Elizabeth Boyle (70 page)

Then Webb Dryden would be out of her life. For good. And she would finish her work in England and return home to Virginia.

So deep was she in her own misery and anger that she almost missed the quiet exchange between Webb and Amelia.

“Would you be so kind, monsieur,” Amelia was saying, “to escort me to my lodgings?”

Lily didn’t even bother to wait for Webb’s answer, turning on one heel and heading down the corridor. She needed air, she needed to breathe, she needed to be as far away from them as she could be.

“Adelaide,” Roselie called after her. “Oh, do wait,
ma chérie
. We must settle on our arrangements for tonight.”

Lily didn’t stop until she reached the street. Webb caught up with her first, grabbing her by the elbow before she rushed headlong into the street and into a fast-moving cart.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked, spinning her around.

She yanked her arm free. “Don’t you ever touch me again. Do you hear me? Never!”

Before he could make any more inquiries, Roselie joined them. “Oh, my dear,” she said, looking from Lily to Webb, then back to Lily. “What a terribly trying afternoon you’ve had,
chérie
. And with the Christmas celebrations tonight and our invitations to the opera, how thoughtless of us not to realize that you must be simply exhausted. Perhaps you would prefer to just go back to your house and lie down for a few hours before I come by to pick you up for the opera?”

Lily could think of nothing she wanted more than to be away from Webb, away from Paris. She readily agreed to Roselie’s suggestion. “That would be most kind, Roselie.”

Webb stepped in front of her, cutting off her escape as she moved to follow Roselie toward the woman’s carriage. But at least he had the good sense not to touch her. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

He nodded. “Good. I’m going to escort Mother Marie-Theresa back to her lodgings, and then I will join you in an hour or so.” He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Have Celeste pack whatever you’ll need for traveling and be ready to slip out.” He smiled at her, the one that usually melted her heart, but this time only left her feeling bereft and empty. “You did an excellent job in there. Amelia says you never even batted an eye when she arrived. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she finally managed to say.

He stepped closer. “Don’t worry, hoyden. If we’ve made it this far, I doubt Fouché will catch us now. You’ve done such a convincing job, no one would ever think you weren’t the de Chevenoy heiress. You’ve bought us enough time to complete this mission.”

He kissed her lightly on the forehead and turned to leave.

It wasn’t until he’d fallen in step with Amelia and the pair were strolling off in the opposite direction that she remembered her stunning realization in the courtroom.

It was on her lips to call him back, to tell him that he was wrong, she hadn’t fooled anyone.

Least of all herself. For while she’d beaten Webb to the truth for the moment, the tears streaming down her face mockingly told her she’d lost the war.

“Your betrothed looked anything but happy to see me,” Amelia said, as she bundled up her costume and handed it to her maid. She nodded at the girl, who bobbed her head and left the room.

“Why would Lily care if you were there to testify on her behalf?” Webb asked.

“Oh, no reason.” Amelia smiled, having seen full well the murderous intent behind Lily’s careful mask. “It was probably the veil obscuring my vision, or I am just out of practice.” Amelia had to hand it to the girl, for her first mission, she’d handled the situation with all the aplomb of a seasoned professional. “I seem to remember you thought her akin to a stray mongrel—do you still see her that way?”

“Amelia, you are at it again.”

“And what would that be?” she said, flitting about her hotel room, picking up the rosary beads and other stray articles from her appearance before the judge. Then she settled down on the green-backed sofa, leaving a space for Webb to sit beside her. She shot him a dazzling smile and patted the cushion next to her.

“Trying to pair me off with that girl,” he told her. “That, or incite me into some compromising position. If you are mad at that lover of yours, don’t use me to get back at him. I want to keep all of my body parts attached.”

She laughed. Samir did have a terrible habit of dismembering his enemies.

Webb poured himself a glass of whisky from the decanter on the sideboard and held up a bottle of Madeira for her. She nodded her acceptance and he poured her a small glass. “He won’t be angry about your coming out of retirement?”

