Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

  “Of course. I stand ready to assist.”

  He crossed the room, his stark white cravat contrasting with the deep black of his own evening jacket. She knew, without needing mirrors, how well-matched they appeared. He even had a diamond stick pin just beneath his throat. She kept her eyes on that as he leaned over her to fasten the clasp.

  “You are deuced punctual, too, My Lady. I’m certain First Consul Bonaparte will appreciate that quality above all others. What opera are we attending again, Henri?”

  The man smiled. “I’ve heard it is called The Angel, My Lord. I’m sure you’ll find it entertaining. It has created quite a stir.”

  Helene took her time with her gloves, making certain the buttons at her wrists and just above the elbows were securely fastened. The dressmaker on Bond Street had crafted the gloves in white. Helene knew she wouldn’t be put to shame even here, in what they were calling the fashion capital of world.

  “You’re breathtaking, darling.”

  Gil whispered the words as he helped her into the carriage. Helene would’ve answered in kind, except that Colonel Fontenelle was sitting on the opposite bench, looking official in his dress uniform.

  She’d expected an escort, but the presence of one of Fouche’s agents was mood dampening to all but the most ignorant. And for some reason, Gil seemed determined to play that role. His chatter filled the carriage the entire ride to the theater. Helene listened with half an ear. She felt certain Fontenelle paid it the same attention.

  Being a special guest of Napoleon meant she and Gillian occupied a balcony with at least forty others theatergoers. Helene smiled slightly at Gillian’s observation of how favored he felt, although he must not notice how Colonel Fontenelle sat directly behind them.

  Since she’d been singled out for special attention, Helene could hardly relax enough to enjoy the program, but, when it began, she found it a simple matter after all.

  Although the opera’s opening and closing acts were set in a graveyard, those were the only pointed references to angels. The rest of the stage was devoted to scantily clad women dancing among faceless men.

  “Oh. Pity there are no blondes,” Gil commented.

  Helene barely stifled any reaction.

  “I shall check for you, Lord Tremayne,” Fontenelle replied, “but I’m certain the First Consul wouldn’t have overlooked such an important distinction. Although, come to think of it, there aren’t many natural-born Frenchwomen with that hair color.”

  Gil stiffened, but Helene kept her eyes on the stage. They were watching her more closely than she’d suspected. And she didn’t know why. She didn’t get to meet Napoleon or his consort, Josephine, but she knew exactly when they were apprised of her presence, although Gillian remained oddly blind to the proceedings.

  It was during intermission, when she supposed the actors were finding more gossamer material to put on, that a shadowy figure stepped behind Napoleon and pointed over at her. Even sideways to him and across the theater from his box, she felt the First Consul’s eye on her. And shivered.

  “If Monsieur and Madame Tremayne would agree, I have instructions to see that you have the finest French cuisine for your repast,” Fontenelle said.

  “My thanks, good man. I’m impressed. I don’t believe it’s possible to find a more inviting place to visit than Paris under the new regime. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

  Gillian made certain his comments were overheard. Oh. He was good. But she knew that. He’d already proven how well he could act. By pretending he loved her. In front of dozens. In any situation. Right now he acted a perfect fool. And it worked.

  Every look the colonel gave her husband held such undisguised contempt, it was almost comical.

  The man was at their heels after the play, down the grand staircase, and at her elbow when their carriage arrived.

  “Maìson L’amour is the best restaurant in all Paris.”

  Colonel Fontenelle held the door for her, or he’d have noticed her jump at his proximity.

  The house of love?

  She almost translated the words for Gillian, but stopped herself. He’d probably reply with something wicked. She didn’t need any more comments about blondes.

  The front of their destination was ablaze with lights, carriages, and liveried servants that were the equal to any she’d seen at Chateau Montriart. It gave her heart a lurch. She hoped it didn’t show. It made no sense. Why would they revolt against the ancient regime–noted for its extravagance and excess – then copy it?

  “I wish to thank you for your escort, my good man, but I’m certain we can find our way back to the Blouet Palace. My thanks.”

