A visit to Madeleine's was out of the question, so, as if for an exercise bout, Amauri went to Lavalier's fencing school. After watching the Irishman in a brilliant exchange with the Gascon master, Amauri invited him out for a drink.
Stone drunk, the young Frenchman arrived home well after dinner. Silent and morose, Culhane returned to Madeleine's. Each, determined to wrangle information out of the other, had merely succeeded in acquiring the requisites for a brain-splitting hangover. As he was put to bed by his wife, Amauri did remember one thing: the object of his visit to Lavalier's. "Culhane'sh goin' opera th'us tomorra night. Just a cozy m'nage à trois to oblige my blushing bride." He tugged her head clumsily down to kiss her before he passed out with a lopsided smile.
Sober, with the traces of a pounding headache still lurking at his temples, Amauri found his rival's presence far less easy to shrug off when he and the Irishman flanked Catherine's chair in a box at the Opera. Before they left for the theater, he had served Culhane cognac in the drawing room while Catherine finished her toilette. He had insisted she wear her prettiest, most seductive dress, and when she entered the room, he felt triumphant. Catherine had chosen the perilously low-cut black Alençon lace. Besides her rings, she wore only a pair of magnificent diamond studs in her ears. But when Raoul saw the starved longing in the Irishman's briefly unguarded eyes, he realized his wife could have worn rags. And Catherine's eyes, which Raoul only saw of late as cold, brilliant sapphires, warmed with deep-fired radiance as she gazed at the Irishman; then their yearning melted to stark unhappiness within a heartbeat. Raoul had meant to remind her of her love for Culhane so forcefully that she would never dare to resist Napoleon. Now, all he knew was that Culhane had her love and no other man could beg, borrow, or steal it.
He glanced up automatically as the orchestra finished the Alceste overture and the corps de ballet swirled into their opening steps. Fetching wenches. Why the hell did he have to be married to a raving beauty who made other women seem insipid?
For Catherine and Sean, the performance was torture, their frustration almost tangible under the indifferent masks they had worn as they had passed through the lobby crowds and climbed the stair to their box. Catherine's black moiré evening cloak formed a dramatic foil to the tall man in black at her side, and Amauri realized he had erred in ordering the black lace. In his blue and scarlet he, himself, appeared to be the stray escort.
Because the gilt chairs of the two men were placed slightly behind hers, Catherine was unable to see Sean without turning her head. But she felt him in the darkness. Warm reality. Sensed his nearness as if his hands caressed her skin. Sensed his heartbeat as if it lay beneath her ear. How tired he looked. How tense and wary, as if he held the world at bay. She could have wept as she remembered the shy efforts he had once made to meet people halfway. His loneliness now was so transparent she ached to touch him, even if only to take his hand as a friend. And how transparent was Amauri's reason for this miserable farce.
Grim thoughts that had plagued her for weeks whirled through her brain. If she warned Sean, he would realize her danger and refuse to leave France. Whether he went or stayed, he would eventually know if she became Napoleon's mistress. He would do something desperate and be killed. And if he stayed in Paris, sooner or later Amauri would destroy him anyway. There seemed to be only one thing to do; she must hurt him to keep him alive.
Tantalized by the subtle scent of Catherine's perfume, Sean remembered glimpsing the roses of her nipples beneath her lace bodice as he had kissed her hand in her drawing room. He had not dared to dwell on the thought before, but now it went straight to his groin. As he tried to divert his mind, Catherine reached out and took her husband's hand. Missing Amauri's look of surprise before the Frenchman smiled back at her, Culhane felt jealousy rattle through him like an angry snake. He tried to fight the fury down. After all, she had married the man. They had done far more than hold hands; then, as he imagined that, he nearly went berserk.
As he watched Catherine's small, affectionate attentions to Amauri through the remainder of the performance, Sean sensed she loved her husband. He was utterly unprepared for her rejection piled on top of the stark hostility he met everywhere. He felt as if he were some nameless dead planet blindly hurtling away from its sun.
Then his jaw set. He had nothing left to lose, but Catherine had a chance. Unless Amauri turned out to be Napoleon's puppet. Catherine would want to know the truth, no matter how much it hurt. But could he hurt her?
