by Lisa Chaplin
“I see . . . I think,” she said with the frankness that was her greatest charm. “So my task is to get the date for you.”
The Incomparable nodded. “Also, if Madame Bonaparte chooses to adopt you . . . let her.”
Political waters already churning turned murky, staining the air around her so Georgy couldn’t see. Suddenly she felt not nineteen, but nine. “Why?”
That, it appeared, was where confidence ended. To her credit, The Incomparable didn’t murmur platitudes, but told her it was best if she didn’t know; and that was the end of the matter. She gave her further information on many other matters political, but not regarding Josephine. The Incomparable had left her at that, telling her to prepare herself to meet the first consul.
So here she was in the Tuileries, a downy duckling flying into a thunderstorm. What if Napoleon—
“Lady Georgiana, I know we haven’t yet been introduced . . .”
She gritted her teeth, thinking of Camelford’s visit, his demands that she find out the same information the British government wanted: the date of Napoleon’s supposed journey to Boulogne-sur-Mer. “I swear, if one more person says that to me this week . . .” She turned her head, ready to cold-shoulder whoever now wanted something from her.
And froze, a ship at half mast. Knowing who this man was before he said it. He was younger, more handsome than her dear friend Francis, but with the undeniable Russell face. Dressed in all the male rigmarole expected at the Tuileries, yet managing to look understated and elegant. She sank into an automatic curtsy. “Your Grace, what a surprise to see you in Paris.”
“Please call me John.” The sixth Duke of Bedford smiled and bowed, then took her outstretched hand in his. “Your mother came to me at the worst time, deep in grief for Francis. But it seemed my brother knew he was ill. A letter came after his death, asking me to . . . look out for you. So here I am, Lady Georgiana, asking your forgiveness for my former rudeness in not meeting you when your mother asked it. I also extend my friendship, if you wish it.”
His smile was warm, but Georgy couldn’t smile back. She’d never been so aware of her buckteeth, or so humiliated that her dress was close to indecent. With a look, she forgot he was the new Duke of Bedford. She cared what John thought of her. One look at him, and she’d tumbled into love.
The trumpets sounded, and the chamber quieted. The doors flung open, and the man she’d met only in passing came up the steps.
Could the timing be worse? And yet—no; for now she had someone else to fight for, to protect with her mission. Lizzy was on the Channel Coast, and John was here. With a half smile of apology she whispered, “Of course . . . John. But now—I beg your pardon, I have something I must do.”
“I know,” was the duke’s surprising answer. A brief kiss on the back of her hand. “Your mother’s approaching, and this is not the time for explanations. I merely wanted to tell you there’s no need to look so frightened. You’re not alone, Georgiana.”
He turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“The First Consul,” the guard shouted.
Georgy stared after John’s retreating back, everything making sense. What other class of people could gather information from France’s new royal family, at the royal palace? Who else would be accepted in a place where Napoleon vetted every servant?
“Georgy, what is Bedford doing here, approaching you without an introduction?” Mama hissed the moment she reached her, her fine eyes alight with ambition.
Mama’s hopes for her didn’t matter. John was here for her, and it gave her strength. She put a finger to her lips and turned back as the leader of the French people came up the stairs.
Why did Napoleon always appear taller than he was? The melancholy face was pale—too pale for a soldier—yet it was still handsome and strong, with gray eyes, chestnut hair, a wide, intelligent brow, and a half smile, showing everything and giving away nothing. He had no affectations of dress as many men of his status did. No medals adorned his breast, though as Europe’s greatest soldier since Charlemagne, he had many; his cravat was the finest quality muslin, but tied in a style of simple elegance beneath a cutaway blue coat and black knee breeches. His hat, of which he seemed fond enough to bring in one hand, was a plain black bicorn with a small tricolor pinned to it. He was slim, almost thin, but didn’t pad his stockings as so many did, allowing his broad chest and shoulders to proclaim him a man of standing.