  Gillian then turned his back on the colonel in a gesture of dismissal. Helene watched his face darken, and his eyes narrow. That’s when she knew what she suspected was true. He had his orders. And for some reason, they involved her. She wasn’t surprised to find him at their heels once the maître d’ had them seated, but Gil was still acting the part of a buffoon.

  “I believe we’re causing quite a stir, my dear,” Gil said, “but you’ll have to take credit for that.”

  He was half right. All the ladies present were clothed in outrageous dresses in every hue but black. And her decollete was unusually modest, too. But Gil failed to notice how much he stood out. He was already outstandingly tall, handsome, and striking, but dressed elegantly, he caused most of the women to look and keep on staring.

  It should have upset her. She should be bristling with jealousy. But she wasn’t. She was thrilled to know she was the woman on his arm, and at his table. Why…if it hadn’t been for Colonel Fontenelle’s continued presence, the entire evening would seem a perfect part of a fantasy honeymoon.

  ‘Thank you, Garçon.”

  Gil stumbled over the French word as he waited for Helene to be seated, then he turned to look at the colonel with an outraged, pinched-nose, superior expression.

  “I wasn’t aware I’d extended an invitation to you, Colonel,” he said. “But if you insist on being there, I’d suggest you sit. I don’t enjoy eating while being watched over my shoulder. I suppose we’ll appreciate your expertise with these damned Frenchie terms, as well. My talents with that language, as you’ve probably noticed, are unexceptional at best. If I didn’t have the lovely Lady Tremayne to grace my table, I’d likely be served some bloody snails.”

  The colonel inclined his head and waited while another chair was brought.

  “I don’t believe snails come with that particular affliction, My Lord,” Helene said.

  “What one is that, darling?” His eyes twinkled so merrily, she fought the smile.

  “Bloody.”

  The colonel coughed discreetly into his napkin, while Gillian stiffened, as if insulted. Oh. She’d have to amend her observation of his acting. He was extremely good. She was ready to applaud.

  “If you approve,” Fontenelle said, “I shall order for you, Monsieur et Madame. I promise I won’t put you through such traumas as escargot.”

  “Oh. You’re a useful fellow,” Gil commented. “Remind me to tell your superiors. And would you have a bottle of brandy fetched? I’ve been on a drought, and I plan on changing that.”

  He winked at her as he said it, and she blushed.

  “Your husband has little grasp of the language, Madame?” Fontenelle leaned toward her to say it. In perfect French.

  “That’s to be expected from an English gentleman, isn’t it? I’m surprised you think it worth mentioning.”

  “I only remark on it, Madame, because it makes it easier for me to ask you a few questions.”

  Helene fought to maintain her color, managing only by focusing on the candles before her. She’d known something like this was coming ever since the colonel met them at the stairs, but his audacity surprised and frightened. He wanted to interrogate her? Now? In a public place?

  “I hope it won’t be too inconvenient, Madame, but I don’t wish to anger your husband or cause undue strain on our relationship with hi
s country. And I assure you we’re in no danger of being overheard.”

  Helene glanced about. He was right. The tables surrounding theirs were conspicuously empty.

  ‘What do you...wish to know?”

  “Are you two going to chatter in that Godforsaken tongue all evening?” Gil asked. “Because you’re wasting a good vintage here, and interfering with my enjoyment of this brandy.”

  He shoved the snifter at the colonel, and the man flushed.

  “Forgive our rudeness, darling,” she replied, “but the colonel seems to know several of my old acquaintances.” She didn’t betray herself by an eyelash twitch.

  “Then don’t let me stop you. My Lady. Colonel.”

  Gil took a drink before setting his goblet down to gush with pleasure as a stuffed salmon was set before him.

  “Well. Look at this. Looks delicious. What do you think, darling?”

  Helene smiled faintly and glanced down at the meal before her. She wasn’t taking one bite. Not until she knew she’d be able to swallow.

  “Paris has become a byword for good cuisine, My Lord Tremayne,” Colonel Fontenelle replied, while cutting a bite from his own fare. “I’m certain you’ll agree when you’ve finished.”

