The Garden Intrigue

Augustus scowled. “It’s not about height; it’s bulk. He could squash you with one hand.”

“Give me some credit,” she said. “It would take two hands at least. Though I be small, I be fierce. How does that line go?”

“Though she be but little, she is fierce.” He looked over his shoulder, frowning, more serious than she had ever seen him. “This isn’t a joke, Emma.”

Emma’s eyes stung. With fatigue, that was all. “No,” she said quietly. “It’s not. Nor is it any of your concern.”

He stood entirely still, the stillness of a dark pond on a dark night, uncanny in its silence, strange things moving beneath the surface. “You are my concern,” he said in a low voice.

Fine words, and she was sure he meant them, too.

As a friend.

“Don’t worry,” said Emma flippantly. “If Georges murders me and drops my body in the river, I’m sure you can find another collaborator.”

He stared at her as though trying to divine whether she meant it. She could see his fingers curl into his palms. It was a good thing his nails were short, or they would leave marks. “That’s not what I meant.”

If he wasn’t going to explain, she wasn’t going to ask. She held his gaze until he broke. He turned abruptly away, swinging towards the glass doors through which Georges had exited.

“How did you ever come to take up with that cretin?” he demanded.

Half a dozen excuses bubbled to Emma’s tongue, the same ones she had trotted out before in half a dozen imaginary conversations. It had been a difficult time.…She hadn’t been happy.…

What was she doing? Emma pulled herself to an abrupt halt. What right had he to ask? Or to judge. It was none of his concern. She was under no obligation to explain herself to him or anyone else.

Emma folded her arms across her chest and glowered. “Have you never taken to bed someone you regretted later?”

Augustus gawped at her.

She could practically see the wheels in his head turning. His stance relaxed. He said, with a quirk of the lips, “Fair point.”

It would have felt more like a victory if she hadn’t wondered exactly who he might be thinking of, if Emma would know her, and, if so, what the circumstances had been.

If Georges was none of his business, that was none of hers.

“Please,” he said softly. “Let’s not argue.”

Emma regarded him warily.

“Truce?” he urged.

Emma held out a hand. “Truce.”

He wasn’t wearing gloves either. His hand engulfed hers. She could feel the calluses on his thumb worn by a pen and other calluses on his palm, made by something else entirely.

She made to draw her hand back, but instead of releasing it, he looked down at her, his expression thoughtful. “May I ask you something else?”

Despite herself, Emma’s pulse picked up. The play, the theatre, the kiss. Nothing at all, she could imagine herself saying, it was nothing at all. Unless you…

“Provided it’s nothing to do with multiplication tables,” she said flippantly.

Augustus’s hand tightened and then let go. “What is it that Marston wants from you?”

“What?” It was so far from what she had been expecting that it took her a moment to comprehend the words. “Georges?”

She had the small satisfaction of seeing Augustus scowl at the name. “Yes,” he said. “That.”

“That,” said Emma, tucking her hands under her arms, “was a fascinating exercise in venality and wishful thinking.”

Wishful thinking. Emma resisted a hysterical urge to laugh. She knew a thing or two about that. What a fool she was, what an addlepated fool. Kort was right; she shouldn’t be allowed out on her own.

“I heard a bit of it,” said Augustus cautiously. “Something about…plans?”

Emma shrugged, wishing she had had the forethought to wear a shawl. She was cold again, colder than she had been before. She assumed Mme. Bonaparte wouldn’t mind if she made it an early night and sought the solace of her own quilt. “Georges wanted a share in a business venture between my cousin and Mr. Fulton. They turned him down.”

Augustus cocked an eyebrow. “So he wants you to steal their plans?”

Emma wafted a hand. “That’s Georges for you, always out for the easy sou. Shall we go in?”

Augustus made no move towards the door. He looked at her, his brows drawing together. “Be careful, Emma,” he said abruptly. “This— You don’t—”

He broke off, broodingly. He had never looked more like the poet he pretended to be.

“Goodness, Augustus,” said Emma, “there’s no need to look like that. No matter who Georges thinks he’s found to pay for it, I can’t imagine it’s worth that much. Even if it works, it will take ages and lots of investment before it can be profitable.”

Augustus’s dark eyes were intent on her face. “It? You know what it is?”

“Well, yes.” Why was he looking like that? Did he really think Georges would murder her out of frustrated greed? “It’s not exactly a secret.”

“Isn’t it?”

“They’ve kept it relatively quiet,” said Emma, “but that’s just because they were waiting until Mr. Fulton built a proper model. But everyone will know about it by tomorrow. They’re doing a demonstration on the river.”

“A demonstration?” Augustus looked dazed. “A public demonstration?”

“For the Emperor,” said Emma. “He wanted to see it—or Mr. Fulton wanted him to see it. I think he was hoping the Emperor might invest. Mr. Fulton, I mean.”

“Are we—are we talking about the same thing?”

“The steamship,” said Emma matter-of-factly.

“The—” Augustus blinked at her.

She had heard so much about it that she had forgotten that he might not have.

“A ship propelled by steam,” she translated. “The French call it a chariot d’eau mu par le feu. They’re holding a demonstration of it tomorrow.”

Mr. Fulton had a lovely day for his steamship exhibition.

The imperial couple had made an event of it. Servants had spread silk cloths to protect the ladies’ dresses from the turf. They lolled in little clusters along the bank, some reclining like Mme. Récamier, others with their legs tucked beneath them like children at a picnic, leaning forward to exclaim over a freshly picked flower or stretching to pluck a sweetmeat from the tray of a circling attendant.

Mme. Bonaparte’s personal china service was spread in opulent array on a low table laden with all the delicacies a sophisticated palate might desire. Ladies picked delicately at candied chestnuts and hothouse peaches, munching sweetmeats and flinging bits of cake to the ducks on the river. The sunlight glittered off cut-crystal glasses dangling idly from the hands of young gallants as they pressed their suits with the prettier of Mme. Bonaparte’s ladies-in-waiting, all giggles and coy fans.

Over it all, the imperial couple presided, seated on twin chairs. Augustus recognized the chairs from the gilded drawing room, incongruous in the rustic idyll in which they purported to participate. Many of the ladies, in keeping with the rural theme, had twined flowers in their hair, but Mme. Bonaparte wore a tiny gilt diadem, a token of the status she had yet to formally attain. She might be Empress by courtesy, but she hadn’t yet been crowned, a fact of which everyone was very much aware. A silk canopy held by four poles had been stretched above them to protect Mme. Bonaparte’s delicate complexion.

In the place of honor beside Mme. Bonaparte sat Robert Livingston, with his nephew, still under the canopy but less favored, standing beside him. Likewise, Robert Fulton had a place beneath the canopy but no chair. He stood by the Emperor’s left hand.

Augustus lounged on the grass, flirting idly with Mme. de Rémusat, and wondered what in the hell was