Racing with the Wind (Agents of the Crown)

by Regan Walker

  She enjoyed Decazes’s company. His aristocratic face was not hard to look at, though he was shorter and not as muscled as Lord Ormond.

  Lord Ormond? When had she had begun to compare all men to the tall British lord? While Joseph Decazes had captured her interest, she did not believe he had captured her heart. She wondered if her heart already belonged to another. It was a most disquieting thought.

  Mary and Decazes were engaged in conversation with Diane Brancalis, whose blue-gray eyes stared with adoration at the French nobleman, when Cardinal Gonsalvi joined them. The prime minister of Pius VII and friend of King Louis was an elegant man, being both intelligent and charming with a rich baritone voice and dark brown hair and eyes. His dark features complemented the olive skin so common to the Italians Mary had seen at the French court, and she recalled reading that Napoleon had called the cardinal “a lion covered with a sheep skin.” Perhaps that was right. He radiated power cloaked in gentle charm. Were all Italians so charming?

  She suddenly had the feeling of being watched. In such a crowded room the sensation was ridiculous, so she tried to shrug it off, but the conviction would not leave her.

  Seeing nothing unusual before her, Mary turned to glance behind. And there, near the door, dressed all in black except for his white shirt and cravat, hovering like a large black cloud, his piercing eyes focused darkly on her, was Lord Ormond.

  * * *

  At last Hugh saw Mary recognize him, and he headed straight for her. He had sensed her presence the moment he entered, but in that low-cut gown what man wouldn’t? Its rose color drew his attention to her honeyed skin and the sweet mounds of her breasts rising just above the bodice. Those waves of golden hair were swept up into curls at her crown. Her slim neck rose from slender shoulders.

  He suddenly had the desire to kiss the base of her throat. It was ludicrous, but whenever he saw her, his thoughts turned to what she would look like naked in his bed. He felt both possessive and protective of her, and just now he wanted her anywhere but Paris.

  When he stood directly behind her, he allowed his fingers to rest on her waist in a too familiar touch. He could feel her shiver through the thin fabric of her gown.

  Hugh supposed he was difficult to ignore, being at least a head taller than the other men in the room. Cardinal Gonsalvi’s dark eyes darted from him to Mary. “Is this gentleman a friend of yours?”

  Mary glanced up over her shoulder at him. As if remembering her manners, she said to the cardinal, “Oh, yes. Please forgive me. Mademoiselle Brancalis, Excellency Cardinal Gonsalvi, Vicomte, allow me to introduce Hugh Redgrave, the Marquess of Ormond, an associate of my uncle’s.”

  The cardinal smiled graciously at Hugh. “So, Lord Ormond, you are a countryman of our Bella Maria.”

  Hugh nodded, fighting the jealous wave that swept him as Mary blushed. No matter that he was a man of the church, the smooth Italian had called her “Bella Maria” as if it were a lover’s endearment. And others were encroaching, too. Hugh was particularly chagrined to see Joseph Decazes standing close to Mary, watching her with possessive interest. Hugh was certain Mary didn’t know all there was to know about the good vicomte.

  “Why are you here in Paris, Lord Ormond?” she asked. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Business of the Crown,” he replied curtly. For the benefit of the men, however, he gave her an easy smile that staked his claim. “Just now, however, I must see your uncle. Do you know where he is?”

  Mary gestured toward a large doorway. “I think I saw him go into one of those rooms.”

  Hugh nodded. “Thank you.” Then he turned to the others and said, “If you’ll excuse me.” He hoped that they would take the hint and disperse. His own departure surely looked like a storm leaving the sky, but perhaps that would work to his benefit.

  By the time Hugh returned, Mary was indeed with other people. In the main reception room an hour later he was unsurprised to find her engrossed in conversation with two of the most fascinating people in Paris. Germaine de Stael and Benjamin Constant, both of whom he knew from his earlier years in France.

  Hugh quietly approached the group and felt himself scowl when he saw Decazes standing very close to Mary. Apparently the Frenchman hadn’t been scared off.