As the performers took their final bows under a rain of flowers, Amauri turned with his easy smile and lightly Caressed Catherine's bare arm. "We've been invited backstage to meet the prima donna. You'll enjoy Madame Wetzl, Sean. She's more of a roué than most men."
Sean managed a noncommittal smile and opened the door of their box, not looking at Catherine as she passed through it.
Madame Wetzl held court backstage, her fleshy face dampened with perspiration under heavy makeup. Catherine felt drained. She fixedly stared at the web of ropes and pulleys overhead, the stacked flats, anywhere but at Sean's set face. The diva had unabashedly looked him up and down, then claimed his arm, her body powder smearing his sleeve.
The couples who had come backstage eyed Culhane with wary curiosity, then, disarmed by his polite manner, engaged him in conversation when La Wetzl allowed anyone else a word. Catherine had known she would have to contend with other women in Sean's life, but that knowledge did not make it easier as she felt the electric interest of the attractive Parisiennes who vied for his notice. Even the dancers peeked at him as they mopped uninhibitedly at their pretty, perspiring faces and shoulders, hitching up their muslin costumes like so many tired butterflies. One blonde stared outright, and made no effort to respond to the quips tossed at her by the attentive rakes.
Suddenly, Catherine stared back, eyes wide with astonishment. "Moora!" she breathed. She slipped out of Amauri's clasp. "Pardon me, Raoul; I see someone I know." He watched curiously as she flew across the stage to a golden-haired dancer who met her partway with open arms.
"My lady!" Moora sobbed with confusion and joy. "Oh, my lady!"
"It's plain Kit to you and don't you ever forget it! Oh, you look wonderful!" Catherine hugged her tightly, then looked her up and down. "You're so sophisticated!" She did not exaggerate. The Irish girl's blond hair was sleekly caught back from a porcelain face dominated by impudent blue eyes that made her resemble a lively, lovely doll.
"I'm Marya Alexandrovna now, dahlink," Moora replied grandly with a heavy Russian accent. "I lif on vodka and caviar, slip on satin sheets covered with roses, and swat men away like mosquitoes." She grinned impishly. "The only trouble is, raw fish still heaves me stomach, I've scratches from thorns, and I slide out of bed the livelong night." She shrugged. "And what use has a woman in love for swarms of men?"
"You're in love? How wonderful! Who's the lucky fellow?"
"There are three actually; I just haven't the heart to discard any of them."
Catherine laughed. "Sean warned you'd take to a life of sin like a duck to water!"
Moora's eyes slid over Catherine's shoulder. "That's him, isn't it?"
"In the flesh. He'll be so glad to see you . . . but for heaven's sake, behave, or he'll never let me hear the end of it."
"I knew ye'd win him over!" Moora said triumphantly, lapsing into brogue. "Will ye be lookin' at that boulder on yer finger! I knew he was a goner when he pulled ye out of that pond. Scared silly, he was—"
"Moora, hasn't your mother written you?" cut in Catherine, her smile slipping.
"We've been on tour. The troupe just opened in Paris a week ago. With the war and all, I imagine I've letters waitin' in six cities."
Moora stole another look at the Wetzl crowd. "For a minute I was worried when I saw you with General Amauri. There's a skirt chaser! He's been after every girl in the corps!"
"He's my husband, Moora," Catherine said quietly, "not Sean."
Moora went white. "Oh, Lord, what
can I say?"
Catherine smiled faintly. "Nothing. Raoul's infidelity is no surprise."
Tears came to the girl's eyes. "But why? What's Culhane doin' here if he's not with you?" Suddenly, her eyes fell to Catherine's gently protruding belly and she fell awkwardly silent.
"We cannot talk here," Catherine said. "Can we meet tomorrow?"
"We can go to my lodgings after the matinee."
"I'll be there. Now, come and see Sean." Catherine's fingers suddenly dug into her hand. "He ought to know something in his life has been a success!"
CHAPTER 28
A Distant Music
Sean finished his last drawing. Inspecting each diagram of French armaments, he scribbled notes on them. He rolled the drawings, then inserted them into the barrels of dueling pistols.
