Tender the Storm (32 page)

Divorce, as she understood, was almost impossible to obtain in England. Short of murdering her, there was no way Rolfe could have extricated himself from his unwanted marriage. She could almost imagine his relief when he was informed that she had no claims on him. Charles had undertaken the office of conveying the report of the divorce to Rolfe. Zoë had no notion how this might be achieved, especially as their two countries were at war. But Charles had assured her that, for those in the know, the lines of communication between France and England were still open.

Rolfe's sense of relief, she was persuaded, could not be greater than her own. She could never think of him without experiencing the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. She had tried to put it from her mind, to no avail. It seemed that she must relive, in minute detail, that last scene between them, when he had called her by another woman's name.

In the days which had followed, during that last week in England, she'd been tormented by thoughts of Rolfe with the girl called Rosamund. Without betraying her interest, she had persuaded the La- granges to take her to Covent Garden. For her vulgar, almost obsessive curiosity, she had paid an exorbitant price. Roberta Ashton, the lady at the
Devonshires
' Christmas party, pretending to be her friend, had carried her off to her own box during one of the intervals, and had put her wise to what Rolfe had been up to whilst his wife was buried in the depths of the country, callously abandoned to the mercies of his mother.

And this was the man she had hero-worshipped? This was the man whom she'd considered the brightest and best of everything England had to offer, the epitome of the English gentleman, the flower of English manhood? The man was a faithless libertine, indulging in every debauchery her young mind could conceive. And if he had not made her a laughingstock, it was because scarcely a person knew of her existence. How should they? He had made no attempt to introduce her to any of his friends. He was ashamed of her. He didn't want her, had never wanted her, and she was coming to realize how wise she was to return to her own kind.

But there was one more wrenching mortification to endure before the awful, horrible evening came to an end. As Charles Lagrange handed her into his hired carriage, she looked over his shoulder and she saw him, there, in the shadows, coming out of the theatre, his arms wrapped around a woman, dragging her to him for an openmouthed kiss that had Zoë's stomach clenched in knots. She knew the color rushed from her face. Lagrange twisted his head, following her gaze. Thankfully, he did not know her husband, did not recognize the face of the man who was embracing the woman so passionately, making a public spectacle of
himself
.

Lagrange had made some biting comment about the vulgarity of the younger generation and had thrust Zoë inside the carriage. She had not said two words on the drive to
Soho
Square, but her thoughts were killing her.

Wave after wave of shame washed through her. His mother had told her the truth, and she had not believed her. Charlotte had tried to explain the English mode for married couples, and she had supposed that she knew better. Oh God, in her abysmal ignorance and innocence, she had offered herself to a man she must, in her saner moments, despise. She did despise him. It was an illusion she had loved.
That man of her dreams was only that —a dream.
He had no existence outside of her imagination. And soon, she would cease to think of him altogether.

She was free. She was independently wealthy. And she had an entree into the most prestigious salons in the world. Paris was her oyster, and she would be a fool if she could not be the happiest of girls.

There, it was done. Her head was shorn and the heavy weight of her hair lay in discarded skeins at her feet. She tossed her head, testing the new freedom.

"Mademoiselle is pleased?"

"Oh yes," she said without having to think about it. She ran her fingers through her short crop of dark hair and admired the way in arranged itself into tiny waves and curls. She smiled cockily at the image in her mirror, and the new Zoë, remarkably matured, smiled back at her.

Later that evening, decked out in one of her new transparent, gauze evening dresses and with her shorn locks clinging like a silk cap to her shapely head, Zoë made her entrance into Madame Tal- lien's salon on Paul Varlet's arm. Her manners, her address, no less than her beauty, won instant admiration. There was nothing unusual in this. Paris had a surfeit of beautiful women who could hold their own with rapier-sharp wit. But it was soon perceived that Zoë had a talent which few could boast. She had an unerring tact which deflected the poisoned barb before it could find its mark. She was a soft-hearted girl, virtuous without being a prude. Oh yes, Mademoiselle Zoë could flirt with the best of them, and remain politely "but firmly chaste. And who could deny that she played the piano like an angel? By the end of the week, Zoë was acclaimed as the darling of society. When she opened the doors to her own salon, all Paris flocked to it.

"Divorce!"
The roar split the stunned silence like the crack of a thunderbolt. "Divorce," repeated Rolfe in a more moderate tone.

