She laughed. "Of course. I'm not so rash as to stand between an Irishman and his poteen, Colonel."
Dinner was extravagant considering the conditions. Although the wounded man ate little and was quickly done, the Frenchman toyed endlessly with his dessert. Finally, Culhane decided to let him off the hook. "Kit is aware of my former negotiations with your government, Colonel. We don't have to play games. What do you want to know?"
"Everything my superiors will want to know when we reach Paris," Amauri answered simply.
"What makes you think we want to go to Paris? Kit's an aristo."
"She'll be safe; better than safe, she'll be welcomed. Napoleon is reconciling—quietly, of course—with the ancien régime. He's been duly elected First Consul. France is an established republic. That status must be fully recognized by other legal governments which are, naturally, headed by aristocrats."
"So, the general intends to solidify his position before he makes his next jump."
"Jump?" warily countered the Frenchman. "Napoleon has proven he wants peace; it's the English who persist in war."
Culhane swirled his cognac. "What if he suddenly decides resident ex-Royalists are a threat again? The guillotine isn't all that rusty."
"Madame Culhane's father was of great assistance to France in the Italian campaign. The First Counsel never forgets such favors, though the viscount's services, forgive me, madame, are no longer needed. If Madame Culhane conducts herself as a loyal citizeness of France, she has nothing to fear. Should dissident Royalists approach her, she need only report them to Fouché, the minister of police. Many ex-aristocrats now serve in the highest ranks of the Grand Armée; I'm one myself." Amauri sipped his cognac. "The truth is, mes amis, you have no choice for the moment. The security precautions concerning the movements of military vessels are strict. You've drifted into a war. I'm afraid you must be resigned to spending at least a few weeks in Paris until things settle down. We expect a peace settlement with England soon. You'll be my personal guests. Paris is very gay in the winter season, especially now the army is not away on campaign." He looked quickly at Catherine. "But of course, you're in mourning . . . forgive me."
"There's, nothing to forgive, Raoul," Catherine replied quietly. "You may wish to ask your questions now. Sean must rest in a few minutes."
Amauri looked inquiringly at the Irishman and Culhane shrugged. "I was caught by the English and interned in the marine prison at Liverpool. They wanted to know things I was disinclined to tell them."
"Yet you're alive."
Sean explained briefly, substituting an Irish agent for Catherine's part in his escape and leaving out Liam's treachery, saying only that his brother had died defending Shelan.
Amauri nodded. "The English have much to answer for. Perhaps France can become your foster state, Culhane. Napoleon needs men with your skills. After all, we have a common enemy. . . ."
Catherine laid a hand on Amauri's arm. "Could this discussion continue another time? Sean must rest."
"But of course. My apologies, Monsieur Culhane." Amauri stood up. "Catherine." He kissed her hand "My thanks for a most pleasant evening. I hope we'll have many more together, all three of us. You'll see Paris is more charming than ever . . ." He paused. "But even its allure will be dimmed by your loveliness, Countess."
Suddenly, the cabin became confining as the two men subtly squared off. Then the Frenchman was gone and Catherine silently drew Sean's covers higher.
His engaging charm and conversation undiminished by the bone-jarring rattle of the coach, Amauri smoothly solved the problem of accommodations on the outskirts of Paris. "You two are going to be the talk of the salons. Who could ask for a more intriguing entry into the romantic heart of Paris than to be found entwined in deshabille, adrift in a boat? My brother officers are gentlemen, but such a tidbit is too rich to escape discussion. I think it will be best if Catherine stays with my mother in the Faubourg St. Germaine, You, Sean, will join me in my bachelor quarters off the Rue des Italiennes; it's an ideal location to salve one's memories."
Catherine's hand found Culhane's under the cloak and lap robe that covered him. His pallor after the long overland journey from Calais worried her. "Sean musn't overdo, Raoul. You'll see to that, won't you?"
"I promise that for a while his only danger will be dying from boredom, but then, món ami"—Amauri tapped Sean's knee—"you and I will make up for lost time."
"Not all of it, Raoul." Culhane's fingers tightened on Catherine's. "Never all of it."
