Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1) (30 page)

“When?”

Helene couldn’t bear to listen, but her mouth wasn’t obeying.

The woman held out her hand, Renee lifted his shoulders, and the landlady’s mouth went tight.

“Come along, daytime darling,” Renee said. “There’s not much
else this crone can tell us. And I’ve a mind to ‘fess up and tell the captain
about the theft of his wife’s gems. I think I’ll even tell him who I gave ‘em to.”

The threat was effective and immediate
, as the landlady not only answered, but her voice shook.

“A couple o’ days. Maybe a week. With the
way she was hacking up blood, it was God’s own mercy, it
was.”

Helene shoved past her, Renee at her back. She was almost to
the street before tears obliterated the path.
Oh Lord!
Sherry hadn’t sent her away because she’d tired of Brandy and didn’t want her anymore. Sherry had known she was dying and couldn’t keep her safe. And that’s why she’d sent Brandy away.

Helene was on her knees, doubled up with holding back sobs as Renee slammed the
door behind them. She could barely see the street beneath her.

“Madame?
You’ll be all right? Evette!”

Helene heard a door open, and then, God help her – Gillian
Tremayne’s hands jerked her up from the walkway and dangled her above the ground.

“I’m not going blind after all. It
is
my wife! Goddamn it,
Helene, I’m seriously considering spanking you this time! You have less
sense than a—! Where the hell did you get
this outfit?”

Helene shook her head. Closed her eyes. Begged for oblivion. She couldn’t speak. Not yet. And even if she did, he’d just think it another lie. She’d never be vindicated.  
There wasn’t any proof for any of it. None.
There hadn’t been a way to prove her story for almost two
years. 

“
Take...me...home,” she whispered.

Gillian quit shouting. His hands tightened on her upper arms. “Open your eyes, Helene,” he requested.

She did.

“Good. Now tell me why you
procured this fellow’s services.”

Renee looked uncomfortable and small beside Gil, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Helene looked at him, and almost pitied him.

“Renee,” she said. “In the event you failed to note when we arrived, this is my husband. Lord Gillian Tremayne.”

Gil’s
expression hardened. It matched the hands on her arms. His fingers tightened and then his arms shook, making her body waver.

“It is your pure luck that Colonel Fontenelle had business at the
Consulate, Helene. Yours, too, Renee. I have some idea
what the punishment would be for your actions today.”

“But, Gillian—”

Gillian interrupted her, his voice harsh. Clipped. Authoritative.  

“Get back to your post, Renee, and say nothing!”

Renee snapped to attention before racing to join
Evette in the carriage. Only, there wasn’t any sign of the maid. She hadn’t made a sound, nor was she visible. That was unfortunate.
Gillian didn’t look in any mood to listen
to an explanation, but it would be easier if he thought Renee
hadn’t been alone with her.

“Good man. Smart. Obedient. Which is more than I can say for you, love. Damn it! This time you’ve gone too far.”

He’d lifted her into his arms and ceased ranting before approaching his conveyance.
The driver was studiously looking everywhere but at them. That didn’t mean he wasn’t finding it interesting. Anyone on this
street at such an hour would find it impossible to overlook.
Procuring a woman was rarely such a
spectacle, and Gil was highly noticeable.

The colonel would probably even hear of it
, but Helene didn’t care. There wasn’t much of her
Gillian could touch, even if he resorted to violence. She was so
busy counting that the experience became nicely blurred. When she looked about her, the inside of the carriage looked like every other space. Vacant. Dark.

The horses started up. And Gil started speaking.

“Well? I’m waiting. And you can cease
that damned blank look!”

Helene turned her eyes at him and leered.

“I’m
warning you, Helene!”

“Helene? Cor! Ye’ve gone an’ lost yer wits again, me fine
dream man.”

She watched Gil’s mouth
tighten to a thin line, ruining the pouting, kissable look they’d just been in.

What an insane thought
.

“As I’m not invited to Napoleon’s mistress’s chambers, I
certainly hope you gain your wits soon, Helene. It’ll hardly
become me for my wife to act the idiot.”

“Napoleon’s mistress? Ye should-a listened at keyholes more, dream man. Bonie’s gone and wed with the woman! Ye’d
think a spy would figure these things out, wouldn’t ye?”

“A spy? Me? Oh please. I’ve been called many things, darling, but never that
.”

“Why else would ye take yer bonny body out of England’s
safe shores then? Ye must think Brandy has no brains at all.”

She shook her head sadly and watched him frown. She
didn’t like that, but didn’t want to ponder
why.

“I didn’t want to come to France at all,” he said. “I only did
it, because I hoped to jolt some truth out of that little mouth of
yours.”

“Is it working?”

“Oh…I believe I’m going to need a very large bath and some privacy to find
out. Followed by a lengthy afternoon session of worshipping your body. Hmm. That sounds more like pleasure, but what the hell? I always was a failure at dealing out punishment. What do you think, Helene?”

She narrowed her eyes and considered him for long moments while her pulse thumped loudly through each ear. He returned the look. Gillian Bartholomew Tremayne. And he was in perfect focus. It wouldn’t do to rue the loss of
her dream state. That was why he said it
.

