“Lord of the Prophets, how I have missed you,” Vernet whispered, one hand looping her ringlets through his fingers. “I forgot how much I missed this. And this.”
Victoire kissed the point of his collarbone and smiled. “I dreamed about you ... and this.” Her fingers began to trace enlarging arcs on his chest, the center of the circles growing lower. He began to respond, despite the hours of lovemaking already past.
“Dreams are not good enough, not nearly good enough,” he said, his free hand roving down her back as if reassuring himself that she was really there. “I never want to be away from you so long again.”
“Not ever,” she agreed, wishing that she weren’t quite so luxuriously tired. But Vernet was finding new energy and she would never deny him, not after so very long.
“I worried about you every hour.” He kissed her languorously, as if released at last from his concern. “Those weeks you were gone ... When no word came, I was frantic.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” said Victoire, doing her best not to squirm as his hand searched along her leg. “Without couriers, there was no safe means to—”
“I know.” He smoothed the damp tendrils back from her brow. “I know.” Then for a long time there was no need to talk.
“I worried about you, too,” Victoire said dreamily a while later. “With you so far away making sure the supply lines stayed open, I had no means to discover what might be—” She stopped, determined not to let the anxiety that still hung over them to ruin this night together.
“It wasn’t as bad as all that.” He smoothed the side of her arm. “Jaffa was boring, most of the time. The rest of the time, there was too much happening. I didn’t have to think about it, not the way you did.”
“But you could have been killed,” she said, and felt a flash of anger that he could be so careless of someone she loved.
“So might you, while you were gone.” He looked at her, staring into the depths of her eyes. “I would never have forgiven you, if you’d been killed.”
“Nor I you,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“No,” she concurred, and yet again let her body say the rest.
* * *
An hour before dawn, as they sponged one another with the limited amount of bathing water permitted, Victoire at last revealed everything she had learned to Vernet.
“But what you’re saying is monstrous,” he insisted. “When I read your letters, I couldn’t believe what you wrote to me.”
“I didn’t want to believe,” she reminded him. “You had to be warned, no matter how great the risk in writing. But what else could I do? Someone in Paris is attempting Napoleon’s fall; he has an accomplice here, someone high in the chain of command. Prom all I have been able to discover, that man must be Berthier. Who else is in a position to do so much damage?”
Vernet paused before emptying a small amount of water over her shoulders. “You’re very convincing, but ... Why would he support Paris when he has made such a place for himself with Napoleon?”
“Perhaps because he has been promised Napoleon’s place,” said Victoire, giving the reason that seemed most sensible to her. “A man in his position might grow envious; he could hanker for command.”
“But Berthier—” Vernet reached for her towel and held it out to her. “Berthier isn’t that sort of fellow. Look at him. If he hadn’t a commander, he’d come all to pieces.”
As she wrapped the thick cotton around her, she cocked her head. “You do not think he is well-suited to lead? That may be, but it would not stop his ambition.” She stared at him as he finished his own ablutions. “It’s his ambitions that trouble me, not his abilities.”
“I pray you’re wrong,” he said, taking the last of the water in the ewer and pouring it over his head. “If you’re not ...”
“It isn’t only my assumption because I ... I dislike him. Berthier is sending dispatches in secret. I’ve followed him. I have seen his secretary hand them to marines. A corvette has landed unofficially and carried his reports for him.” She watched him bundle himself in his towel. “I’ve kept a record of the occasions.”
He nodded. “And I have your letters. You say he knows about it?”
“Yes. I told him. It was necessary. I wrote to you about what happened. I haven’t approached him since. I thought it would be wisest—I told you.” She unfastened her hair and let it fall around her shoulders.
“That you did,” he said, his mouth grim. “If I had been here, I would not have allowed you to approach Berthier.”
“If you had been here it wouldn’t have been necessary.” She sat down on her cot. “There is a conspiracy, Vernet. And it reaches very high.”
He sat down opposite her. “You’ve convinced me of that.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “Wait for Napoleon to come back, I suppose. After that ...”
He nodded.
“How was it?” she asked, eager to talk of something else.
“It was hard going. I spent the first weeks establishing guardposts along the supply route. Twice we were attacked by large numbers of mounted men. Fortunately they could not stand up to disciplined musket fire. Then we arrived at Acre. The siege was terrible. The walls were thick, and the first attack cost us heavily.”
“Yes,” Victoire agreed. “We received many casualties from that attack.”
“Then we settled into a formal siege. It was my job to make sure no one infiltrated the camp. It wasn’t meant to be a long siege, but the English intervened. They captured the siege train, all the big cannons. We held on longer than I thought we would. Then the Ottomans finally sent an army after us. We left as an army, at our own pace. It all cost us many lives. Men I left on picket disappeared and I fear they did not die easily.”
Victoire saw that Vernet was almost shaking as he recounted what happened. Gently she took his hand and stroked the top of it with her fingertips. After a few seconds he seemed to calm down.
