You must eat sometime tonight, General. Why not now?”

He was a gentleman despite his disclaimer to Bonnay and it would have been rude to refuse when they both knew he’d have to have dinner at some point that evening. “Something quick perhaps,” he agreed.

Clapping her hands, she called for her maid, giving her directions for serving the general. “I’ll join you at the table,” she graciously said, rising from her chair in a shimmer of absinthe velvet.

She waved away his offer to help seat her across from him and sat instead to his left. “I recommend the ragout and the wines of course are wonderful here. My husband is quite sure of his victory, you know. So sure, he ordered me here to keep him company,” she went on, leaning casually on the tabletop, meeting his swift, searching glance with a smile. “I’m just making conversation. He doesn’t confide in me but my maids know everything.”

Lifting a spoonful of ragout to his mouth, he said, “How old are you?”

She spoke with a girlish candor that he couldn’t decide was coquettish or artless. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“You look younger.” He dipped his spoon back into the savory dish. Her porcelain skin and black hair, her wide, ingenuous gaze and lithe slenderness evoked a youthful delicacy.

“He likes that.”

Was her tone
jeunesse dorée
or just cynical? “Do you miss your husband?” he bluntly asked, tipping a tender piece of meat from his spoon into his mouth.

“Do you miss your wife?”

He gazed at her for a telling minute while he chewed and then swallowed. “Will your husband want you back?” he softly inquired, ignoring her question.

“Yes, definitely.” She sat back, a new coolness in her tone. “I’m too valuable to misplace. My husband has his own selfish reasons for—”

“Let’s just leave it at that,” Duras interjected. “I’m not interested in family controversy.”

“Forgive me, General. I lack reserve, I’ve been told.”

He ate for a few moments without replying, not inclined to discuss a relative stranger’s reserve or its lack and when he spoke, his voice was impersonal. “I can’t exchange you now with the state of the war, but we’ll endeavor to make you comfortable.”

“How long will I be here?”

“Two weeks to a month, perhaps. We’ll keep you safe.” He put his spoon aside, the campaign once again intruding into his thoughts. He’d moved his troops up to Sargans only two days ago and there was immense work to be done before the offensive began.

“Thank you. You didn’t eat much.”

He shrugged and pushed his chair away from the table. “I’ll eat later. If you require anything, ask for Bonnay,” he added, rising to his feet. “Good night, Countess. It was a pleasure meeting you.” And with a nod of his head he turned and left. That should satisfy Bonnay, he thought, striding back to his office.

It was well after midnight. Only Duras and Bonnay were left at headquarters when a guard rushed into the maproom, apologizing and stammering, obviously agitated, his broken phrases finally merging into a decipherable account.

The Countess Gonchanka, it seemed, was in Duras’s bedroom accosting General Korsakov’s wife.

Swearing, Duras decided Natalie must be his penance for his multitudinous sins and then, breaking into the guard’s disordered recital, briskly said, “Thank you, Corporal. Bonnay and I will take care of it.”

“Why me?” Bonnay instantly protested.

“Because I’m ordering you to,” Duras said with mock severity, “and I can’t handle two women at once.”

“Rumor suggests otherwise,” his subordinate ironically murmured.

“Not, however, tonight,” Duras crisply retorted. “Now move.”

The noise emanating from the burgomaster’s second-floor rooms facing the street had drawn a crowd and ribald comments greeted Duras and Bonnay as they approached at a run.

“The show’s over,” Duras said, sprinting through the parting throng.

“Or just beginning, General,” a cheerful voice retorted.

“Everyone back to quarters,” Bonnay shouted.

“He wants them all to himself,” another voice called out and the crowd roared with laughter.

“That’s an order, men.” Andre Duras spoke in a normal tone from the porch rail. “Back to quarters.”

The laughter instantly died away and the troopers began dispersing.

“I hope the ladies obey as easily,” Bonnay drolly said, motioning Duras before him into the house.

“Wishful thinking with Natalie,” Duras replied.

Moments later at the sound of the men entering the bedroom, Countess Gonchanka turned from her prey. “Damn you, Andre!” she screamed, hurling the bronze statuette intended for Korsakov’s wife at him. “Damn your blackguard soul!”

Swiftly ducking, Duras avoided being impaled by the upraised arms of a Grecian Victory and lunged for Natalie’s hands before she could gather fresh ammunition. He caught her wrists in a steely grip. “Behave yourself, Natalie,” he brusquely ordered.

“So you can’t have dinner with me tonight,” she shrieked, fighting his grasp. “And now I know why, you bastard, you deceiving, libertine knave! You’ve someone new in your bed!”

“Christ, Natalie, calm down. She’s a guest,” he asserted, trying to retain his hold as she struggled in his hands.

“I know all about your guests,” she hissed, twisting and turning, attempting to knee him in the groin. “There’re always new ones in your bed, aren’t there?”

“That’s enough, Natalie,” he snapped, forcing her toward the door. “Bonnay will see you home.” The Countess Gonchanka had overstepped even his lax sense of propriety tonight. He abhorred scenes.

“So you can sleep with Korsakov’s wife undisturbed!” she screeched.

“No, so everyone can get a night’s rest,” he answered with great restraint, his temper barely in check. And transferring his charge to Bonnay’s hands, he watched the Russian countess who’d entertained him so pleasantly the last few months escorted out of his life. He’d see that she was on the road back to Paris in the morning.