“There can be no debt between friends,” Augustus said.
Didn’t she know he would have done more for her if she had asked? A phoenix feather from the far ends of the earth, a dragon’s horde from the depths of a flame-scorched cave, the head of a prophet on a platter.
At least, so the poet liked to think. The agent was well aware that he had compromised the terms of his own mission by doing even such a little thing for her. His mandate was to observe, not to act. Any action he took made detection more likely. Wickham had other men planted in Paris, but no one of his standing, no one who had been there as long or seen as much. He might not be indispensible, but he would be bloody hard to replace.
“What do you need of me?” she asked.
“Entrée into Malmaison,” he said promptly. “Whatever this device is, they plan a final test a month from now, somewhere on the grounds of Malmaison. The trial is planned for the weekend of June ninth.”
Jane looked thoughtfully over his shoulder. “They have a party planned that weekend, in honor of the American envoy.”
Augustus leaned back on one elbow, lolling artistically on the flagstones. “Distraction,” he said. “It provides Bonaparte with an excuse.”
At Saint-Cloud, the consular court lived in state, surrounded by a growing entourage of servants and hangers-on. At Malmaison, on the other hand, the Bonapartes maintained the pretense of simplicity. Even with the addition of tents to house the servants and the consular staff, the house was nothing more than a modest gentleman’s residence, its small size necessarily limiting the number of people invited. The grounds, constantly in the process of improvement, stretched out for hectares in either direction, the private preserve of Mme. Bonaparte.
It was, in other words, the perfect place to conduct a trial of Decres’ mysterious device, far away from Paris and prying eyes.
“I had wondered,” admitted Jane, “why he was having Mr. Livingston to Malmaison, rather than to Saint- Cloud. The excuse given was that the choice was for sentimental reasons. Mr. Livingston is Emma’s cousin, and Emma is so very fond of Malmaison.”
Augustus snorted. “Bonaparte is about as sentimental as a barracuda. Can you get me in?”
Jane paused a moment, then shook her head. “Not this time. I haven’t been invited myself.”
Augustus reacted to the tone rather than the words. “Do you think Fouché suspects you?” His mind was already racing ahead, formulating plans, ways to dodge the all-seeing eye of Bonaparte’s sinister Minister of Police. He could get Jane out of Paris if he had to. The old network, stretching from Paris to Boulogne, had been eviscerated in Fouché’s latest raids, but he still had connections, personal ones. “Don’t be heroic.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. Nefarious behavior from the lady of the cameos? They would sooner suspect the statuary. But the group is small and Mr. Livingston is known to have little sympathy for the English. My invitation might be considered an insult.” She paused, her head cocked to one side. “But there is a way.”
“La belle Hortense?” Jane had become fast friends with Mme. Bonaparte’s daughter from her first marriage. The two were of an age. Hortense was universally acknowledged as the best of the Bonapartes, probably because she was one only by marriage: her mother’s marriage to Bonaparte, and her own marriage to Bonaparte’s younger brother, Louis. “Hortense finds me amusing. Perhaps you can convince her that the weekend demands immortalizing in verse.”
“Hortense has her own worries. You may have noticed she isn’t here tonight.” Jane spread her fan, revealing a painting of swans floating languidly on a lake. “No. I have a better idea.”
“Tunneling beneath the grounds?” Augustus teased. “Fighting my way through the gates with Miss Gwen’s parasol?”
“You miss the obvious,” said Jane calmly. “The simplest proposition is always the best.”
“I don’t follow.”
Jane smiled at him over the edge of her fan. “The answer was right in front of you all along. Emma Delagardie.”
“A poet?” echoed Kort.
“Miss Wooliston tends to inspire that sort of thing.” Emma wafted a dismissive hand, turning her attention back to her cousin. “Goodness, Kort. I can’t believe you’re really here. After all this time.”
She had forgotten how big he was, or perhaps it was that he had filled out since she had seen him last. He had been only eighteen then, after all, eighteen to her thirteen. At the time, she had thought him the last word in manliness and sophistication. She had been as infatuated as only a thirteen-year-old could be, saving his dropped handkerchiefs and scribbling maudlin verse in the solitude of her favorite branch of an apple tree.
Goodness, she’d forgotten that apple tree. She had created quite the fuss by tumbling out of it and breaking her arm. She could still feel the twinge in it when the wind blew in the wrong direction.
“Cousin Robert told me I would most likely find you here. I just hadn’t expected—” Kort’s eyes dipped from the plumes on her headdress to the diamonds glittering at her ears, her arms, her breast.
“To see quite so much of me?” Emma quipped, and her cousin’s gaze hastily snapped upwards again.
Oops. She hadn’t meant to make him squirm. She had forgotten. They were less frank at home, at least about certain things. It felt odd to be speaking English again; the once familiar syllables came uncomfortably to her tongue, although not as uncomfortably as Kort’s labored French.
“Something like that,” Kort admitted, carefully avoiding the general direction of her bodice. He shook his head again. “I would never have known you.”
It would have been nice if the statement had sounded a little bit more like a compliment.
“That’s not surprising,” she said, striving for sangfroid. She resisted the urge to tug at her décolletage. Her dress might be low by New York standards, but it was positively modest by Parisian ones, largely because she didn’t have terribly much to display. “It’s been over ten years since you last saw me. It would be more surprising if I hadn’t changed.”
“You’ve become so…French.”
The comment surprised her into a laugh. “The French find me very American. Or so I’ve been told.”
Refreshing, they had called her. Natural. Fruitlessly, Emma had tried to explain that her parents’ home in New York was as sophisticated as anything to be found in the Faubourg Saint-Germain and the only savages on their property were her brothers, but such protestations had been unpopular with her audience. They preferred to cherish Rousseauian notions of noble savages clad in loincloths and adorned with feathers.
“When did you arrive?” she asked. “Have you been in Paris long?”
“Tuesday,” he said. “Whenever I mention your name, I hear only effusions. Everyone adores Madame Delagardie.”
Mme. Delagardie had made a great effort to be adored. As for Emma…well, it was what it was and that was all. She was Mme. Delagardie now and had been for some time.
“Almost everyone. Not everyone has come to a full and proper appreciation of my inestimable worth, but they will in time. What brings you to Paris after all these years? Surely, you could have spared a visit to your favorite cousin before this. It’s just a little sea voyage. It’s only a few months at sea, and I have it on the very best authorities that sea monsters have gone out of fashion.”
He didn’t respond to her raillery in kind. A shadow passed across his face. He paused for a moment before saying, “You will have heard about Sarah, I expect.”
Oh, Lord. Emma felt like the scrapings off his boots, if he had been wearing boots. She was the lowest level of Paris gutter slime, heartless and unfeeling. She had heard. But it had been how long ago now? A year? Two? Time moved strangely in Paris, and the Atlantic divide meant that news was no longer news by the time of arrival.
“I had heard.” She touched a gloved hand fleetingly to his arm. “I’m sorry, Kort.”
His lips twisted with dark humor. Bitterness sat strangely on his clean-cut face. “So am I.”
She had hated Sarah once. She had hated her for being older, for being taller, for catching Kort’s eye. Emma had wished warts on her, or hives, with all the petty desperation of her wounded adolescent soul. She had fantasized about Sarah, always so competent and complacent, tripping on the way to the altar or ripping her wedding dress or spilling punch down her front in some humiliating and public occasion.
But not this. Never this. Emma’s heart winced away from the image of Sarah and her babies, still and cold.