He didn’t look like any soldier she’d ever met—he’d fit easily into the intellectual crowd. Yet something about him drew the gaze of every lady in the room. Were their pulses pounding, like hers? But theirs would be from excitement. Hers was from sheer terror that a nineteen-year-old girl had to beckon to herself the greatest personage on the Continent—a famous, married man.
You’re not alone, Georgiana.
Napoleon has a lovely smile. She turned a copy of it onto him as he moved down the room toward her, a half smile like his, giving away nothing. She let her dark-gold hair, big eyes, and fine figure speak for themselves.
He never passes a pretty blonde, The Incomparable had said—was it from experience? Like some kind of whirling dervish Napoleon was facing her, taking her breath away as he bowed over her hand, kissing the skin of her knuckles. “Lady Georgiana, is it not?” he asked in French only slightly blurred with the Italian, giving it a warm richness.
Ignoring her mother’s silent frustration—she’d have to think up a marvelous excuse to Mama for garnering the first consul’s attention when the Duchess of Gordon could not—she curtsied deeply. “It is an honor, my lord Consul, that you know me. Yes, I am Georgiana Gordon.” She deliberately left out her title. Though it was said Napoleon liked to mingle with members of the haut ton, he didn’t like being ranked beneath anyone, particularly a woman. So though she introduced him to Mama, she merely said, “My mother, my lord.” Born a mere baronet’s daughter, Mama liked advertising her elevated rank of duchess a little too much. Neither did she mention that her friends called her Georgy: a familiarity that might give her away to a man as paranoid and fast thinking as Napoleon. Besides, it was said the famous warrior despised anything he could win without a fight.
Taking her other hand in his, he lifted her back up. Peeping at him, she saw the half smile, those gray eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are a friend of my wife’s son, non?”
She smiled and nodded. “The viscomte is a charming young man.”
The smile on his face grew no larger, but she had the oddest feeling it did. “Then it behooves us to know each other, oui? Come dine with us, including your charming mother. Then we shall talk, Georgiana Gordon.”
Though he’d said nothing untoward, she trembled inside. Whether it was nerves or a physical reaction to a man who was more a force of nature than human, Georgy didn’t know. But after a swift look around—John was there, smiling at her—she allowed the first consul to sweep her along the line of admirers to the double-leaved doors that led to the dining hall.
As they moved, she glanced at Napoleon’s wife. Though Josephine was on the arm of a handsome young soldier, her gaze touched Georgy in passing. The pity she saw in the older woman’s eyes startled her. A tiny shake of the beautifully coifed head—was it sadness or warning?—and then it was gone.
If Madame Bonaparte chooses to adopt you, let her. Why the command disturbed her so, she couldn’t say—but she had the feeling she had, indeed, just been adopted in silence.
Napoleon seated her to his right, beside the great English politician and orator Charles James Fox—a singular honor. Her mother he placed two seats down from his wife, beside the Duke of Bedford. Again John smiled at her before turning his full attention to his dinner partners.
Though she bent all her mystery and charm to winning Napoleon’s admiration, she felt an invisible presence hovering behind her, as if she trod violent waters in this thin gown.
“THOUGH I AM AS much of a proponent of human freedoms as you, only think of the upheaval it would cause in estab
lished society, my lord!”
Sitting at the head of a former table of kings, his wife on one side, a duke’s daughter on the other, and twenty-eight more notables of France and England filling each side, Bonaparte frowned at Charles Fox. “In England, yes, it would; in France, interracial marriages have caused little concern. Upheaval is good when existing systems only work in favor of certain levels of society, leaving the greater population in need. We must do away with all differences between the inhabitants of the two worlds—of blending the black and white and having universal peace!”
Polite calls of hear, hear and scattered applause filled the room, causing Bonaparte’s mouth to tip up slightly. A longtime politician, Fox knew when to be silent, but he itched to speak. Is this what you practice in Haiti, my lord? Is this why the people rebel, and you’ve sent so many troops there? To reinstate this universal peace you speak of and to assure them of their rights? Or will you, as it’s been whispered, reinstitute slavery there to keep peace here?
