by Rue Allyn
“Please ring should you need anything else.”
“I’ll check with the coachman about the accommodations for our carriage and four,” Richard said, and he followed the footman out the door.
The image of Marielle, dewy and alluring, in her bath taunted him. How was he to resist the temptation she presented? With every moment in her company, he lusted more for her body and remembered less that she was to blame for Jennings’s death. She had shown herself to be brave and generous where her family was concerned and clever in all her dealings. That cleverness just might save him.
But that sharp mind of hers was also a constant reminder that she could easily be a spy, a deadly enemy.
• • •
Marielle watched the two men leave then slumped into a chair. Finally, she was alone and could figure out how to find her cousin. Given the size of Fontainebleau and its grounds, as well as the very large number of people in residence and coming and going at all hours, she had about as much chance of finding René on her own as the skies had of raining chocolate. She rejected the idea of requesting an interview with Madame Cochinat. Mari wanted as little contact as possible with Malveux’s cohort. The best course would be to ask the maid about men in the household who matched René’s description. A knock sounded.
“Enter.”
“I am Esme, madame. I have come to help with your bath and will serve as your maid throughout your stay at Fontainebleau.” A young woman, hardly more than a girl, came in.
“Thank you, Esme.” Marielle stood and turned her back so the woman could unbutton the traveling gown.
“I hear from Pierre that you are a newlywed. ’Tis a shame madame was wed in this dreary dress. A bride should wear color, n’est-ce pas?”
The gown dropped to the floor, followed quickly by her corset and underthings. Marielle stepped out of the heap, turned, and smiled at the girl. “I could not agree more.” For years, she’d been in mourning for one relative or another. She gotten so used to black and dark gray that she’d almost forgotten how much she’d enjoyed wearing bright colors, pastels, the occasional white dress. Even the brown serge of her governess disguise had been a welcome change.
“Pierre told me that the emperor arranged for gowns to be put in your wardrobe as a bridal gift. Shall I lay one out for you while you bathe?”
“Please.” Mari stepped into the tub.
“Excellent. I will do so now, then return to help wash your hair. Shall I have your traveling dress laundered and pressed?”
“No. If none of the servants want it, have it burned.”
“It shall be as you wish.”
Esme bent to gather the pile of cloth. Marielle shucked her chemise and lowered herself into the tub, sighing as the heated water soaked into muscles aching from days of unrelenting travel and tension.
The maid placed a stool beside the tub then positioned a padded, embroidered folding screen between the tub and the door to keep the heat in the bathing area. Not too much later she stood by Marielle’s shoulder. “Shall I help you wash your hair now, madame?”
“Yes, please. While you do, tell me about Fontainebleau and those who live here.”
Esme repositioned the stool. “I will be happy to share what I know about the palace and its people, though I have only been here for a few months. Lean your head back, please.” She dipped an ewer into the bath water and poured the contents carefully over Marielle’s night-dark tresses. Not a drop of water touched Marielle’s eyes.
“You are very good at your work for one so young.”
“Thank you, madame, though I am not so young as you might think.”
As intriguing as that statement was, Marielle needed information about the household more. “Tell me about the emperor and his staff.”
Between soaping, massaging, rinsing, and repeating, Esme rattled on about the house, the emperor, the number of servants, the generals, and the titled men who took orders from them. “Then there is the newest addition to Napoleon’s staff, Monsieur Victor Truffkill. Monsieur Victor, as he prefers to be called, is un homme très bon. His coloring is very similar to yours, but he has darker brown eyes. More like chocolat, less like cannelle. How do you say in English, cimanon?
Mari chuckled. “You mean cinnamon.”
“Oui, cinnamon, bon. Merci, madame.”
“Please continue. Mister Truffkill sounds like an intriguing fellow.”
“He is strong and handsome. He told me he feels most at home out of doors. So, me, I do not understand why he takes a position as third undersecretary to Monsieur Fain, Napoleon’s personal secretary.”
René, the fool! Esme had just described him perfectly, and Victor was René’s middle name. Then there was the awful Truffkill concoction. She’d never met anyone with a surname anything like Truffkill. However, it was too close to Trouvé. She couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten so near his goal without being discovered.
“So Mr. Truffkill is another Englishman.”
“Oui, though his French is impeccable. I am certain that is why he was hired, despite some irregularity with his letters. That and the English commissioner, Colonel Campbell, vouched for him.”
An English officer vouched for René? How had her normally feckless cousin managed that? Save for Richard, her cousin was unacquainted with anyone serving in the King’s army.
“I shall have to seek out these fellow Englishmen when I have a moment. Who else interesting is among the household?”
The servant talked of a number of other men and a few women. Mari carefully avoided showing any more interest in Madame Leonis Cochinat than in René.
Esme gave Marielle’s hair a final rinse then wrung out the excess water. “I will leave you now and take your dress away, while you complete your bath.” She set a couple of towels on the stool and slipped around the edge of the screen.
“Thank you, Esme. What have you laid out for me to wear this evening?”
“A green watered silk and a fawn ombré velvet, as well as appropriate underclothing for each. I was not certain which you would prefer. Both will go excellently with your coloring.”