The baronne herself came out of her Louis XIV mansion on the Faubourg to greet them. A tall, distinguished woman in her fifties with a military carriage and a wealth of silver hair, her only warmth was for her son, her graciousness to her uninvited guests impeccable but reserved. She ordered the Irishman taken upstairs to rest, insisting the following morning was soon enough to drive to the Rue des Italiennes. Dinner would be served at seven.
As a maid led her upstairs, Catherine noticed the furnishings of the rooms were reminiscent of the deposed Bourbon monarchy, which suggested the baronne did not completely share her son's enthusiasm for the Republic. Catherine's bedroom at the rear of the house overlooked a stone stable and rose garden on the wooded edge of the Luxembourg grounds. After a long, luxurious bath, she rose from the tub, toweled, and ignoring the maid's shocked look, dropped naked into the bed.
Late the next morning Catherine awoke, mildly embarrassed at missing dinner but glad to have been left alone. Luncheon was served in the sunroom. Although he did not feel up to it, Sean joined the luncheon party because he wanted to be near Catherine. In the slanting, leaf-broken light, his pallor was apparent, and Catherine distractedly answered questions and held up her end of the conversation politely but automatically. Sean said little, merely watched Amauri with deceptive laziness and commented on the excellence of the wines to his hostess. Amauri, however, seemed never to be at a loss for amusing anecdotes and gossip, his cinnamon eyes mischievous as he teased his mother about her dying palmettoes, which speared brown, shriveled fronds through the rich green foliage of the sunroom's exotic plants. "Napoleon won't appreciate such blighted reminders of his Egyptian campaign, Maman. It's a good thing he never calls. This place looks as if it were decorated by Louis Capet's ghost. Mon Dieu, you've reupholstered the library divans in lilies!"
"I see no point in bowing to every change in fashion, certainly not in Paris, of all places," his mother replied.
Catherine laughed, discovering the baronne's sangfroid had its own appeal. "Fortunately, I shall not need to be concerned with fashion. This dress your son bought me in Calais is the only one I own."
"Pas du tout, my dear. You're invited to the Tuileries night after tomorrow. Lé Roy is coming to fit your ball dress this afternoon. He'll also take your measurements for a suitable wardrobe. Your social calendar will be quite full."
Catherine tried not to show her dismay, aware Napoleon's invitation was a summons. Sean said nothing. He stuck out the rest of the meal, then pleaded fatigue when Amauri suggested the two of them smoke in the library.
The baronne eyed the younger woman's face as her son assisted the Irishman from the room.
Later, from a window, Catherine watched Raoul's carriage drive away among the trees of the Faubourg. She and Sean had had no real chance to say good-by under the watchful eyes of the Amauris. They had dared not even touch. She felt stifled by loss, by a civility that denied any expression of loss, yet knew Sean must feel this piercing loneliness even more. What would become of him once irrevocable separation became daily reality? This beautiful whore of cities would hold few secrets for a man like Sean. And for Amauri; his all-too-willing guide.
CHAPTER 24
Claw Couched in Velvet
The Tuileries palace was ablaze with light, its windows glowing like diamond solitaires through gardens which, denuded by winter and revolution, were discreetly cloaked by darkness. At every door, inside and out, guards stared implacably at the streaming, glittering cro
wds. Parisian haut monde thronged the rooms, the men in their blue tunics slashed with scarlet no less striking than their women, long and justly celebrated as the most elegant in the world. Above the murmuring crowds, chandeliers hung like mighty suns rising to a zenith of French glory yet unrealized.
The baronne d'Amauri listened idly to the orchestra tuning, its sound faint through the racket and the closed door of one of the small salons off the grand ballroom. "Well, it won't be long now," she commented. She was dressed in beige chiffon encrusted with crystals; a magnificent five-strand pearl collar with an emerald and diamond clip was clasped about her throat. "The second violinist invariably manages that horrid F screech just before Napoleon and Josephine make their entrance," she continued. "You'll be presented immediately after they're seated. Napoleon will open the ball with Josephine, of course, and you will partner the war minister, General Berthier. The First Consul himself has the second waltz. It's a significant honor. Don't be surprised if Josephine doesn't like you. She's on edge since the Foures affair. It would do well to be charming to Napoleon publicly and think what you like privately. He's not without charm when it suits him. He can be a great help . . . or hindrance to your future and that of Monsieur Culhane."
