Tender the Storm (36 page)

"But the difference in your ages!"
Tresier visibly made an effort to cover his shock. "I beg your pardon," he said. He was thinking that he, more than anyone, should know of Varlet's predilection for the young and innocent.

"Something tells me," said Varlet in the same conversational tone, "that you and I are rivals for the lady's hand. Is that not so, Jean?"

"I . . ." Tresier coughed and found his voice. 'Yes," he managed. "It would seem so."

Varlet laughed. His eyes found Zoë again. "I hear the girl is well dowered. If she accepts you, you'll be the most fortunate of fellows." The innuendo that Varlet was one of Tresier's biggest creditors hung on the air.

'You have been most generous in extending my credit," said Tresier stiffly.

"
Mmm
. . . the thing is, Jean, I may have to call in your note. I'm investing in something which is eating up all my capital, I regret to say."

Tresier said nothing.

"Do you know
,
I would give almost anything to have such a woman in my possession?" The bribe could not have been more blatant.

"I . . ."
Tresier hesitated.

"Time and enough to discuss this in my office tomorrow," drawled Varlet. "Think about it, Jean." And he sauntered off.

There was no need to think about it. Tresier knew that he faced ruin if Varlet called in his note. And no one would advance him a sou. His circumstances were too well known. His eyes found Zoë.

Zoë was momentarily distracted from keeping a watchful eye on Madame de Stael and her companion when Jean Tresier bore her off to a private alcove. Though she stood quietly and pretended an interest in what he was saying, she was acutely conscious of Germaine de Stael's penetrating voice somewhere at her back.

Tresier wanted a
loan, that
much Zoë did understand. She was a little surprised, but not unduly. Many of the young men of her acquaintance frequently found themselves temporarily strapped for money. They spent too freely on their tailors or at the gaming tables. She was glad to help Tresier out of his difficulty, and told him so. His gratitude, she thought, was excessive.

When another lady claimed his interest and carried him off to supper, Zoë turned back into the room and found
herself
face-to-face with Germaine de Stael.

"Germaine," said Zoë, extending her hand. She dragged her gaze to the gentleman who was an
older version of
Rolfe,
except that this gentleman's eyes were blue, not gray. She observed the fine pair of shoulders, the manly form,
the
muscular thighs. The cane, the dark hair, and the gray complexion seemed, somehow, incongruous. Still, she could not believe that this gentleman and her husband were one and the same person. And then she noted the teasing glint in his eyes.

"Emile Ronsard at your service," he said.

"Devereux," murmured Zoë. "Mademoiselle Devereux." There was only one sure test that could prove her husband's identity. She wondered if she were bold enough to chance it.

Monsieur Ronsard chuckled and observed, "You were studying me so closely, Mademoiselle, that I began to think you had taken my tailoring in aversion?"

"Oh no," disclaimed Zoë, coloring faintly. "To be perfectly frank, Monsieur Ronsard, you remind me of someone I used to know."

"A lover?"
His tone was provocative.

The old lecher! Zoë was thinking. His resemblance to her husband was becoming more marked by the minute. There was a glint in her eye when she blandly baited, "Not a lover, Monsieur Ronsard.
More in the nature of a . . . satyr."

No sooner had the words left her lips than she knew, with startling, awful clarity, that Germaine de Stael's new lover and her former husband
were
one and the same person. Mesmerized, stricken into immobility, she watched those blue eyes take on an arctic transparency. There was only one person she had met in her whole life
who
had those trick eyes.

She gave an instinctive gasp and looked around wildly. Her thoughts fell over themselves. Though
logic had long since persuaded her that, having tricked Rolfe into marriage, she had nothing with which to reproach him, her heart had given her a different message. She'd indulged the odd fantasy of punishing her errant husband. She'd relished the thought of having him in her power to dispose of as the whim took her. He was in her power at that moment and all she could think was that he was mad to take such risks. Was he too stupid to know the peril of his position? He was English. This was France. Their two countries were at war. At any moment, someone might recognize him and denounce him. He could be shot as a
traitor,
or a spy or . . . The room tilted, and Zoë sagged against a marble pillar.

"Quick, Germaine! Fetch a glass of wine."

A strong arm supported Zoë. She lifted her lashes and gazed up at the face she'd never thought to see again. "You!" she said, and could say no more.

"Easy," he said, so softly she had to strain to hear him. "Don't distress yourself. Everything will be fine." As Madame de Stael came up, he went on in a more normal tone, "Here. Drink this, Mademoiselle. You'll soon be feeling more the thing," and he pressed a glass to her lips.