“Samir?” She shook her head. “When I told him I needed to travel ahead to Paris to help a friend, I was most persuasive, and he was, shall we say, most accommodating.”

“As only you can be,” he said, tipping his glass in acknowledgment of her influential skills. “You look happy, Amelia, happier than I ever thought you could be. He is treating you well, isn’t he?”

Amelia knew that few of her English friends or relatives understood her choice to return to Cairo and to the arms of her lover, an Ottoman pasha. After almost a year of looking for another husband, her thoughts had always drifted back to the one man who’d truly captured her heart. And though she knew he would never marry her, or at least not in the traditional English sense of the word, especially since he already had three wives and a passel of children, she knew she held the primary spot in his heart and affections, as he did in hers.

Theirs was a relationship few could fathom.

But Webb understood, at least she thought he did. For his tone held heartfelt concern for her welfare more than censure for her turning her back on her friends and family in England.

“I was worried about you when the news of Napoleon’s landing in Egypt came through. I hoped you would be safe.”

“Me?” She laughed and waved her hand at him. “You should have known better than to worry about me. Especially now that Samir has moved his court to Europe. The Sultan,” she said, referring to her lover’s overlord, the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, “was very kind to give Samir this posting as his European diplomat. After the horrible losses in Alexandria and Cairo, I expected we’d all be thrown on some burning pyre or pitched into the sea with rocks tied around our necks. But instead Samir was able to convince him that he would be of better use here. I think the Sultan understands that after Samir and the others lost so much to Bonaparte’s army, who better to watch the man, than the ones who were defeated at his hands.”

Webb nodded in understanding and sat down smiling at her.

“Being here in Europe allows me to circulate once again through all the courts and palaces I love, and my contacts serve Samir’s interests …” She paused for a moment, taking a small sip from her glass. “And when the opportunity arises, those of England.”

They raised their glasses in a silent toast to their island home and to their king, and they drank, each quiet with their own thoughts of home.

“You never answered my question,” she finally said. “What do you think of your partner now that she’s outgrown all those awkward limbs and puppy ways?”

“You never were one to let go of a subject,” he said. “What if I told you I hadn’t really noticed?”

“I’d say you were lying or blind or mad.” She studied him for a moment. “Perhaps a little of all three.”

“I would agree with you on the last point. I must have been mad to agree to this mission. The way my father made it sound we would walk in, gain entry to the house, and then slip out the back door with Henri’s journals.”

Amelia smiled at this. “Your father always made his assignments sound like an evening at the Bath Assembly Room. A trifle dull, not even a hint of lukewarm intrigue, and home before the stroke of midnight.”

“If this were only that simple—I’ve got not only Fouché breathing down our necks, but now Lily takes it into her head to play heiress. Did you see those petulant theatrics outside the courthouse? What was she thinking?”

Holding her tongue, Amelia would have wagered that Lily had put together Amelia’s presence with Webb’s recent disappearances and come up with her own version of events.

The poor girl. She obviously still loved him.

“I’ll straighten her out tonight,” he was saying. “We need to complete this mission and get home. After all her protests about not wanting to come, now she acts like we have all the time in the world to gad about Paris.”

“Can you blame her? Paris during the holidays. And the first time they’ve celebrated since the Revolution,” she said, carefully swirling the liquid in her glass. “And with dancing back in fashion, the city is much more bearable.”

“You haven’t seen Lily dance.” He leaned back on the couch, his hands folded behind his neck. “She’ll set society back about five hundred years with her clomping about.”

“Really?”

“She can send an entire room scrambling for safety. If you ever need to clear a room, send Lily out on the dance floor.”

“As bad as all that,” she said. “I don’t see how you tolerate the chit for a moment.” She let the condescending air of her statement settle down on Webb and then gauged his response.

He knew exactly what she meant. “Am I that transparent?”

“Yes. You’ve fallen in love with the girl, haven’t you?”

Webb glanced away and then back at her. “I suppose I have.”