He replaced the pistols in their case, swept his cloak over his shoulder, and pulled a hat low across his face. After dousing the lamp, he checked the windows overlooking the street. The man was there; no doubt, his confederate was in the rear courtyard as usual. They were Fouché's people, who had scared off the hotheads who skulked around.
Quickly, Culhane tied his boots around his neck. Like a ghost, he crept out of an alley window with the dueling case in a saddlebag over his shoulder. He hauled himself up to the roof via the knotted rope looped around the chimney; it had proved useful in evading Javet's friends. Now over the rooftops to a side street, then to Gil's where he stabled Mephisto. It would be a long ride to the Sylvie in Calais. She would deliver the drawings—ironically, to England.
A week later, after Sean's return to Paris, Napoleon reviewed his latest artillery designs. His gray eyes did not reflect his praise of them, however; and he was indifferent when Sean again declined his offer of a colonel's rank in the army. "Undoubtedly a wise decision," Napoleon observed coolly. "Good duelists make poor soldiers."
Sean waited, tension pricking his muscles.
Napoleon smiled faintly. "If I blamed you for these duels, whatever the cause, Monsieur Culhane, you'd be in prison; however, the loss of your skills would inconvenience me. Lieutenant Tourney, the current challenger, will publicly apologize to you at Maison Thais this evening; I hope you'll oblige him by being there to accept it graciously." He idly brushed his jaw with his pen. "In future, the instigating party will be arrested. I hope you understand my position?"
Sean left the office with a feeling of unease, not because of the admonition about dueling; but because Napoleon had scrutinized him as carefully as a gambler who suspected a cheat. Apparently Bonaparte had nothing incriminating or he would not have sent him to watch yet another secret test. But why the sudden scrutiny?
Only moments later, with a sickening sense of dread, he thought he knew the answer. From a salon down the hall, he heard music, the Mozart piece he had heard Catherine play at Shelan. She was playing it now; no one else had her special touch. He followed the sound, only to be stopped at the salon door by a guard. "Sorry, sir. These are private rooms."
"Is that Madame Amauri playing?"
"Yes, sir, I believe so." The guard's stern demeanor broke. "Pretty, isn't it?"
"Yes, very."
As Sean turned tó leave, the door opened. Josephine stood there in champagne muslin. "Ah, I thought I recognized your voice, Monsieur Culhane," she murmured. "I wasn't certain, over the music. Won't you come in? Your sister-in-law is entertaining us with her wonderful virtuosity. I'm certain she will be upset if you don't stop to speak to her," she added as she perceived Sean's hesitancy.
"You're most gracious, madame." As he followed her into the room, he noticed the guard had resumed his usual stiff expression.
The lovely flow of music ended in a jarring note as Catherine looked up. Dismay crossed her features, then .blended quickly with the bright, gilding sunlight that streamed from the windows behind the piano as she rose to greet the Irishman.
For a moment, her gown of butter-tinted lace with a tiny ruffle edging its low neck and cap sleeves seemed part of the sunlight. A cream silk ruff with a single matching rosebud encircled her slender throat. "You startled me," she said lightly, as she silently cursed Josephine's malicious caprice. "But what a delightful surprise. Will you join us for cocoa? If you don't stay, we'll begin to gossip again. We know everyone's sins as well as our own." She extended her hand coolly, but as Sean brushed his lips against it, his mask as carefully placed as her own, she nearly lost her hard-won composure. The desire to touch his hair was so intense, she felt weak. How handsome he looked in his gray suit, how tall and fine. She drank him in with her eyes as they exchanged trivial remarks and Josephine introduced him to the other ladies, who quivered like roosting pigeons with a wolf in their midst until he lazily charmed them into a flurry of fascinated excitement.
How easy he finds it to make women bend to him, Catherine thought with a twinge of jealousy. As she watched him lounge on a flimsy chair and sip cocoa, which he detested, she felt a wave of tenderness for him and a less friendly wave of sheer green possessiveness.
Josephine shot her a sly glance. Catherine played idly with a wisp of her hair and gave the woman look for look. But when Sean took his leave half an hour later, she wilted as if the brightness of the morning had gone with him, and Josephine could not resist a dig. "Perhaps we should- invite Monsieur Culhane more often. He seems to make you come alive."