His companion's lips were suspiciously folded together. Monsieur Housard lounged against the leather armchair in Rolfe's study in the house in St. James and studiously examined the amber liquid in the crystal glass in his hand. "This is excellent brandy," he remarked conversationally, "but it's not really my tipple. I brought a couple of bottles of burgundy with me, do you know? It would be a shame to let them go to waste."

Ignoring this non sequitur, Rolfe demanded in barely suppressed fury, "On what grounds, may I ask, has my wife divorced me?"

"Adultery," stated the Frenchman unequivocally.

"Adultery?" queried Rolfe. "A trumped-up charge, if ever I heard one. I have never committed adultery."

"She named several ladies."

"May I be permitted to know their names?"

"A certain Mrs. Roberta Ashton
— "

"That was before my marriage," cut in Rolfe.

"An opera dancer with Covent Garden who goes by the name of Rosamund, and two others —now what were their names?
oh
yes, now I remember — Mimi and Fifi."

"Adultery?
With the likes of those vestal virgins?" he said sarcastically. "That could never be considered adultery, surely?"

"I assure you, my lord, in France, under the new laws, a faithless husband has no more protection than a faithless wife."

At these inadvertently polemic words, Rolfe's eyes blazed,
then
glittered dangerously.

Hastening to amend matters, Housard offered, "There's talk of repealing the laws which put men and women on an equal footing. Oh yes, there's a definite swing to the right. Though, of course, I don't suppose that is any consolation."

"To the right?
What does that mean?"

"Tradition."
There was an ironic twinkle in Housard's eyes when he blandly offered, "Women are simply flocking to the courts to obtain divorces before the laws of the ancient regime are restored, and who can blame them?"

"I never heard of anything so insane —to treat men and women equally under the law. Men have always made free with women of a certain class."

"Quite," said Housard with mock commiseration.

Rolfe sliced his companion a hard stare, but Housard's eyes were carefully averted. There was a protracted pause in the conversation as both gentlemen made inroads into the brandy decanter. They sipped their drinks in considered silence.

Rolfe eased back in his chair. He crossed one booted foot over the other and surveyed his companion through half-hooded lids. Smiling languidly, he said, "And now, Monsieur Housard, perhaps you will be good enough to come to the point. What, may I ask, is the
real
purpose for this
unhoped
for visit?"

Housard settled himself more comfortably before replying. "I think you know why. It has come to my attention, my lord, that you are making plans for a little foray into France."

Rolfe took a long swallow of his brandy before responding, "Tinteniac told you, I suppose?"

"He did."

"And if I am?"

"Surely, there's no necessity?"

"Oh?" murmured Rolfe.

"Your wife has divorced you. She neither wants nor requires rescuing. And what could you hope to gain? Think of it, man!
To abduct an unwilling woman behind enemy lines and flee with her to England?
The task is beyond you."

"Perhaps I only hope to
murder
her," drawled Rolfe.

Housard started,
then
gave a low laugh. "I'm afraid I can't permit it."

Rolfe's expression turned savage. "Nothing on God's earth is going to stop me going after my wife, do you understand, Monsieur Housard? Not the war, not the Revolution, not the King of England, and least of all a stupid girl who does not know her place."

"I think I could stop you, if I had a mind to," was the quiet rejoinder.

The silence pulsed with controlled violence as both gentlemen took each other's measure. Finally, his voice soft with menace, Rolfe said, "Try it, Monsieur Housard, and you'll have the fight of your life on your hands, I promise you."

A long audible sigh fell from the Frenchman's lips. "I just knew you would prove to be awkward in this," he said, and tipping up his glass, he drained it in one gulp. He offered a placating grin. "I suppose
it's
better if we work together, rather than at cross purposes."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that —how do you English say it? —oh yes, I'll scratch your back if you will scratch mine. And now, before I take you into my confidence, do be a good fellow and offer to crack a bottle of burgundy with me."

Long after the Frenchman had broached his second bottle of burgundy, Rolfe remained hunched in his favorite chair, his mind grappling with the story Housard had just related to him.

Housard was still hot on the trail of
La Compagnie.
He had made some progress.
Le Patron
was known to be active in Paris once more, though Housard was no nearer to unmasking the man than he ever had been. Of more interest to Rolfe, however, was the intelligence that several suspected members of
La Compagnie
moved in the same salon circles as Zoë. It was a perfect cover, since it was almost impossible to trace one man's contacts in these circumstances.