  Germaine welcomed him. “Ormond! I had no idea you would be gracing us with your handsome face. When did you arrive in Paris?” Her large brown eyes flashed in delight as he took her proffered hand and bowed over it.

  “Only just this week. As ever, it is a delight to see you, Madame Germaine.” He nodded to Benjamin Constant, who smiled in return, and at last he acknowledged the encroaching vicomte with a tilt of his head.

  “Do you know Lady Mary?” asked Germaine.

  “I do.” Hugh grinned at Mary, which caused color to rise in her cheeks. Good. He was disturbing her like she was disturbing him.

  “Well, you must join our conversation, dear boy.”

  * * *

  Mary had been enjoying the conversation and very relaxed until Ormond strolled up to them. She had been most anxious to meet Benjamin Constant, one of Madame de Stael’s former lovers. A French Swiss author and a champion of individual liberty, he had been de Stael’s companion for more than a decade and very much a partner of the mind. Now he was a member of the Chamber of Deputies and had been heard to tout Britain as a model of freedoms for France’s citizens. Though an older man, Constant was still quite virile in appearance. Broad of shoulder, he had thick silver hair and an aristocratic nose. Mary thought his piercing dark eyes revealed a formidable intelligence.

  He looked intently at Germaine, who continued, “Ormond, we have been engaged in discourse on the lingering effects of the Reign of Terror. I was explaining to Lady Mary what it was like to live in France in those terrible days. The ideals were noble but the end so very sad. Even I fled in the face of it.”

  Mary recalled the murder of the leading thinkers in France as well as thousands of the nobility. Though the Revolution had taken place before she was born, her French tutor had described the nightmare in many stories. Blood flowed endlessly from the guillotine and the streets became the grave of innocents along with the guilty. Mary was glad England had not seen such a time.

  She shook off her gloom as Constant began to speak. “Not even an obscure life offered protection during that time, and many who could have led France to a better future were sacrificed to the mob.”

  “Who then provided a pathway for Napoleon,” added Germaine, as if completing his thought. Knowing the woman’s political views, Mary was not surprised.

  Ormond shook his head. “A general masquerading as an emperor and running a country from his foreign war front. What a disaster for France.”

  Germaine agreed. “Yes, it was hard times for us. You were of great assistance to me in those days, Ormond, helping me to leave the country when the Corsican demanded I be gone. I have never forgotten it. I owe you much.”

  Decazes, who’d been standing silently at Mary’s side, appeared suddenly anxious. “I wouldn’t want you to think ill of my country, Lady Mary. We are coming out of those dark days.”

  Mary did not disagree, and so she nodded. And she was most curious about Constant’s views of her own country. “Sir, I understand you believe Britain can be a model for preserving individual liberties in France.”

  “I do,” said Constant. “Although not all in France share my enthusiasm for the British government. I believe a constitutional monarchy, such as England has, can serve as a model.”

  “What of the king? What would be his role?” Mary was curious to know what such a man thought of the monarchy itself.

  Constant dipped his chin as if instructing a student. “The monarch can provide a much needed balance, my young friend.”

  Mary couldn’t agree more. Strangely, she thought she saw a look of approval on Ormond’s face. And something else. Was that desire in his eyes?

  * * *

  Later that evening, after dinner, Mary
was deep in thought and returning from a short visit to the retiring room when she took a wrong turn and found herself suddenly lost in an unfamiliar corridor. The large hallway contained several doors, and she heard voices speaking in French behind one of them. Thinking she might ask for directions, she quietly opened the door and found herself in a small anteroom with heavy tapestry curtains covering a larger room beyond. She could not be seen but she could hear.

  She recognized the heated voice. Lifting an edge of the curtain, she peeked from where she stood in the shadows into the room and saw Vicomte Decazes standing with his back to her talking to a Prussian general. She recognized the general as well. Kleist. She had met him earlier that evening.

  “Not here, and not tonight!” the vicomte practically shouted. “You’ll receive the information in the usual manner. I’ll not be bullied here in the Palace. It’s not safe to be discussing this.”

  The general did not look pleased. “The matter is urgent! There must be no delay.”