“Well, as we marched away they attacked, but the divisions formed large squares and drove them off. The ground was covered by their dead. We marched on, dogged by those dreaded desert horsemen. Most didn’t even have muskets. They followed us with a fleet. Less than a day’s march from here they landed. Then Murat gathered the cavalry and drove them off. He had been in a funk since Napoleon recalled him to the army. No one knew why. It was something to watch. He seemed happier after the battle, more willing to talk to the rest of us. The others moved slowly back to Acre. We hurt them badly, but couldn’t take the city. The rest of the army was only a few hours’ march behind me. I’m glad to be out of it.”
“And I am thankful you’re here, and safe.” She did her best to smile again.
“If we are safe,” he reminded her.
“If we are,” she echoed.
* * *
Napoleon rode through the camp to cheers; they were not as joyous as when the, French had first landed in Egypt, but everyone pretended not to notice until Napoleon was once again in his command tent.
“How has discipline become so lax?” he demanded of Berthier once he had dismissed everyone but his senior staff. He sat at the trestle table with Roustam-Raza at guard behind him. “I expected better from you, Louis.”
“It has been very difficult here,” said Berthier, coloring to the roots of his frizzy hair. “Our morale is not good, and with the number of sick and wounded, many of the soldiers here have lost their ... devotion.”
“It should not have happened,” said Napoleon, watching the rest of his officers nod. “How did it come about?”
“I didn’t want it to,” said Berthier. “I have been trying to reverse the decline, but so far without results.” His face clouded as he sought some means to escape from the condemnation of his hero. “Supplies have be
en short, and the Egyptians have been charging terribly high prices for their goods. Much of the treasure we took was on the L‘Orient. Most of the troops here feel their inactivity and it chafes on them. Soldiers sour if they do not have battles to test their valor. And from that idleness grow rumors and discontent. They feel isolated, too far from France, and they are losing their purpose. If there weren’t so much suspicion and deception among those remaining here, I would have been better able to uphold your standards, General.”
Napoleon scowled. “You speak of rumors. I’ve been hearing rumors. Some of them do not redound to your credit.” He tapped his fingers on the trestle table where he sat. “Very well. You might as well tell me the worst now. I don’t want this coming back to haunt me.”
It was Berthier’s intention to lead gradually to his accusation, but with this clear opportunity, he spoke directly. “The worst has been Madame Vernet. Not content with throwing dust in our eyes with the intention of protecting her husband from the consequences of his acts, she has implicated me in his treason, so that it would appear that he was the innocent one and I the one to betray you.” He realized that all the officers were staring.
Roustam-Raza took a single step forward. “I know Madame Vernet, and what you say of her is not like the woman I know.”
“She is very clever,” said Berthier, his back stiff. ‘If Murat were here, he would tell you. He was her supporter once, but he is not so willing to take her part now.”
“Murat knows her as well as I do, and he will say nothing to her discredit,” said Roustam-Raza, and there was such candor in his manner that none of the men sniggered or winked. “This woman would not act against you,” he said to Napoleon.
“Indeed she would,” Berthier insisted. “She has done nothing but conspire against our cause since the marine guard was killed and her treachery was thwarted.”
“She sounds formidable,” said Napoleon drily. “We’d better have this paragon in—and her husband with her—before we continue. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, it won’t be obtained without questioning her.” He motioned to Roustam-Raza. “You know her. Fetch them.”
Roustam-Raza bowed. “At once.”
Napoleon signalled to Lavallette. “I’ll want Larrey here later for a report on the wounded. Desaix, find out how our horses are holding up. The farriers will tell you. I give you all half an hour to bring me a first report. And while they are gone, you, Berthier, may explain how it comes that we have been robbed of so many medical supplies.”
* * *
Victoire stared at the figure in the door of the hospital tent, not quite willing to trust her eyes. She put a fresh bandage on the young dragoon’s smashed hand, then rose, smoothing the front of her dress as she did. “Is that you, Roustam-Raza?”
“May Allah favor the cause of your husband and give you many sons,” he said formally, bowing to her deeply.
She curtsied. “And may you bring honor to your house and to your master,” she said, her Egyptian marginally improved in the last few months.
He studied her face. “It is good to see you once again, madame. I would have liked it if this were a happier errand. I have been ordered to bring you to Napoleon.”
Color rose in her face. At last! she thought, grateful that she could finally be relieved of the burden of the scepter. “I’ll inform Larrey at once,” she said, and started toward the far end of the tent.
“Lavallette will visit him shortly,” said Roustam-Raza. “For a preliminary report.”
“I wish it could be better. There has been an increase of illness in the camp.” She did not mention her own spasms of flux that afflicted her from time to time, doubtless the result of her swim in the Nile.
“That is unfortunate. And so is the cause for this summons: it appears that Berthier and you have trouble between you,” said Roustam-Raza as he followed her.
“That would be a fair estimate,” she answered as she pulled back the door to Larrey’s quarters. “Monsieur Larrey,” she called, “I must leave for a time. Napoleon has summoned me.”
