Storm Winds (33 page)

“You needn’t snap at me.”

He glanced sidewise at her. “Why not? You’ve certainly recovered your equanimity and you’re clearly trying to annoy me. I should think it would offer you satisfaction.” He smiled crookedly. “Enjoy it, Juliette. When you realize why you are doing this, I think it will bring you little pleasure.”

She had already begun to suspect why drawing fire from him had brought her such a feeling of exhilaration. But now she realized since that moment when he had held her in the pavilion the excitement and satisfaction of taunting him had entirely vanished. She looked away from him. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going back to Paris with you tonight, and tomorrow night I’m going to the café to see this William Darrell. The discussion is closed.”

“Not quite.”

Juliette gazed at him warily.

“It’s a long trip back to Paris. I wish to be amused.
Tell me a few anecdotes of your interesting past at Versailles.”

“It wasn’t very interesting. All I did was paint.”

“But you had many fascinating acquaintances,” Jean Marc said softly. “For instance, I think it’s time you told me all about the ‘triviality.’ Who was the Duc de Gramont?”

T
he hair of the stylishly coiffed wig was so pale a shade of gold, it shimmered silver beneath the candles of the chandelier of the foyer.

“Take it off,” Jean Marc said flatly.

“Don’t be foolish, it’s part of my disguise.” Juliette drew the wine-colored velvet cloak more closely about her as she came down the staircase toward him. “I think it looks quite splendid. Marie said Madame Lamartine obtained the hair for the wig from a village in Sweden where all the women have hair of this color.”

“Everyone at the café will be staring at you.”

As Jean Marc was staring at her now. Juliette’s heart began to pound harder, and the excitement she had known the previous night suddenly returned. She could see an emotion other than displeasure in his expression.
“Oh, but they’ll be staring at Jean Marc Andreas’s latest mistress, not at Citizeness Justice.”

“My mistress?”

“Danton said I needed a more clever disguise, and you were most insulting about my dirty face.” Juliette strolled over to the ornate gilt-framed Venetian mirror on the wall and patted the long curls spiraling in glossy clusters to touch her bare shoulders. “I look completely different. I believe I like this much better than being the lamplight’s daughter. Yes, this will be my permanent disguise.”

“The one is as bad as the other. I dislike fair hair intensely.”

Juliette gazed at Jean Marc’s reflection in the mirror. “But why? It’s a very fine wig and a very fine disguise. You’re a rich man who has had many mistresses. I live in your house. Therefore, isn’t it natural I should occupy your bed?”

“Entirely natural.” His gaze narrowed on her face. “What are you trying to do, Juliette? I’m not a man you can tease with impunity.”

“I’m not teasing you. I wouldn’t know how. What’s your objection to my pretending to be your mistress?” Juliette suddenly snapped her fingers. “I know, you don’t think I’m
ravissante
enough. It’s true I’m not pretty, but that needn’t make any difference.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “There were a few women at Versailles who weren’t pretty but still seemed to fascinate gentlemen.” She frowned. “I wish I’d paid more attention to how they deported themselves.” Her brow cleared. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll play the role very well. I’m not unintelligent, and if I do something wrong, you can always tell me. You’ve had more experience dealing with the demimonde than I.”

“I’m to be your instructor, then?”

“No, you must only—” She broke off as she met his gaze in the mirror. She realized she had gone too far. What demon prompted her to goad Jean Marc in the direction she had no intention of traveling? He was looking at her as he had that night in the dining room,
and she again experienced the strange hot breathlessness. She glanced hurriedly away. “Never mind, I’ll probably do very well alone.”

His black eyes glittered as he took a step toward her; the movement was stalking, predatory. “But the role you’ve chosen requires my complete cooperation.”

“Not necessarily.” She turned quickly and started for the front door. “Only when we’re in public must you pretend to find me
très intéressante
. You can do that.”

Jean Marc opened the door. “Oh, yes, I can do that.”