“You may have the other clothing from my bag pressed. I will only be able to take a few of the emperor’s gifts with me, and will need my old clothing for travel, as they will probably be more practical.”
“Yes, madame. I will have all done before morning."
Marielle listened for the sound of the door opening and closing then quickly finished washing. The memory of Richard’s sudden appearance as she washed at the inn rose in her mind and heated her flesh even as the water cooled around her. She did not care to repeat the incident, nor be forced to examine the confusion of embarrassment and pleasure that had flooded her when she’d seen his gaze transfixed on her exposed breasts. She dried herself, donned her dressing gown, then settled on a stool close to the fire, and started to brush her hair dry.
Tonight she must use what she’d learned from Esme to help find René, and, if possible, discover how to avoid being trapped in marriage with Richard Campion.
• • •
Their first evening at Fontainebleau was torture. They dined with the staff of the allied commissioners, minor nobles, and upper crust commoners. Richard watched Mari cut a swath through the men both before and during dinner then depart, arm in arm, with Madame Cochinat, for tea with the ladies.
The worst was an awkward encounter when they were introduced to their dinner companions: Mr. Truffkill, his friend Madame Cochinat, and her escort, a Prussian by the name of Hittenrauch. Throughout the meal Hittenrauch ogled Marielle as if it were open season on females, married or not, and ignored the very obvious lures Madame Cochinat cast at Richard. Truffkill had stammered his way through a conversation about his home on the border of Wales. His ignorance of the area would have identified the younger man as René Trouvé if Marielle had not earlier confided her conversation with the maid.
Madame Cochinat covered any awkwardness between the cousins by flirting loudly with Rich
ard. Hittenrauch appeared clueless to the currents surrounding the little group, behaving with all the arrogance and self-absorption stereotypical of his countrymen. Which meant he ignored every signal not to pursue a flirtation with Richard’s supposed wife.
Richard would have planted the Prussian a facer, had the women not departed moments before he could act. He sat back to enjoy the excellent port and cigars the emperor provided. But his enjoyment was spoiled by eight courses of watching Marielle share her beauty and perhaps her secrets with other men. She’d become so tangled in his thoughts that he almost missed an exchange between Hittenrauch and that pup René.
“Let us take a stroll in the gardens to discuss the matter,” the Prussian suggested.
René nodded. Richard waited one long minute after the two left to stand. “Y’know, that’s a damned good idea. Think I’ll take the air m’self.” He exited through the same door into the gardens that René and friend had used, then took the path nearest the dining salon windows, making certain the men still at the table saw him stroll in the opposite direction that the other two men had gone. When a bend in the path blocked him from sight, he hurried across the grounds in René’s general direction.
He was almost on them before he heard the quiet whispers.
“I assure you, this potion is the same the emperor carries on his person in case of capture. Place it in the wine he takes just before bed, and he will be dead before you can leave the room. Just be certain to empty the vial Napoleon carries, so all will think he used that. He has been greatly despondent since abdicating. Everyone will assume suicide.”
“Thank you, Hittenrauch, for helping me rid Europe of this scourge and avenge my family.”
“No thanks are necessary, my friend. The Corsican Monster deserves to die for what he did to my homeland. You will be a great hero, eh? The Bourbons will surely reward you with more than the return of your lands and title. Who knows, you might even receive a duchy for your brave deeds.”
René Trouvé was a greater fool than Richard imagined. With a poison powerful enough to kill in seconds, how could the pup not see that he was being set up? Guaranteed if Trouvé did as his false friend suggested, Trouvé would be discovered in the act of trying to cover up the murder.
“I’ll do it,” Trouvé said, “but I’m not certain I’ll have an opportunity for several days.”
“Worry not, my friend. An opportunity shall be provided for you. Be prepared to attend the emperor when he retires for the night on April twelfth,” the Prussian said. “Until then, go about your business.”
“I assure you I know how to behave. I even know how I will convince Bonaparte to drink with me. We will toast Empress Marie Louis and then Napoleon’s clever ploys to delay removing from France before he is ready.”
“That is very good.”
So Bruskingly and Margris were right. Napoleon worked to ensure that he was in charge of his own captivity. There was more afoot here than a plot to murder Bonaparte or Louis XVIII. But of the dangers brewing, Napoleon’s death at the hands of an Englishman at the same time the Bourbons were eliminated was the most likely to end in upheaval and carnage, providing Malveux opportunity to seize the power that he desired.
Richard waited until the two men left, each heading in a different direction, then made his way toward the apartment where, hopefully, Marielle slept. If she were still awake, he saw no reason not to tell her now. Otherwise, he would find a place to take his own rest then share his plans in the morning. She was a fair strategist and might spot a weakness or two that could be repaired before putting the idea roiling in his head into action.
Chapter Eight
Richard rose early, after a miserable night of restless sleep and erotic dreams. Marielle was still abed, so he went in search of Colonel Campbell, a friend and fellow veteran of the 16th regiment, and found him in the breakfast room.
“You’re up early for a bridegroom,” Campbell remarked. “Trouble with the wife?”
“Nothing a hard ride in fresh air won’t cure,” Richard returned.
