Tender the Storm (34 page)

She had run off to France and shortly afterwards she had divorced him. She was a suspected member of
La Compagnie,
and her brother was one of its known assassins.

For several minutes, he tried to consider these facts with dispassionate interest. Unbidden, there came to him the faces of the young assassins who had gunned him down on the steps of Covent Garden. Surely neither of those boys could possibly be Zoë's brother?

A thought struck him, and he went perfectly still as he considered it. Was it possible that he had been mistaken in Zoë's character from the first? Could it be that she was not the innocent she pretended, but that she really was up to her neck in intrigue from the moment she had surrendered herself into his custody in Rouen? She was a consummate actress. That much was proven. Was it possible that she had been deceiving him all along?

One thought led to another. His imagination ran riot, taking him down paths that, in his saner moments, he would have rejected out of hand.
Zoë as a member of
La Compagnie.
Zoë setting up a cell in London, using him as a screen for her nefarious activities.
And when his usefulness was at an end,
Zoë . . . !

Christ! The idea was so shocking he could scarcely entertain it! What better way to rid herself of an unwanted husband than to arrange for his demise? And when that failed, naturally, divorce was the only alternative.

By the time Rolfe climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, he was imagining the silky feel of Zoë's hair in his hands, but only in the split second before he wrapped it round her white throat and strangled the life out of her.

He slept fitfully and came awake with a start. Something that Housard had mentioned came to the fore.
Mimi? Who the devil is Mimi?
wondered
Rolfe, but the moment he rose the thought was lost.

With their high waists, low-cut bodices and almost transparent gauzes, never had ladies' gowns appeared more scanty or diaphanous. Petticoats were left off, and the flesh-colored silk pantaloons which showed beneath softly draped skirts left little to the imagination.

Jean Tresier's glance skimmed over the throng of ladies in Germaine de Stael's salon in the Swedish Embassy, and he was not quite sure whether or not he approved of the current mode. A moment later, he smiled wryly as it occurred to him that, having forbidden his mistress, Rose, to make an exhibition of
herself
with the new fashion, he was scarcely likely to encourage Zoë, the lady he intended for his wife, to appear in public with less decorum.

At the thought of marriage to Zoë, he frowned. Only that afternoon, he had paid his addresses, and had been gently, though firmly, refused. He'd acted too hastily, spurred by the demands of his creditors. He had not given up on Zoë, however. It was common knowledge that ladies rarely accepted a first offer. In another week or so, he would try his luck again. In the meantime, he wondered if, having refused his offer of marriage, she might be willing to advance him a loan.

Rose.
Zoë.
Neither knew of the other's existence. When he married Zoë, he was aware that Rose must be told. The thought was more than a little unpleasant. He had no wish to hurt Rose. He loved her. But he must marry money. Rose could not accept it.

She was a gently bred girl, the daughter of one of his former university professors. In other circumstances, he would not have been allowed near her unless his intentions were honorable. But in the up- side-down world in which they lived, she had been left a pauper with no male relatives to look out for her interests. He had offered his protection and had been accepted. Marriage was out of the question. She had no dowry. His debts were astronomical. He lived by his wits. If he had not taken her, some other man would. Rose was too beautiful, too easily persuaded for her own good.

Zoë's voice put an end to further reflection. "I beg your pardon," said Tresier.

"I don't see Theresia Tallien," she repeated.

"Haven't you heard? Tallien was attacked this evening outside his house. Lucky for him, the
jeunesse doree
was at hand. They drove off his attacker before he could finish him off."

"The deputy is all right?"

"He suffered a mild concussion, but his assailant didn't get off scot-free either. In the scuffle, somebody got hold of a pistol and winged him. Still, he managed to escape. They are saying it was that
Cache-Cache
fellow."

"Le Cache-Cache?"
said Zoë, and shivered.
Le Cache- Cache—hide
and seek —was the nickname applied to a young terrorist who in the previous year had cast a sinister shadow over Paris. To some he was something of a folk hero. To Zoë, he was a common criminal. There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to his choice of victims. Reputed Royalists, Jacobins,
sans - culottes —
he attacked indiscriminately.