This was his third dinner at Bonaparte’s generous table. Fox knew that every word of this conversation would be recounted in letters home the next day. Normally soft-spoken, Boney was almost yelling. Most at table had abandoned the pretense of polite chat and were listening avidly. Boney liked an audience, as Fox well knew by now. But what was the little bounder leading to?
“In the East Indies a man may have several wives. It should be so in the West Indies, on account of the variety of persons there. Many women inhabit the isles, and a man needs sons.”
After a swift glance at Bonaparte’s beautiful, charming Creole wife, barren since her fall from a balcony two years ago, all urge to join in on this witty repartee died. The flush touching her cheeks, the distress hiding inside her calm, smiling eyes made Fox wonder if this topic of conversation was introduced solely to upset her.
A whisper came from down the table, where two or three of his generals sat. “Le petit caporal se retire avec ce discours. Le petit caporal a peur.”
The little corporal retreats with this speech. The little corporal is afraid.
Damn it, Fox had known those bloody troublemaking generals would push Boney to something from the moment he’d seen them here tonight. They needed the prize money war brought, and none of them appreciated cooling their heels in Paris.
Desperate to put it off, Fox attacked his plate with gusto. “Ah, nobody creates a repast like the French! This chicken is divine, my lord. My cook would never think to add crayfish and eggs to chicken as you have with this Chicken Marengo. My compliments to your chef.”
It was useless. Boney’s face was suffused with heat and his eyes flashed, and Fox knew he was in for heavy weather. The excellent meal curdled in his stomach.
“So tell me, Monsieur Fox, why is it that your government again threatens my life?”
After a collective gasp, the table fell silent. Every ear bent, waiting for his answer.
Fox fought the urge to swear. Dash it, he was no diplomat! What was he supposed to say in front of thirty witnesses? Carefully, he put down his knife and fork. “My dear Lord Bonaparte, there is not the least ground for this imputation—”
“Ah, bah!” A thudded fist on the table sent glasses and cutlery rattling. “All know the two who plot and plan my murder! Your spymaster William Windham’s talents are mediocre at best—he is an unprincipled, unfeeling man with no talents, his position gained through birth and inheritance. The Revolution terrifies him because in an equal world, he would have nothing!”
Bluster and truth in the words, confusing him. “Mr. Windham is above reproach—” But the diplomatic lie stuck in his throat. When the Whigs gained government again—
“It is easy for you who only know public debate. But I detest him, along with that Pitt, who have together attempted my life—both in the rue Saint-Nicaise plot and since then.”
Fox only stared, waiting for the rest. Boney watched him narrowly. He had an agenda—or was it the generals who’d pushed him into this accusation?—and there was no point saying more until he knew what was really going on here.
“My lord, if you would but speak with Ambassador Lord Cornwallis . . .”
Bonaparte made a noise of disgust. “A man who has worked against the liberties of others on three continents, for more than thirty years! What do I want with a man like him?”
With a feeling of impending doom, Fox sat silent. If that was how Boney felt about Cornwallis, what was the man’s use here in Paris?
“I would have forgiven open enemies in the Cabinet or in the field.” Bonaparte slammed his booted feet on the floor. “Attempts to destroy me through the use of agents, or setting afoot the Infernal Machine on the rue Saint-Nicaise, killing innocent children, is intolerable!”
Fox shuddered. The “Infernal Machine” two years ago had killed and injured many, including seven children. It had sparked international outrage and led Boney on a continuing manhunt for the perpetrators. Two Jacobins had been beheaded; another had apparently fled to America—but the British-made shrapnel and gunpowder would always lead to questions of British involvement. Damned clever of the conspirators to think of that.
Pushing back his chair, Fox walked over to Bonaparte, speaking earnestly. “My lord, I assure you both Mr. Pitt and Mr. Windham—any Englishman—shrinks with horror from the idea of secret assassination, especially one of this disgusting caliber. The deaths of children . . .”
The derisive snorts down at the end of the table were a masterpiece of disbelief.