The Café du Chat was brightly lit, noisy, and the patrons a mixed group of students, workers, and well-dressed merchants who were accompanied by ladies of various stations ranging from poorly dressed stolid peasants to flamboyant birds of paradise who laid no claim to domesticity.

“You see, I’m not at all out of place.” Juliette sat down at a small damask-covered table in the corner of the room. “I’m certain that red-haired woman with the short fat gentleman is not his wife.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps I should study her.”

“Don’t bother. I’d never consider her for a mistress.” Jean Marc motioned to a burly man wearing a leather waistcoat and white apron who was bearing a tray to another table. “And we’re not here to further your knowledge of demimondaines.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Juliette unfastened her cloak and let it slip from her shoulders to the back of her chair. “Her face is a trifle hard but very pretty and has—Why are you laughing?”

His gaze was on the low square neckline of her wine-colored gown. “Forgive me, but have you not … blossomed?”

“You think it’s too much? I have a small bosom, so I stuffed six handkerchiefs down my front to push me up and make me appear more womanly. Don’t gentlemen prefer ladies with large breasts?”

“I believe you can dispense with the handkerchiefs.”
His gaze lingered on the bared flesh glowing against the wine-colored velvet. “Large breasts are not required.”

“That’s a relief.” She made a face. “The handkerchiefs are not at all comfortable. The lace borders scratch and make me want to pull them out.”

“What an interesting—” He stopped as the burly man he’d summoned appeared at his elbow. “A bottle of wine and fruit juice for the citizeness.” He paused and lowered his voice. “And a word with Citizen William Darrell.”

The man’s chubby, cheerful face didn’t change expression. “Will you have some of my fine lamb stew? It’s the best in all of Paris.”

“I think not.”

The man turned and wound his way across the room to the kegs against the wall. He returned and set a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. “It’s too late in the year for fruit juice.”

“Water,” Juliette said impatiently. “And William Darrell.”

“Water?” The waiter shrugged and turned away. “I will see.”

“What’s wrong with the man? He’s not paying any attention to us.”

Jean Marc poured wine into one of the glasses. “You should really get over your aversion to wine.”

Juliette’s gaze was following the waiter. “He’s serving someone else. Why doesn’t he—”

“A lovely fan for the citizeness?” A tall woman with glossy chestnut hair plopped down onto the chair between Jean Marc and Juliette and placed her straw tray of paper fans on the table. “Every citizeness wants a pretty fan to show where her loyalty lies.” She unfurled the fan in her hand. “Here’s one of the glorious capture of the Bastille. I painted it myself. See the red glow of the torches and the—”

“The citizeness doesn’t want a fan,” Jean Marc said.

“Perhaps one of Danton or Robespierre.” The woman fumbled through her tray and triumphantly
withdrew a fan. “Here’s Citizen Danton. Notice the noble brow.”

“This is a
terrible
painting.” Juliette took the crudely executed fan and shook her head. “And it doesn’t even look like Danton. Danton is ugly.”

“But such a man has noble thoughts.” An engaging grin lit the woman’s freckled face. “I paint the ideal, not the man.”

“You paint carelessly, and ideals do not excuse such a terrible misuse of color and form. Have you no respect for your craft? How can you offer—”

“If you don’t like Danton …” The woman fumbled among her merchandise again and extracted another fan and unfurled it with a flourish. “The Temple, where our patriots hold those bloody tyrants.”

“These towers are completely out of proportion. You have them almost the same size, and this one is much larger.”

“Wait.” Jean Marc took the fan and looked at it more closely. “This one has a certain charm. Observe the pigeons, my dear.” He lifted his gaze to meet Juliette’s. “Four pigeons taking flight from the large tower.”

Juliette’s gaze flew to the fan vendor’s face.

The woman smiled. “You wish to buy this fan?”

“I haven’t decided.” Juliette studied the woman with more care.