“Good. Finally an honest answer to my question.” Amelia got up and brought the decanter of Madeira back to the couch. Pouring another drink for both of them, she raised her glass. “I am so glad I can say that I’ve seen the impossible and impervious Webb Dryden eat his own words and be toppled by the one woman he claimed should be locked away.”

Webb laughed and joined in. “I’m still not unconvinced about the locking away part. She was furious after the hearing today, and I can’t understand why.”

Amelia held her tongue. Webb Dryden had always gotten whatever he wanted with a few charming words and a flash of his boyish grin. Lily would be that much more valuable to him if he had to work for her affections.

“So if you can win her, what then?”

Webb downed the last of his drink and put the glass on the table beside him. “If? Why wouldn’t I?”

She didn’t miss the note of trepidation in his voice. There was more to what was going on between this pair than what Webb was letting on.

He leaned forward. “What if I told you I was madly, passionately in love with Lily and that I plan to take her back to England, marry her, and live a quiet respectable life with the bothersome little hoyden? Would that make you happy?”

Amelia grinned. “I’d say we are getting closer to the truth. That is, if she ever forgives you for betraying her with me.”

M
onsieur and Madame Costard,” Lily said, as they returned from the hearing and entered the house, “may I see you both in the salon?”

Lily knew she was taking a risk, but she wasn’t about to remain in Paris for another day.

Not if it meant staying in the same city as Webb and his mistress.

The journals were not likely to be found within the four walls of the little house on the
Rue du Renard
and she was of no mind to wait any longer for the opportunity to search Henri’s country house, so it seemed logical to Lily that if they existed, the Costards would know where to find them.

Besides, they had just testified that she was indeed the daughter and legal heir of Henri de Chevenoy. That had placed them in direct opposition to the First Consul. When the truth came out, as surely it would, Lily knew nothing would spare the kindly Costards from Napoleon’s wrath.

It was time the truth was settled amongst them.

The pair stood beside the sofa, looking anything but comfortable.

“Please be seated,” she said.

Both looked down at the sofa and then back at her. “On the good sofa?” Costard asked.

“Yes.”

They sat, and Lily took a big breath. She was either on her way to prison or home. Without Webb in her life, those options seemed like one and the same, but at least she might be able to spare the Costards’ lives.

“I realized something today while we were in court,” she began. “You both know I’m not the real Adelaide.”

The Costards exchanged a meaningful glance, and then Costard nodded.

Lily paced several steps before continuing. “How long have you known?”

Mme. Costard smiled. “Since the moment you walked in the door. We knew Adelaide died on the voyage to Martinique, though the old master wouldn’t hear of it. He refused to believe he’d sent his little girl to her death.” She folded her hands in her bp. “You do favor her, though, and for that we are thankful.”

“Thankful?”

Mme. Costard looked over at her husband and then shrugged. “It made our job of convincing the world that you really are the master’s daughter that much easier.”

Lily couldn’t quite believe she was hearing this. “You wanted an imposter?”

Costard patted his wife’s hand. “Yes. For as long as a de Chevenoy lives in this house, even an imposter de Chevenoy, we have our jobs and the same roof over our heads that has sheltered us for the last forty years.”

Overwhelmed by the weight of this admission, Lily plopped down on a chair.

“I’m afraid you’ve entrusted the wrong woman,” she told them. “I was sent for one reason and one reason only.” She paused, almost unwilling to give away the confidential information she’d been entrusted with, but there was no other way around it—either she asked the Costards, or their lives were surely forfeit. “I was sent to retrieve your master’s journals.”

At first the Costards looked at each other, the confusion obvious on their faces. Then Costard’s face brightened.

He smiled and then broke down in laughter. “The British sent you, didn’t they?”

“Why yes,” she answered.

“There you are, Madame,” he told his wife. “You owe me a roast chicken dinner and my favorite bottle of wine.”

“Bah, I should have known the British would be so thorough,” Mme. Costard complained. “The Dutch would never have taken the time to prepare you so well.” The lady sighed. “But you must admit, she has an American quality to her.”