  “Probably before. Then again, think of all the chefs you put into domestic agencies after their employers met Madame Guillotine.”

  He laughed heartily after his statement, but the colonel didn’t look or sound amused.

  “Your husband is a baboon,” the colonel informed her.

  “Colonel. Please. You’re referring to the man I love.”

  She spoke sweetly and toyed with her fork. Gil made an odd noise, and the colonel spent a few minutes making certain his fish wasn’t too hot or spicy. Helene spent the time regaining control of her pulse.

  “Enough delay. I have questions for you.”

  “Very well, Colonel. Ask them.”

  “Have you received any contact of a financial nature, Madame?”

  Helene frowned and didn’t bother hiding it. Financial? Of all the things she’d expected to be asked, that was the most bizarre. She finally shook her head.

  “You are certain, Madame?”

  “Oui.”

  “You and your husband visited the Montriart chateau?”

  “Oui.” Her voice didn’t even tremble. She was very proud of that.

  “Why?”

  “Family memories.” And cursed nightmares.

  “I see.”

  The colonel shoved another bite of salmon into his mouth. Helene waited while he chewed and then swallowed, so attuned to her act of looking aloof and uninterested that a buzzing noise filled both ears.

  “I will ease your curiosity. I ask because the First Counsel has tasked me with ascertaining the state of the Montriart family affairs.”

  “I didn’t know there was any to ascertain, Colonel.” Helene kept her voice even and calm, although her fingers tightened on the napkin in her lap.

  “Some financial arrangements the late comte made…have recently come to light.”

  “Arrangements?”

  “Oui. And it is in your best interests to allow the state to assist you.”

  “I don’t know of any arrangements.”

  “You’re certain, Madame?”

  “Oui.”

  “I’ve been informed otherwise.”

  “I beg you to check your source, Colonel. I’ve no knowledge of Montriart…aside from vague childhood recollections.”

  “You’re telling the truth?”

  “Wouldn’t I place myself in Fouche’s hands if I speak falsely?”

  “Careful, Madame.”

  Helene bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to speak the name. Or admit her knowledge. She knew better. She caught Gil’s frown from across the table and quickly looked down at her plate.

  “I say…Fontenelle, this sauce is excellent. What do they call this dish? I must find a way to describe it for my cook in London.” Gil held up his spoon and spoke loudly enough for anyone in the vicinity to overhear.

  “Colonel Fontenelle, My Lord. Colonel!”

  The colonel spoke through clenched teeth, and glared at Gil.

  “Oh. Pardon. So, speak up, man. What is this dish?”

  Gil was absolutely priceless as he goaded the colonel and then listened as the man described the garlic, butter, and cream mixture burned with a dash of cognac. Gil’s expression of shock and expostulation of, “Surely not!” made a bubble of mirth rise in her throat.

  “Waste of good spirits if you ask me. Cognac? What will they do next?”

  “You did ask, Monsieur.” The colonel smiled in a patronizing fashion and turned back to Helene. “I apologize for inconveniencing you with such questions, Madame. I hope it does not dull your pleasure of our fair city. I must advise you however, that you may be contacted about this. I am to be kept informed. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Listen to you both. Keeping this running chatter up for so long, your sup grows cold. And I say, Colonel…this newest dish is most tasty. What is it called?”

  Gil waved at Helene’s plate, and she tried to eat some of the boeuf bourguignon that just arrived. She tasted onions, mushrooms, and cubed beef that had been simmered in red wine, while listening as the colonel described the ingredients. And then he turned back to her.

  “There’s just one more thing, Madame…before I escort you back to the Peacock Palace.”

  Helene set her spoon down. The broth made her throat ache while the lump in it made swallowing nearly impossible.

  “What would that be?” she asked.

  “Did you enjoy Monte Carlo?”

  Helene’s eyes went wide, but she was saved by the crash of silver against Gil’s plate. He actually looked ill. It took all the colonel’s efforts to make certain the Englishman wasn’t expiring from something in his dessert - the newly named Napoleon pastry.