"She looks as if she'd seen a ghost," observed Madame de Stael, and helpfully waved her fan in Zoë's face.

Paul Varlet appeared at Zoë's elbow.
"Cherie!
What happened?"

"Nothing."
She had to search to find her voice. "Nothing," she repeated, more strongly this time.
"A stupid faint, 'tis all."

And there began a discreet tussle as the two gentlemen tried to elbow the other aside for possession
of the fair damsel in distress.

"Sir!"
Varlet's affronted glare was almost comical. Through sheer nerves, Zoë giggled. "I am Miss Devereux's friend.
If you would kindly step aside?"

"Beg pardon," mumbled the elder of the two gentlemen. "This damn stick of mine is forever getting in the way, don't you know?" With his full weight behind it, he moved his cane out of the
way,
and straight onto the toe of Varlet's black patent pump.

Varlet let out a roar of pain. He hopped on one foot.
"Clod!
You did that on purpose!"

"Nothing of the sort!" snapped the gentleman who was passing himself off as Monsieur Ronsard. "Your foot got in the way." His free arm, if anything, tightened about Zoë.

Zoë was sure she was on the point of hysterics. A group of interested spectators had gathered round. The last thing she wanted was for Rolfe to call attention to himself. Didn't he realize the danger he was in? Summoning her scattered wits, she made an effort to put an end to the contretemps.

"Paul, please,
find
Francoise and get me out of here?" She handed the glass of wine, untouched, to Madame de Stael.

For a moment it looked as if Varlet might argue the point.

"Please?" repeated Zoë with such a look of appeal that Varlet, muttering an imprecation, allowed
himself
to be persuaded. Only then did Zoë push out of Rolfe's arms.

"I beg your pardon," she said, "I don't know what came over me."

"The color is coming back into her cheeks," noted Madame de-Stael with a degree of satisfaction. "Ah, here is Madame Lagrange. You'll be in good hands
now, my dear. You're sure you won't stay for supper?

It was evident that Madame de Stael was impatient to be rid of her troublesome guest. She clung to Rolfe's arm and urged him away. Monsieur Ronsard displayed more courtesy than his hostess. He stood his ground, and bent over Zoë's limp hand.

"A
bientot
, ma petite fleur,"
he murmured. His voice and look were weighted with meaning.

Zoë trembled.

Zoë arrived home from Germaine de Stael's salon earlier than expected, which, she decided, more than likely accounted for Salome's absence from the front hall. Either Salome or Samson made it a point to be on hand when she came home of an evening.

The candles were lit, but the house was unnaturally quiet. Zoë wandered through the great empty foyer and into the yellow
salle,
removing her cloak and stripping her gloves as she went.

A
bientot
, ma petite fleur
were the last words Rolfe had said to her. Nothing was more certain than he would seek an interview with her as soon as possible. How soon was a matter of
conjecture.

She seated herself at the piano and stared into space. She felt like weeping and could not think why. She touched her fingers to the keyboard, but the movement was mechanical. She wasn't in the mood to play the piano.

Rolfe was a spy. Of that much she was certain. And she was one of the few people, if not the only one, who could betray his identity. She cast her mind back, remembering.

The recent past was of no consequence. She owed Rolfe a debt of gratitude which could never be repaid. As a husband, he left much to be desired, and that was letting him off lightly. She could never be sorry that she had divorced him. A man of that kidney could never make her happy. But she could not forget that if it had not been for Rolfe, she might have perished during the Terror like the rest of her family. He would want to know if he could count on her silence. The answer was an unequivocal "yes." She supposed, by
association, that
made her a spy, too.

Sighing, moping for reasons she could not quite fathom, Zoë rose to her feet and idled her way toward the back of the house where the kitchens were located. Before she retired for the night, she meant to advise Salome that she had returned home. Salome could never be persuaded to relax her vigilance until Zoë was safely tucked up in bed.

At the end of the long, dark corridor, a light peeped under the kitchen door. Zoë heard voices, but indistinctly. She recognized the musical intonation of her maid's voice, and smiled when it came to her that Salome was scolding. It brought to mind memories of the nursery when one of the Devereux children, usually Leon, had been discovered in some mischief. The next thought startled her. She could have sworn she heard Leon's voice, as she'd heard it time without memory, jogging their nurse from her wrath through sheer charm. She and Claire had always envied their brother his talent for getting out of trouble.