The woman was well worth a second look, Jean Marc thought. She seemed to be a trifle under thirty, certainly not in her first youth, yet her yellow woolen gown flattered both her shining brown hair and full, statuesque figure. Her features were nondescript and her cheeks and snub nose liberally dusted with freckles, but the expression in her hazel eyes was lively and her smile full of humor.

Jean Marc leaned forward in his chair. “Show us something else, Citizeness …?”

“Nana Sarpelier.”

“I’m Jean Marc Andreas, and this is Citizeness Juliette de Clement.”

The woman unfurled another fan. “This one may please you. It’s a ship of our glorious navy. Notice the sails battened by the wind and the figurehead of Virtue Incarnate.”

“And the name of the ship on the bow,” Jean Marc said softly.

“The
Darrell.”
Juliette pounced. “Where is he? We want to see him.”

“Who sent you here?” Nana Sarpelier unfurled another fan and batted her long lashes flirtatiously over the rim as she fanned herself.

“The lady in the Tower,” Jean Marc said.

The fan seller opened another fan. “That’s difficult to believe.”

“How else would we know to come here?” Juliette asked. “We need to speak to William Darrell.”

“There is no William Darrell. The name’s only a password.” The fan vendor closed the fan. “However, there are certain people with the same interests in fans as yourselves who might be able to help you. Give me your message.”

“I need to ask the queen something and I have no way to get back into the Temple to see her,” Juliette said. “But your group must be able to do so.”

“We don’t risk contact unless it’s important.”

“Would two million livres pouring into your coffers for our common purpose be considered of importance?”

Nana Sarpelier didn’t change expression. “It’s certainly a good deal of money. Still, it would have to be discussed.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure. What message do you wish us to give to her?”

“A question.” Juliette leaned forward. “Tell her Juliette needs to know who placed the object in the cache. The name of the person. The name.”

The fan vendor took back from Jean Marc the fan depicting the Temple, gave him the one of Danton, and held out her hand palm up. “Give me a few francs.” She
put the money Jean Marc gave her on her tray and stood up.
“Merci
, Citizen. The lady will be the envy of all when she displays my fan.”

“When?” Juliette persisted.

“
If
we decide to help”—Nana Sarpelier picked up the tray—“I’ll let you know when we’ve accomplished the task. Leave your address with Raymond.”

“Raymond?”

“Raymond Jordaneau, the man who served you. He owns the café and is one of us.” She picked up the tray and sauntered through the crowded tables, stopping here and there with a smile and a word.

“It’s done.” Jean Marc sipped his wine. “And now we wait.”

Juliette nodded and reached for the paper fan portraying Danton’s face. “It’s perfectly dreadful. Do you suppose she really sells any of them?”

Jean Marc smothered a smile as he watched Nana Sarpelier move about the room. “She probably does a very good business.”

“But the work is shoddy and she …” Juliette glanced at Jean Marc’s face and then at Nana, who was bending over the obese gentleman escorting the red-haired demimondaine. “He’s buying a fan from her.”

“Yes.” Jean Marc took another sip of wine. “So I noticed.”

“Do you suppose he’s looking for William Darrell too?”

Jean Marc chuckled. “No, I think he’s looking for a pleasant romp in any convenient bed or alcove.”

“Oh.” Juliette looked at the fan vendor with new interest. “Why with her and not his red-haired lady? His companion is far prettier.”

“Because a man can tell when a woman will open her thighs because she enjoys a man and when she does it because she enjoys the clink of coins.”

“Does it make such a difference?”

Jean Marc finished the wine in his glass and motioned to the man who had served them. “Yes, Juliette, it makes a great difference.”

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait to hear?” Juliette turned to face Jean Marc as he closed the front door. “We should have urged her to hurry.”

Jean Marc crossed the foyer and dropped his cloak and gloves on the tapestry-cushioned bench beneath the oval mirror. “It would have done no good.” He turned and walked toward her.