This did not bode well.
With a wary eye on his young associate, Augustus returned to his poetry. “For in the lady’s youth was told / A tale of prophecies ancient and old—”
Horace began to bounce on the balls of his feet, striving to be seen over Mme. Delagardie’s plumes. He mouthed something.
Augustus frowned in his general direction. Raising his voice, he proclaimed, “That once in Triton’s court did dwell / And ring a nasty watery knell, / With a clangety clang and an awesome—”
“Yell?” suggested Emma Delagardie, in something that strove to be, but was not quite, sotto voce. “Knell? Mell?”
If Augustus had been holding a book, he would have slammed it. Instead, he jammed the roll of poetry under his arm. “No more! My sensitive soul can endure no further interruptions! The muse has fled. The Graces have left the building.”
He jumped down off the settee, landing with a thump on the parquet floor, and had the satisfaction of seeing Mme. Delagardie take a step back. He had landed rather close to her feet, inadequately shod in Grecian sandals that showed off the diamond rings on her toes.
Augustus wafted a trembling hand in the air. “I beg you, good people! Do not attempt to follow! I must soothe myself and my muse in the only way available to one of my delicate temperament, with a spell of solitude and solitary reflection, making humble homage to the muses in the hopes that they will once again heed my call after so brutal and rude a series of interruptions of their delicate endeavors.”
The excess fabric in his sleeves made a highly gratifying swishing noise as he swept towards the door.
As he passed de Lilly, he murmured, “In the study. Five minutes.”
He didn’t wait to see if de Lilly would answer. Casting a lingering backwards glance at Miss Wooliston—exaggerated yearning with just a hint of lustful smolder—he paused only long enough to give the footmen time to open the doors before swanning out into the throng in the next room, where refreshments had been set out among Balcourt’s collection of faux Egyptological artifacts. At least, Augustus hoped they were faux. A selection of pastries had been set out on a sarcophagus that served as sideboard, while uniformed footmen scooped champagne punch from bowls constructed of Canopic jars.
Augustus was no antiquarian, but he did recall hearing somewhere that those jars had been used to contain the internal organs of the deceased. He made a mental note to stay away from the punch.
The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the company. The punch was flowing freely, the party the sort that would be termed in England “a sad crush,” fashionable people jostling one against the other, doing their best to see and be seen. Balcourt might not be admired, but he was known to set a lavish table and he was not without his contacts at court.
It was easy enough to waft his way through the crowd, the eccentric poet in his own private fog, with the occasional murmur of “The muse! I must set it down!”
No one would think anything of finding him in Balcourt’s study. When the muse demanded…
Augustus closed the door of Balcourt’s study behind him, shutting out the revelry without. It was quiet here, the drapes closed, the only light the candles that had been left burning, as a matter of course, in the sconces above the hearth. Balcourt was no scholar. The only thing in the room that didn’t show a fine film of dust was the decanter.
The man couldn’t be more different from his cousin, Miss Jane Wooliston.
The Pink Carnation.
The door racketed open as Horace de Lilly came charging in as though all the hounds of hell were behind him, the nasty, yippy ones with particularly pointy teeth.
Augustus slammed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock. “What in the blazes was that all about? Aren’t you supposed to be in Saint-Cloud?”
“It is of the most urgent!” Horace declared importantly.
It had bloody well better be. Junior agents weren’t meant to make direct contact with their seniors. Especially not in such an exuberant and noisy fashion. If Horace had something to report to him, there were channels for that. Quiet channels. Discreet channels. Unfortunately, to ignore the other man now would serve nothing. Whatever damage had been done was done.
“If anyone asks, you’re here to commission a poem. You, lover. Me, Cyrano. Understood? You’re mad with love for—someone. You can pick the girl; I won’t dictate that part—”
For how can one dictate the dictates of the heart? whispered the poet in Augustus’s head.
Shut up, Augustus told it.
“—but you’d better make a good show of being lovelorn. That will explain your”—Augustus looked pointedly at Horace’s muddy boots, his inappropriate attire—“exuberant arrival. Everyone understands young love.”