  Mary did not know the matter to which they were referring, nor why a Prussian general would be pressuring Decazes for information, but whatever the reason, the French nobleman was most annoyed. Since it seemed their brief conversation was nearing its end, Mary silently left the anteroom and ducked hurriedly through the first door she reached. She could hear the footsteps of the two men trail away down the hallway.

  When it was quiet again, she carefully opened the door. As she did, her eyes fell on a piece of paper lying on the floor. It had not been there before, she was certain. One of them must have dropped it. She bent down and retrieved it.

  She recognized the writing as German: French uniforms secured in warehouse. An address in Paris followed.

  What could it mean? Had the Prussian general dropped this? If so, why would General Kleist be concerned about French uniforms in a warehouse? She tucked the paper into the front of her gown, determined she would find out herself the meaning of the message; then she followed in the direction of the men’s footsteps, hoping they would lead her back to the reception.

  Chapter 12

  Mary woke the next morning to find a gray day and her uncle gone, but the weather could not dampen her excitement. As promised, the vicomte had arranged for them to receive a tour of Notre Dame from a priest friend, one Father Verbert.

  The vicomte arrived mid morning and smiled as he helped Mary into his carriage. As she climbed inside, she noted the elaborate gold crest on the door that showed he was of a noble French family. Not that she could forget.

  He seated himself across from her, but as she smoothed the skirt of her emerald green muslin gown and let the hood of her cloak drop to her shoulders, the vicomte stared, which made Mary nervous. She was thinking of the note she had found and the conversation she’d overheard the night before. Just what was the handsome vicomte involved in?

  “Lady Mary, in that lovely gown today your eyes seem a darker shade of green.”

  “You notice everything, Vicomte.”

  He just smiled and corrected, “I notice everything about you, Lady Mary.”

  She smiled to herself and immediately turned to peer out at the city, catching glimpses of the river winding its way through the shops and small buildings in the center of town. It wasn’t the majestic Thames of London, and she knew it to be disease-ridden, but the smaller river Seine curved in a feminine way that delighted her. It was so like the city itself.

  When the carriage hit a rough patch, Mary nearly bounced into Decazes’s lap. She fought back embarrassment, but he only laughed and set her back on her seat.

  “I hope you are all right, Lady Mary. Though Napoleon began a number of construction projects, including fountains and parks, most of the streets remain unpaved. It can make for a rough ride.”

  She gave him her sweetest smile. “I don’t mind. It keeps me aware of where I am. For me Paris will always be the most beautiful city in the world.”

  The vicomte took on a pensive air. Suddenly, he spoke. “Have you ever considered living here, Lady Mary? Permanently?”

  Mary couldn’t disguise her surprise. “Why, no, I had not thought of that.”

  The French nobleman’s dark blue eyes focused intently upon her as he took one of her hands and leaned across the carriage. “You are a woman who is most alive, Lady Mary, and Paris is a city coming back to life in a country that is doing the same. You could be happy here.”

  Mary saw the longing in his eyes and suddenly she felt uncomfortable. “But surely it would be inconvenient for an Englishwoman to try and find her way alone in France, Vicomte.”

  Those blue eyes burned into her. “That could be made much more convenient, Lady Mary, if that young Englishwoman were to marry a Frenchman of good reputation who is well placed at court.”

  Mary could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. Was he proposing to her? Was he about to take her into his arms?

  He leaned closer. The smell of his cologne engulfed her, and she knew he meant to kiss her. Just as his lips touched hers, however, the carriage pulled to a stop. He sat back, clearly deciding in favor of propriety, and relief flooded Mary as the footman opened the door. The vicomte stepped out and turned to assist her.

  They had crossed the Pont-Neuf Bridge to the Ile de la Cité, the island in the Seine at the center of Paris. Before them, the cathedral of Notre Dame rose as a grand monument to an earlier age.

  Father Verbert greeted them, his black robes blowing in a cold wind that suddenly descended. He was a middle-aged priest whose kind eyes suggested to Mary he had a gentle spirit. They were hazel, a color very complementary to his soft brown hair. He had a few gray hairs at his temples and lines at the corners of his eyes said he smiled often.