"But I still don't understand why he should bother with me. I'm just one more penniless expatriate."
Raoul d'Amauri squeezed her hand. "You recall the best of the old days, chérie. Napoleon wants to diminish the difference between the ancien and nouveau regimes. Peace abroad is his fondest hope, but peace at home is vital." He tapped her nose. "You, my delicious gamine, represent stability—of all things."
The barronne touched her son's shoulder. "Raoul, I believe the First Consul is seated."
The crowd parted as they were announced. The Amauris were referred to as Colonel and Madame, but Catherine's titles were droned out and she felt like an insect on a pin. The First Counsul stood at the end of the opening path across the gleaming floor. A slight man with sharp features, his short-cropped, ruddy-brown hair was Caesarean. Even at a distance, his force was compelling, but she was drawn more strongly by curiosity to see the man whose ambition had cost the lives of so many, the life of her child among them.
Sheathed in white peau de soie, the severity of its cut softened by a low ermine bodice and a starry nebula of diamonds scattered through her midnight hair, Catherine, with the Amauris just behind her, approached the low dais.
She gave Napoleon stare for stare, all the while pitying the woman at his side. Though Josephine was still beautiful, years of private dissolution had subtly tarnished her glow. Without looking, Catherine knew she would have tiny lines about the eyes and her public smile would be a trifle forced. Napoleon must have scrutinized many women under his wife's nose with just this same lack of subtlety. Her curtsy held a hint of abruptness Napoleon did not miss. He put out his hand and protocol bade her take it as she rose.
"It would appear the fabled Helen is returned home, Comtesse. Welcome to France."
"Thank you, General, but I do not flatter myself that Italy and Egypt were conquered on my account."
His gray eyes flickered momentarily, then hooded like an eagle's. "I think perhaps Troy was lowered to dust for less. Will you do me the honor of opening the ball with me, Comtesse?"
Her lashes flicked up in the surprise he had intended. Refusal was impossible. "You honor me too much, sir." Her smile did not reach her eyes.
Turning his cloak collar high against the cold river damp from the Seine, Sean looked up from the quai of the île de la Fraternité at the brightly lit Hotel Suilly he had just left. Despite the night's winter chill, the windows of Eugène de Valmy's rooms on the second story were open and male laughter and the clink of glasses could be heard. On their way to dinner at Valmy's, Raoul had laughingly warned him the officers present would be some of the best and wildest of the highly competitive, cliquish artillery and hussar cadres. Besides Doctor Fourquet from the République and Captain Eugène de Valmy and Captain Emile Javet from Raoul's artillery cadre, Sean had met Brigadier General Emmanuel de Grouchy and Mtgor General Joachim Murat. All were heroes of the Italian and Egyptian campaigns; Murat and Grouchy were military legends. Murat was married to Napoleon's sister, Caroline.
Only two women were present: one, a succulent blonde named Charlotte, who wore nothing but pantalettes and camisole and a cerise velvet ribbon around her neck; the other, Irenée, a stunning Ethiopian Javet had brought back from the Egyptian campaign. Disdaining rich food, she stood with a hand resting on Javet's shoulder as he dined, as if he were a pet. She was strangely suited to the room, its precise, formal patterns of walls and drapery accentuating the barbarity of her hip cloth and beads.
Amauri, seeing the direction of Culhane's attention, gave a nod to Javet. After dinner, as the men lounged about with Charlotte draped across Murat's lap, Javet snapped his fingers and pointed to Sean. With the smoothness of oil, Irenée began to dance with a sinuous, raw eroticism. The hip cloth hid little of the smooth muscled body quickening its rhythm into a shivering, insistent demand. As she moved closer to him, Sean heard soft clattering of ivory and gold necklaces against dark-nippled breasts, smelled musky, peppery perfume. With a swift movement, she flicked off the hip cloth, as Raoul whispered, "Take her! You're the guest of honor!"
Green eyes looked into the black's tawny ones. "You are as beautiful as dusk on the Nile, mademoiselle, and as unforgettable. Another time, perhaps." Noting Amauri and his friends were incredulous, and Javet and Murat contemptuous, the Irishman shortly took his leave.