"These are terrible times we live in," she commented.
"First Barras, then Fournier, and now Tallien."

"They all survived, though."

"So?"

"What? Oh, I was just wondering if
Le Cache- Cache
was beginning to have a change of heart."

"I don't follow you."

"It probably means nothing."

A footman bore down on them bearing a silver salver with glasses of champagne. Tresier selected two and handed one to Zoë. Between sips, he said, "It wouldn't surprise me if poor
Cache-Cache
takes the blame for far more than he deserves."

"I suppose. Where is it all going to end, Jean? Old scores are being paid off, parties are jockeying for power,
the
sans-culottes
are on the rampage. It seems as if France is hurtling towards anarchy."

"Why are we talking politics?" asked Tresier, abruptly lightening his tone. "This is a party, for heaven's sakes. I should be paying you compliments and you should be flirting madly with me. Didn't the dancing master teach you anything?"

In answer, Zoë shook out her fan, and Tresier's eyes warmed with admiration as they followed each dip and delicate flutter of
swansdown
feathers which graced Zoë's hand.

"Is this what you mean?" she murmured, her eyes dancing with enjoyment.

Charles Lagrange chose that moment to join them. Zoë greeted him with a smile. Tresier, suppressing a small frown of distaste, soon made his excuses and sauntered off.

To cover what she perceived was a snub to her friend's husband, Zoë plunged into speech. "What do you think, Charles? Tallien was attacked outside his house."

"So I've heard. It doesn't surprise me."

"No?" Zoë resigned herself to the predictable lecture. She had heard it all before, and, though she concurred wholeheartedly with Lagrange's sentiments, it did not, for one moment, mitigate her boredom. The Revolution, according to Lagrange, had failed in its objectives. The poor were in a worse case than they had been under the
ancien
regime. If those in authority did not soon redress these wrongs, France would be plunged into a civil war.

"You're preaching to the converted!" The comment came from Francoise who had unobtrusively interposed herself between her friend and her husband. "Charles," she reproved, "this is a party. Can't you forget politics for one evening?"

Lagrange's stern expression softened as his glance rested on his wife's upturned face. His tone was close to jocular when he answered, "You think I'm boring Zoë? Just wait till Madame de Stael takes the floor!"

Francoise made a moue of distaste. "It's the price one pays for the privilege of being invited to her salon, though why any sane person would wish to endure an hour of her rhetoric simply for the privilege of boasting that one was here in the first place is beyond my intelligence."

"You said that, not I," murmured her husband.

"Ah. Will you excuse me, ladies? Monsieur
Petien
has just come in. I want to have a word with him on a subject which would simply bore you to tears."

"Politics!" said Francoise disparagingly as her eyes followed her husband's retreating back.

Relieved of Lagrange's presence, the two ladies began to take stock of their surroundings.

"Who's that little man over there?" asked Francoise.
"The one who's in conversation with Josephine de Beauharnais."

Zoë looked in the direction her friend had surreptitiously indicated. "He's Napoleon
Bonasomething
- or-other. He's the soldier who relieved the blockade at Toulon, don't you remember?"

"Italian?"

"Corsican.
He's very particular on that point."

"
Mmm
.
He's falling all over Josephine. Barras won't take kindly to his mistress flirting with another gentleman. What do you know of him?"

"Not very much.
He's
Barras's
protege
, as I understand."

Francoise giggled.

"What?" asked
Zoë.

"How did we ever get mixed up in such a den of iniquity? And you can take that supercilious look off your face. This is Francoise you're with, remember? We don't really fit in with this crowd, Zoë, and you know it."

"They're really charming people once you get to know them," said Zoë, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into her voice.

"What? Germaine de Stael? Charming? The woman is all affectation." The eyes of the two ladies, without volition, found the imposing figure of their hostess. Madame de Stael was easy to find in any crush of people. On her head, she invariably wore a turban, the only lady to do so.