“Really?” Both the older man’s brows lifted.
“My poor darling was exhausted after all the days of travel. I should have insisted she take a tray in our rooms last night, but she did not wish to appear unappreciative of the hospitality we’ve been offered.”
Campbell shrugged and rose to leave. “Women. Tell my groom to saddle the black gelding for you. He’s a bit temperamental but settles down within a quarter mile or so. I know you’re horseman enough to handle him, and he’ll give you a first-rate ride. Make use of him whenever you like for as long as you are here. I’ll also make a very pretty mare available to your wife.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Nonsense. You two will be doing me a favor by giving my stock some exercise. Now if you will excuse me, I must get word to Castlereagh about a request from Napoleon for asylum in Britain.”
“How could Boney imagine we would willingly shelter him?”
“He respects us, and Britain is not part of the alliance. He might think we would look more kindly on him than the allied nations.”
“It smacks more of diversion than desperation. Napoleon does not act out of panic.”
“True.” Campbell nodded. “Now I must excuse myself.”
Throughout his ride, Richard contemplated the reasons for Napoleon’s odd request and believed he’d reasoned out the emperor’s logic.
Soon he pushed the big black horse to a gallop across the rolling field. Thank heaven Campbell was an excellent judge of horseflesh and willing to lend a first-rate gelding to a fellow military officer.
Richard pulled the black to a halt on a rise overlooking the palace and surrounding countryside. Activity buzzed around the structure. He watched messengers come and go in a near constant stream as he noted the location of various buildings, shrubbery, and features. He sat long enough that the scene blurred, and his vision turned inward, where a woman sat at his side. Her lips curled in laughter. Her skin flushed with happiness and desire. Her dark hair escaped its chignon. Her cinnamon-brown eyes were aglint, her fichu in disarray revealing an alabaster glow on the swells of her breasts. Her long, graceful hands reached out to touch him. So entranced was he by his vision that the voice speaking beside him caused him to jerk in surprise and send the black plunging and shying.
When Richard at last got the creature under control, he saw his vision come to life atop a chestnut mare that, from the look of her, was the equal of the black in every way but coloring.
Here was Marielle, all ruby-lipped and rosy-cheeked. The breeze teased loose her night-dark locks from beneath her hat. Her brown eyes sparkled, and her breasts heaved as if she’d ridden her mare hard, squeezing every ounce of enjoyment from the gallop. Her hands, long and slender, lay folded atop her pommel. He’d seen them fisted in anger, twisted with anxiety, and so aflutter with nerves that she repeatedly smoothed her skirts just to appear calm and confident. What he had never seen was those hands reaching for help or lingering in a caress. Suddenly, he wanted that more fiercely than anything.
What would make her reach for him?
He dismounted, helped her down, and kissed her before her feet could touch the ground.
The kiss was everything he remembered and more, so much more. He nibbled at her lips, and she opened for him. Her hands slid up his shoulders. Her fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, and she pressed herself closer.
He sampled her mouth, drank in her sunshine and roses scent, inhaled the passion ablaze in her kiss. His erection throbbed against the cloth covering the softness of her belly. He wanted her, wanted her beneath him, yielding and begging for him to claim her.
He lifted his head, staring into her eyes. She blinked once, twice. Those lashes and the spicy brown pools they guarded nearly undid him. Questions filled her gaze. “Richard?”
The dusky sound of his name stirred his senses. He continued to search her expression.
“What is it?”
He set her on the ground and stepped away.
“Forgive me. I should not have done that.”
Consternation wrinkled her brow, then her expression smoothed. “No, you should not have. Nonetheless, I liked it very much.”
“You should not.” He thrust a hand through his hair and began to pace. “It cannot happen again.”
“Why not? We are supposed to be man and wife. Who is to object if we indulge ourselves? Bonaparte himself is ready to perform a civil marriage ceremony and make all legitimate in the eyes of the world.”
He stilled. “But we are not married. I would ruin you if anyone found out, and I doubt we’ll be here long enough for Napoleon to do more than wave at us from a distance.”
“Malveux ruined me years ago.”
“Curse him.” Richard’s hands fisted, and he stepped close. “Are you saying he forced you?”
“Nothing so drastic. But he made it appear as if I’d been willing, and the deed would have been done had my father not discovered us.”
“Do you know what that did to Jennings when he learned you had gone onto that balcony with another man?”
“I didn’t go with Malveux. He came upon me as I sought fresh air. As for what Jennings felt, he wrote me that he cared nothing for the rumors and knew I was faithful.”
Richard sighed and frowned. “He was always too generous. He may have sent you those words, but I was with him. After your scandal, he was a madman on the battlefield. He took reckless chances and eventually got himself killed leading a charge he never should have led just to win a wager on your loyalty.”
She paled and covered her mouth with her hands as choking sounds came from her throat.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” He was as angry now as he had been lust-filled earlier.
“I suspected but was never certain. You were so cold to me at Stonegreave, though you never said precisely what I’d done to destroy our friendship.” She turned away. “I’ve been angry with Jennings for dying and leaving me alone. I’ve been angry with your desertion, too. But both are entirely my fault.”