  The trio strolled down the central aisle of the cathedral toward the main altar, Mary walking between the father and the vicomte, her eyes raised to absorb the tall gothic architecture and the sweeping arches high above. The brilliant stained-glass windows cast blue, red and gold light into the cathedral even on this gray day. The experience was stately, beautiful, otherworldly.

  Father Verbert explained the cathedral was first commissioned in the twelfth century by the bishop of Paris, Maurice de Sully. Dedicated to the Virgin Mary, it quickly became a place for the growing population of Paris to worship. It had taken one hundred and eighty years to complete.

  Most fascinating to Mary was the fact that, because the common people did not read, the cathedral had been designed to tell the story of the Bible through its very portals, paintings and stained-glass windows. Although Mary’s French tutor had told her about the old church, it was quite different to experience it herself. Mary sensed the history of the place. Crusaders had prayed here before leaving on their king’s holy war. It was a wonder to her such a place had survived.

  “Well, there’s at least one good thing the French can say about Napoleon,” she spoke aloud. “He saved this cathedral.”

  “Oui, he did,” said Father Verbert, “though perhaps for selfish reasons. He wanted his coronation here.” Mary recalled from her lessons that Napoleon had crowned himself emperor within its walls, and immediately crowned Josephine his empress.

  As Father Verbert commented on the two rose-shaped stained-glass windows gracing the north and south walls, out of the corner of her eye Mary saw Decazes gradually drop back and to the side. She and Father Verbert walked on toward the altar, the father explaining the history of the cathedral and gesturing above.

  Pretending to pay attention to the lesson, Mary watched the vicomte take a small paper from his coat and slide it into a recession behind one of the statues. If she hadn’t seen him do it, she would not have known the paper was there; it was well hidden behind the stone. She was still staring up at the north rose and listening to Father Verbert when Decazes returned.

  “What do you think, Lady Mary?” he asked.

  The windows were overwhelming, their Gothic structure majestic, and she again experienced an immense sense of history. “Magnificent. It gives me such a fe
eling of the ages.”

  “Ah, oui,” agreed Father Verbert. “The grand lady of the French church has stood the test of time and remains to remind us to look beyond this life to the next.”

  Mary glanced at the vicomte, who did not seem affected by his short excursion to hide the paper. He faced her and asked, “Did you know the early Celts held their services on this very same island in the Seine?”

  “No, I was not aware of that,” she said.

  “Oui. This land has always drawn those who desire to worship.”

  How smooth he is, Mary thought, moving as he does from secret messages to romantic notions. A man of many faces. She thought him a very good choice for a spy.

  Father Verbert seemed unsuspicious, however. He smiled at Decazes, his eyes full of mirth. “You’ve been listening to me too much, Joseph.”

  “As I should, Father, as I should.”

  When the tour was over, the priest bid them good day and the vicomte went to call for their carriage, leaving Mary at the door. She realized she would have only a few minutes alone, so she turned back into the cathedral and moved quickly to the place where the paper was hidden. Making sure she wasn’t seen by other passersby, she retrieved it, tucking it into her reticule.

  Just as she returned to the door, Decazes entered, looking for her.

  “I dropped my glove and went back to find it,” she said, holding up a glove. Though she was a little breathless, he did not seem to take note. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  The carriage ride back to her apartments was dull, and the vicomte did not return to his earlier subject. He seemed preoccupied. Mary was relieved, though. She hoped he did not try to kiss her again. Not wanting to encourage him, she chatted about other subjects, particularly of her visits with Madame de Stael and the book by Pascal she was reading.

  The vicomte smiled as she talked. Mary sensed his pleasure in the fact that she admired Madame de Stael and was reading the works of Pascal, a Frenchman. She wondered again if he wanted to marry her. What would her uncle think of such a match? Decazes was mature but not old, still in his early thirties. He was handsome, intelligent, and from a good family. He clearly would allow her independence, too; in fact, he seemed to delight in it.