For a while, Sean wandered along the Seine watching mist curl around the bridges. Only a few lights streaked the black, lacquered surface of the winding river. Out of old habit from his École days, he ended up at Madeleine Rochet's door on the lie's shore .side and stood watching the glow from the windows above the street, wondering if they were still her lights. Finally, he let the knocker fall. The Indo-Chinese girl who answered the door seemed part of the mist, all subtle modeling and liquid silence as she bowed in jonquil silk, black hair dropping straight like a waterfall. Black almond eyes looked up expressionlessly at him. "Honored Sir?"
"My name is Sean Culhane. I wish to see Madame Rochet."
The satin head inclined. "My mistress will be delighted to see you, monsieur. Please enter." She closed the door behind him. "Please follow me."
The girl led him upstairs. He watched the soft movements of small buttocks under silk. Slightly smaller than Kit and about the same height, she had the same fluid grace and, under the mandarin collar and soft, fine hair, he knew she would have a delicate nape.
"Madame, Monsieur est arrivé. "
Madeleine Rochet rose from the divan and threw down her book. "Sean! I hoped you'd come!"
She came into his arms, warm and familiar, and Sean kissed her. "You knew I'd come."
"How could any woman be sure of you? I heard you were in Paris, of course. The castaway story is still circulating. Everyone's dying to meet you."
"You mean, have a look at me."
Her black bangs cut severely across her ivory face, Madeleine's carmine lips curved across white teeth. "Why not? Romance in Paris is not so common as one might think."
"Anyone who thinks freezing in an open boat in the North Atlantic is romantic should try it."
She touched his face. "I'm sorry, ehéri. It was terrible for you; I can see that." She kissed him quickly again, and pulled him to the couch as the Indo-Chinese took his cloak. "Come. Sit. Put up your feet and let me take your boots. Mei Lih, bring cognac and absinthe."
"When did you take up absinthe?"
Kohled eyes coolly met his. "On my thirtieth birthday. On my fortieth, I shall try opium. To grow old is boring unless one is either very selfish or very unselfish. I'm selfish." Madeleine used her long, curving lashes, like her fingers, forcefully, without coyness, as punctuations to her husky French. In her black silk Chinese wrapper, she was still beautiful, like good architecture, with a long throat and a hard, pur
e profile, thin-lipped and high-boned.
Mei Lih brought the liquors and they drank together, Sean the dark amber, and Madeleine the cloudy topaz. In some ways, Madeleine had never changed from the thirteèn-year-old peasant girl who had been seduced by a young infantryman in the Royal Army. Madeleine had been the mistress of many aristocrats since, but no one was more fiercely Republican than she.
After the first cognac, Sean made no protest when Mei Lih pulled off his boots, only settled his long body more comfortably into the cushions and felt the liquor simmer in his belly. "I wasn't sure you still lived here; old Saint Louis hasn't yet become the exclusive area you predicted. Mei Lih could easily open the door to an unwelcome visitor."
"Mei Lih," Madeleine murmured.
The girl dexterously slid a small gun from one yellow sleeve and discreetly returned it.
Sean grinned. "I'm properly chastised. I should have known you wouldn't grow careless." His eyes met hers. "Or talkative, when a man doesn't want to talk."
She smiled. "I don't need to ask questions. I lived through the Terror." She touched the scar at the corner of his lower lip. "Will you let me make love to you tonight?"
"There are deeper scars, Leine," he answered quietly. "The English had me in prison for a time."
"Ça va. I have some, too. They don't show so much as those of the poor devils who come back from these wars. My own son, Leandre, was killed at Rivoli."
"I'm sorry, Leine. I didn't know . . ."
"I had a son? No. No one did. It seemed important to keep him a secret once. He was sixteen; Hercule's boy. He ran away from his Zurich school to join the army in Italy." She put her absinthe down, then placed her hands on either side of Sean's face. "I've not yet learned to need absinthe. I need to make love to you. Can you understand that?"
He kissed her, then opened her robe to find the breasts still high, still perfect. "You're beautiful, Leine," he said simply. "Time will never be your enemy."
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