From behind a screen Larrey answered, “Return when you are finished. We’re shorthanded.”
“Very well,” she said, and gave her attention to Roustam-Raza. “I will need to stop at my tent before I present myself.”
“I’ll have to remain at your side,” said Roustam-Raza. They moved away from the hospital tent, taking the most direct route to her quarters. “There are many questions you must answer for Napoleon.”
“About Berthier, no doubt,” said Victoire. “That I will, as soon as I have given the scepter to Napoleon to demonstrate my good faith.”
“Ah,” said Roustam-Raza with a slow nod. “You have it still. I guessed as much.”
“Yes,” said Victoire. “I wanted to be certain it didn’t ... fall into other hands again. I’ve had my fill of searching for the thing.”
Roustam-Raza shook his head. “May you never find yourself in such a coil as you did at the Pasha’s palace again. I’ve thought of that escapade many times, and the memory is shocking.”
“I couldn’t leave the scepter in the Pasha’s hands.” As they reached her tent, she regarded Roustam-Raza gravely. “Yet, if I had not been in the Pasha’s palace, I would not have seen that dispatch and we would know nothing of the plot being hatched in Paris. In that sense, I must be grateful for the chance that brought me to the palace.”
“Yes,” said Roustam-Raza. “But we are no nearer to finding out who is at the heart of the conspiracy, and that, I fear, will not look well for you.”
“And that may not be completely an accident,” said Victoire as she ducked into the tent and pulled the leather case from under Vernet’s cot. Very carefully she opened it and drew out the canvas-wrapped scepter. She paused long enough to drag a comb through the loose curls by her face, then she signalled Roustam-Raza, who waited in the door. “All right. I’m ready.”
* * *
Vernet was waiting at Napoleon’s tent, his uniform still dusty from his short ride. He glanced at Victoire, then at Roustam-Raza. “Do you know why we’ve been called?”
“To answer questions, or so Roustam-Raza has told me,” she said, her attitude unflustered. “It provides us an excellent opportunity to—”
Vernet nodded toward the canvas wrappings. “Yes. Thank goodness.”
Roustam-Raza escorted them into the tent where Napoleon and his officers were waiting; most of them regarded the new arrivals with curiosity, but Berthier’s reaction was blunt and angry.
“I expect an apology from these two,” he said to Napoleon. “If it weren’t for their meddling, I would have been able to execute my duties more regularly.”
Victoire curtsied to Napoleon, pointedly ignoring Berthier. “Before we do that, General, I have something that belongs to you; something that I want to return to you with witnesses present so that there can be no questions concerning my actions.” She glanced at her husband and went on, “I and two of your men have been at pains to recover this and keep it safe.” With that she held out the canvas-wrapped bundle.
Napoleon signalled to Roustam-Raza to take it. “What is it, Madame Vernet?”
“The ancient scepter,” she said blandly, enjoying the general excitement that ran in whispers through the tent. “The one that was stolen when the marine guard was so hideously murdered.”
“Is it?” Napoleon motioned to Roustam-Raza to open the wrappings.
“Roustam-Raza was with me when I recovered it. He can vouch for my actions.” She stood very still as Roustam-Raza let the canvas drop before he handed over the golden flail.
Napoleon took the scepter carefully, weighing it in his hand. “Murat told me about the English spy.”
“Who claimed he had been paid by the French,” Victoire reminded him at once. “And Roustam-Raza can tell you how it was taken from us after Murat departed. For that
matter, he was with me with I found it again.” She wanted to take Vernet’s hand but dared not. “I have reported everything to my husband. He has kept my letters.”
“Is this true?” Napoleon asked Vernet as he put the scepter down in front of him on the trestle table.
“Yes,” said Vernet. “At your request, I will produce the letters.”
“I will wish to see them today; all of them, and any journals that record the events,” said Napoleon. “I will also want an explanation why you held the scepter, Madame Vernet, instead of giving it to Berthier, whose work it is to deal with all such items.” He folded his arms, “I trust there is an explanation.”
“Berthier has all but accused my husband of treason,” said Victoire. “Whether or not Berthier acts for you, he certainly acts against Vernet. Therefore I decided it was best to deliver the scepter into your hands, and your hands alone. There is another factor: through a dispatch I discovered in the Pasha’s palace—”
“The Pasha’s palace?” Napoleon said. “Very enterprising.”
“Roustam-Raza will describe it to you,” said Victoire, not wanting to be distracted from her purpose. “Through a dispatch discovered there, I came to believe that there are those high in your staff who may be working with men in Paris who are anxious to break your power. I didn’t want to provide any of them with a weapon to use against you, such as that scepter.” It was as close as she dared come to making a direct accusation.
“So you withheld it from Berthier,” said Napoleon. “Isn’t that a little beyond your authority, Madame Vernet?”
“Yes, it is,” said Victoire at once. “It was my decision. If I have erred, it was in the hope of preserving you and the army. And my husband’s reputation and honor, as well.”
Napoleon glared. “And did your husband approve of this?”
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