"He has that effect on every woman he meets," retorted Catherine sweetly. "You may wish to remove your rouge; you have quite a glow without it today."
In a black mood, Sean left the rocketry tests at the Polytechnique. The uneasiness he had felt during his interview with Napoleon had been radically intensified by the sight of Catherine so intimately connected with Josephine. Napoleon must see her regularly. How could any man help but want her when she seemed to grow lovelier with each passing day? Pregnancy made her skin bloom and her eyes glow with a hushed waiting that filled him with awe. The stark dismay on her face at his visit troubled him, but her accompanying flicker of guilt disturbed him even more: that and the tiny white rosebud at her neck. Visions of white roses with overpowering scents filled his mind, and the memory of Madame Amauri's remark that Catherine would not permit white roses in her bedroom.
Lieutenant Tourney's apology was brief and Culhane accepted it briefly, prolonging the young man's humiliation ho longer than necessary. Napoleon had sent several officers to accompany the lieutenant, which increased his embarrassment. From now on, few military men would be eager to challenge the Irishman at the cost of their commissions—and their pride—at the very least. Unfortunately, Napoleon's tactic also agitated resentment.
After that, Culhane was seen with several dancers and an actress or two, and Josephine shook her head. "Really, it's become chic to appear with your brother-in-law. At least for women of a certain reputation," she added archly as she picked up her teacup.
"Most celebrated women have a certain reputation, if one believes gossip," Catherine returned calmly, determined not to let Josephine detect her hurt, although she herself had asked Moora to take Sean under her wing.
"Yes, I daresay even you've attracted a few rumors."
"I wouldn't know. So far, no one's been rude enough to repeat them to my face." Catherine tasted her own tea. They were alone in the sunny little salon that adjoined Josephine's bedroom, where they had been taking turns reading Villon to each other.
"Your brother-in-law hasn't been so lucky," the Creole said as she poured more tea. "All sorts of people have been rude to him. After all, he's fought two duels in less than two months and been challenged to a third. Bonaparte is quite irritated."
Catherine went white. "He's been dueling?"
"You must be the only person in Paris who hasn't heard!
The first one was over the black mistress of one of your husband's cadre officers. The two fought only hours after your wedding."
Raoul stared coldly at his wife as she glared at him, taut with fury. She had accosted him the moment he had returned from Longchamps. Now th
ey were closeted alone and her immediate accusation annoyed him. "I'm not responsible for your pet ruffian's peccadilloes."
"Javet was one of your cadre officers," she said tightly. "Why didn't you intervene?"
"Culhane challenged. What did you expect me to do?" His eyes narrowed slyly. "If you heard about that fight, you must have heard about Irenée, too."
"Irenée?"
"Javet's African mistress and don't pretend you don't know. That's what eats at you, isn't it? Well, now he's taken up with an Indo-Chinese whore and her procuress. I've had the Indo-Chinese myself. Next to her, you're as exciting as a wet rag!"
"Don't decry my sodden appeal too much," she gritted. "It's all that links you to your next promotion."
Warily, he eyed her. "You wouldn't do anything stupid?"
"Of course not," she retorted coolly. "Whatever Sean does, I have my child to consider."
Raoul felt a sweep of hope. Perhaps the Irishman could be dislodged from her heart after all. He poured two glasses of sherry, then held one out to her.
"No, thank you."
"Take it." He pressed the glass into her fingers. "It's good for you. Doctor's orders, remember?" He leaned against the mantel. "It's foolish for us to fight over Culhane. There are things you don't know about him."
"Really?" She ignored the wine.
"Do you know what happened to him in that prison?"
"He was tortured."
"Did you ever wonder why he wasn't tortured to death?"
"If you had seen him after they'd thrown him naked into the snow to die, you'd know how stupid that question is to me."
"Your precious lover became the sodomite of the prison guards to save his neck, only for once he underestimated his appeal. The colonel tired of him."
"Indeed?"
Raoul should have been warned by her lack of surprise, but he attributed it to her control. "Apparently, Culhane cannot forget his prison experience. He still has women, of course, but one of his lovers is a young man, Gil Lachaise."
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