“You do not know Pitt, it seems,” Boney said coldly, growing haughtier by the moment.
“Yes, I do know him,” Fox protested, “and well enough to believe him incapable of such an action. I would risk my head in that belief.”
Boney’s look was compounded of disbelief and odd pity. So none at the table could hear apart from Gordon’s daughter, he murmured, “Know thine enemy, Monsieur Fox—is that not an old English saying? You will never gain the ascendancy in Britain until you realize what your enemies are capable of. Or what I am capable of, should they continue to seek my life.” His eyes glittering with challenge, he looked down the table. So did Fox. The three generals tried to look humble and appreciative. To Fox’s jaundiced eye, they looked triumphant.
“My lord, I do not pretend to understand these matters.” The Duke of Gordon’s pretty daughter said humbly, looking at her plate. “It is frightening to think anyone seeks your life after everything you’ve done for France, and your hard work to bring peace to both our nations. I know I am an ignorant girl, but to my mind, you are a hero beyond this one nation, and anyone who wishes to force war upon us for their own profit must face God on the Judgment Day.”
That speech was a bloody masterpiece; but how could a girl know what Boney’s generals were about? Fox watched the generals subside to low mutters. Madame Bonaparte clapped her hands once and cried, “Well said, Lady Georgiana! She is so right, my love!”
Even the chit’s hard-to-please mother looked proud. The new-arrived Duke of Bedford smiled and nodded . . . and Fox began to wonder what the chit was doing in Paris.
With an abrupt movement Bonaparte waved to the servants, who cleared the table with swift precision and brought out dessert. With a smile, the first consul turned his full attention to Gordon’s daughter for the rest of the meal. She made him laugh several times. When the time came for the dancing, he led the girl onto the dance floor, leading her in a boulanger.
After Fox led the lady on his other side into the ballroom, he made his excuses and left the Tuileries, heading to his temporary accommodations. Once there he immediately sat at his writing desk. Whig or Tory be damned. He was an Englishman!
The letter he sent Prime Minister Addington was long, filled with detail. The one he sent his friend Lady Bessborough was salacious, dripping with gossip over the girl who’d gained Boney’s capricious interest. His wife got a note of loving reassurance that he’d return soon.
His note to Pitt was short and to the point.
My dear Pitt,
Bonaparte publicly denounced you and Windham as taking part in the rue Saint-Nicaise plot. I protested your innocence, but with his generals deriding me, it was an impossible task. Lady Georgiana Gordon is, I assume, one of yours? She diffused the situation with a few well-chosen words.
Boney will not speak to Cornwallis, who is too blunt a soldier for the task of reassurance. He must be recalled. We need a true diplomat at the embassy in Paris, and quickly.
CHAPTER 22
English Channel, French Waters
September 10, 1802
SEE HOW I DO it, miss? Nice and steady as she goes, and hammer it to the right thinness.”
In the murky half darkness of the hold, they’d set up a makeshift stone forge. Duncan watched the ship’s engineer-blacksmith teaching Lisbeth the basics of the smithy. She must know these things if she hoped to prove to Fulton she’d make an acceptable assistant.
She was alternating these lessons with others in the ship’s galley, learning how to cook bread, scones, and stews and make passable tea. If she’d never become a professional cook, she was at least hardworking and adept. She’d picked up the basics of the smithy and shipbuilding with ease. Fulton would believe she’d haunted her mythical father’s yard as a child.
Gaining further knowledge of housecleaning would have to come in time, apart from things she could do one-handed within an hour. Duncan insisted that she rest and recover in the afternoons. He fed her when she grew tired, helped her dress and undress each day, had even learned to brush and braid her hair. Sleeping beside her in the next hammock, waking with her every day, helping her bathe and dress, seeing her at her most fragile had turned his resentment into a thing of the past. If the intimacy disturbed his hard-won sexual tranquility, her injuries, her constant blush, and her refusal to look at him told him her dismay would be far harder to overcome. The last thing he needed now was for her to shrink from male interest. She had to be ready for Fulton.