Damn him.
She didn’t want reality back right
now! Maybe later. Tonight. In the dark. With no one to watch her tears. But not now.  

“Does this mean you’ve decided to see sense?”

She nodded.

“Excellent. I’ll direct the driver take us back to Peacockville. Driver!”

He rapped on the roof and gave instructions through the
sliding panel behind his head. Helene watched without comment.

“Do you know how I can tell, Helene?” he asked when he turned back to her.

She didn’t answer. He smiled.

“I don’t know how you blank out the world, but your eyes
have the strangest film over them when you do. And since I dearly
love their burgundy color, it’s especially obvious to me.”

She made a sound and turned her head away. If he continued, she’d be unable to attend Josephine’s invitation, because she’d be
crying too hard.

Stupid man.

“And now…perhaps you’ll explain what you’re doing dressed like a
whore in the worst section of Paris? No? Shall I hazard a guess? Come on, Helene. You owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you anything.” 

“Let’s summarize, shall we?”

“I hate it when you do that!” she hissed.

“Oh good. I’ll have to remember that.
Now…where was I? Oh, yes. Colonel Fontenelle has
been showing me all the places where I might find masculine amusement of a
sordid nature. Paris seems to be bursting at the seams with it
. He warned me specifically away from Concord Street, however, because I might
catch a disease or two. I admit to being curious about what
horrors the
Rue de Concorde
could possibly hold after some of the salons I visited, so I asked the driver to take me there — after we dropped off the colonel, of course.”

He waited for so long, she had to reply.

“Of course,” she mumbled.

“Very good. I’d hate to think you weren’t listening. Now, i
magine my consternation at seeing what appears to be a lively
lover’s spat. I decide I’d better rescue the poor girl and report the
soldier for shoving her, so I order my driver to stop the carriage. And join the fray. And then…what happens? By thunder. It’s my wife! And she’s
dressed in...what
are
you dressed in?”

“Evette’s Sunday best.”

“Evette? I don’t recall hearing that name before. Which of
your colorful acquaintances is she?”

“One of the maids.”

“I see. So. Here’s my wife, dressed in her maid’s Sunday best clothing. And I have to say it. Any
reverend will have a severe problem lecturing about the sins of the
flesh if Evette attends wearing such an outfit for the sermon.”

Helene glanced down at where she displayed four inches of
her chemise, more skin than Brandy ever had, and she’d lost the shawl. The effects of the morning were all
bad.

“I can explain,” she whispered in the silence.

“Of course, you can. And it’s always a joy to hear your explanations. Perhaps
you’ll accept the offer of my coat before we reach our lodgings?”

“Thank you.”

She was forced to look at him as he held out the article of clothing. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked more like he was withholding
laughter. Laughter. At her. After she’d just suffered one of the worst experiences of her life.

Helene yanked the coat from his fingers and shoved her arms into the sleeves and then bunched them so her hands were exposed. And damn everything! I
t smelled like him, too.

“Well. It fits as poorly as my shirt earlier. But, as I offered before, you’re welcome to any item of my wardrobe you wish. Jacket. Shirt. Socks. Oh. Will you need a lift to our rooms,
or did you wear your own shoes?”

She lifted her voluminous skirt and showed him the walking
boots she’d laced on. He probably recognized them, because he
helped choose everything she wore.

“I hadn’t considered the peasant look for you, Helene, but, if
you’ll wear it only for me in the future, I believe I could learn to appreciate
the style.”

She refused to answer that, letting him think what he liked.
It didn’t help that he followed her up the steps at the Blouet
Palace when they arrived, chuckling at how awkward her skirts
and his greatcoat were for her. But one thing was different.

She didn’t feel remotely like crying.

***

“Madame
Bonaparte will see you now. If you’ll please follow
me?”

Helene murmured her assent, but she would’ve followed the
servant, anyway, to prevent becoming lost.
Madame
Bonaparte
didn’t decorate in the ordinary fashion. She seemed intent on
creating a fashion of her own — the fabrics that formed walls were simply draped about
, attached to hooks in the ceilings and fanning out as
they reached the floor.

It was difficult to tell where the rooms ended and began or where the doors were. It was probably a nightmare for the staff to keep clean, but Helene didn’t waste any time thinking about that. She was almost too tired to think.

Gillian hadn’t left her alone for one moment once they got
back. Evette, amid plenty of stammering and blushing, managed to fasten her
mistress into a violet dress with dark maroon accents. She was
very talkative, however, probably due to nervousness, and she told
Gillian almost everything about their morning excursion — except
the diamonds.

Evette must not want anything to do with being blamed for that,
but at least Gil didn’t think Renee had designs on his wife. Renee
was taken, Evette had assured him.

Helene followed the servant through the gauzy,
rose-colored fabric. She barely saw the shape of a tub, with
Madame
Bonaparte residing in it.

“Oh, my dear Citizen Montriart! No, I say it wrong. You’re
not known as that, are you? You’re wed to that handsome English
gentleman, aren’t you? A fine couple you are, too. We remarked
on it, didn’t we?”

“Oui, Madame.”  
The answer came from one of Josephine’s
attendants.

Helene reddened despite herself.