  Helene wasn’t listening. Her body sat perfectly calm and still while her mind raced through several possible scenarios, her newly widowed cousin starring in each one. The new regime didn’t even want her. They were after Helen!

  And she was really tired of taking Helen’s place.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Can’t we have any privacy?”

  Gil muttered it as the colonel accompanied them to a carriage and invited himself along. She sat beside Gil, arranging her skirts, while the colonel took the opposite seat with his back to the horses. This wasn’t a normal hired carriage. There were bars on the aperture behind the colonel’s head from which a small lantern hung. Candle flame sputtered from behind its glass enclosure, putting flickers of light on the occupant of this bench, while shadowing where the colonel sat. It wasn’t bright, but enough to check nuances of expression. It wasn’t romantic. It was frightening.

  “I’m certain Colonel Fontenelle has our best interests at heart, darling. Don’t you, Colonel?”

  Helene tried to sound weary, yet comforting; irritated, yet loving. Gil hadn’t resembled the buffoon he’d been portraying. The colonel hadn’t missed it. The measured look he gave Gil was sharper than it had been all eve. They needed to reach the Peacock Palace. They could work it out there. There might be a totally logical reason why Helen was involved. And Monte Carlo. But the longer she pondered it, the less sense it made.

  “Is there something else I can show you, Monsieur?” the colonel finally spoke. “I’m passing proud of our fair city. I’m certain we could find entertainment that would be appreciated by a...shall we say, a man of cosmopolitan tastes? I believe I could even find a blond or two, should you wish.”

  Helene held her breath, not only for Gil’s answer, but the manner in which it was voiced. She shouldn’t have fretted. Gil was back in character and as pompous-sounding as before. And twice as arrogant. He even forgot to address the colonel with the man’s rank. It was probably on purpose.

  “Another night, my good man. Another time. Normally, I’d take you up on such entertainment, but I�
�m feeling a bit…under the weather suddenly.”

  “Colonel, Lord Tremayne.”

  Gil yawned before replying. “Just so.”

  “I hope it wasn’t something you ate.”

  She couldn’t tell if the colonel’s expression matched the smug note in his voice. He was in shadow.

  “Perhaps just the quantity, Fontenelle.”

  Gil belched amid his chuckling, and Helene wondered how he’d managed that. He was every bit as good as Brandy. Maybe someday, she’d tell him. They reached the Blouet’s former residence. The coach stopped. All three exited. And as a unit they entered, crossed to the magnificent staircase, and started up them to their rooms. The colonel accompanied them the entire way.

  “I hope you can trust us to find our apartments without assistance?” Gil asked. “No? Very well, Man. Come along, but mind yourself…my wife likes to hog the covers. Why, I barely have enough.”

  Gillian staggered a bit on the stairs, and Helene sent a glance at their escort. It would be wise not to anger the colonel, but he didn’t seem anywhere near that emotion. He actually seemed quite rushed as he gestured them across the threshold to their suite before closing the door.

  “Do you suppose they’re locking us in?” Gil asked in a low voice.

  “They have their reasons. Don’t you realize what’s happening?”

  “I had a passing interest in your conversation, My Lady, but you had to show off and talk so fast even a scholar would’ve had trouble. Why don’t you explain it for me?”

  He sat on her pink coverlet and slipped off his shoes as if she weren’t thirty feet away, watching. “I’m listening, love. You can start any time.”

  “Gillian, this is my room.” She moved closer.

  “Just so, love. Just so. And aren’t we on a honeymoon?”

  “Gillian! The walls have ears!” And if she whispered any louder, they’d be overheard.

  “Really? Well, I’m of a mind to give them something to listen to. Come closer, sweet. I believe I’ll be having trouble with my buttons.”

  “You didn’t drink overmuch…did you?”

  “Am I acting foxed to you, darling? If so, it’s your fault. I had to eat courses designed to frighten the mouth, and the only thing I had for salvation was a bit of brandy. And I do love brandy.”