For a moment, Horace looked as though he might argue. Augustus Whittlesby was universally agreed to be the worst poet in Paris, and, like so many young men, Horace harbored vague poetic aspirations of his own. But sacrifices must be made from time to time.
“So it will be,” he said manfully. “I’m here to commission a verse. Now, wait until you hear—”
“Did anyone follow you?” Augustus cut him off.
Horace shook his head. “No one suspects me.”
Augustus wished that he could share the younger man’s assurance. Ever since a plot to assassinate the First Consul had been uncovered last month, Bonaparte’s police force had been working overtime, cracking down on threats anywhere they found them, and sometimes even where they hadn’t.
Augustus knew he was lucky to have escaped the net this long. Ironically enough, that very longevity was a large part of his protection. He was like an old oak table or a particularly dingy patch of carpet; the Ministry of Police was so used to him that they scarcely noticed he was there.
Horace, on the other hand, had come over with a wave of émigrés who were being invited, in bits and pieces, back into Paris to lend aristocratic polish to Bonaparte’s new court. He was new and therefore automatically suspect. Bonaparte craved the recognition of the old aristocracy, but he also mistrusted them. With reason, in this case.
“Well, they don’t!” Horace said indignantly. “I have been of the most subtle.”
“Right.” Augustus eyed de Lilly’s pink and green striped waistcoat. Not exactly what he would call subtle. “What was it that sent you running to Paris?”
Horace flung himself into Balcourt’s desk chair, his spurs digging into the imported Persian carpet. “It was like this,” he began, clearly determined to milk every moment of glory from the retelling. Augustus remembered when he had been like that. A very long time ago. Horace’s beardless face shone with excitement. “I was with the court of the First Consul in Saint-Cloud, when the Consul received a visit from Admiral Decres—”
A sound caught Augustus’s attention. A creak, as of a floorboard being depressed slowly and carefully by a person trying very hard not to be heard.
Augustus held up a hand, signaling Horace to silence.
“Edouard?” It was a female voice, raised in a questioning tone. A fingernail scratched against the wood of the door. “Edouaaaard?”
Augustus deliberately rustled the papers on the desk. “Who disturbs me?” he called out, stretching out the vowels in the most annoying way he could. “Who disturbs me in my poetic reverie?”
The scratching stopped. “Pardon?”
“Is it too much to ask for a humble poet to find a bit of peace to court the muse in private?” Augustus inquired mournfully. “Oh, the world is too much with us! Chattering and clattering, we lay waste our talents, consigning our patrimony of poetry to the wasted wind of the idle hour. Oh, woe! Woe it is to be—me.”
He broke off as he heard the floorboards creak in rapid retreat.
Horace leaned forward. “Was that—?” he hissed.
“Balcourt’s mistress.”
“Oh.” Horace shrugged off the intrusion. Mistresses were an inconsequential part of urban existence, like tavern owners or those an
noying little people who collected bills. “As I was saying, I was at Saint-Cloud, when—”
Augustus cut him off. “Balcourt’s mistress is an informer of the Ministry of Police.”
It took Horace a moment for the words to register. “Is she?” He seemed more intrigued than alarmed.
De Lilly’s insouciance set Augustus’s teeth on edge. “Madame Perdite is just one of thousands, but any one of those, no matter how insignificant they may seem, can be your downfall. A landlady, a chambermaid, the boy who holds your horse. Fouché has half of Paris in his pay.” An exaggeration, but not by much. “Say nothing in front of anyone, not even the servants. Particularly not the servants. Do you understand?”
Horace nodded, but Augustus could see he didn’t understand, not viscerally, not in that place in one’s gut that shouted danger long before the conscious senses perceived a threat. Horace had been a boy during the Terror, an adolescent in the safety of London. He had no memory of the stench of blood and sweat, the buzzing of the blood-gorged flies in the Place de la Concorde; he had never spent a night in the damp-walled hospitality of the Conciergerie, never heard the screams of a man being put to the question as he moved from begging for life to praying for death. The prisons of Paris were just names to him, names and blank facades; he had no real understanding of the true nature of the terrors within.
This was what happened of hiring boys who were still wet behind the ears and sending them out into the field with nothing more than a few vague instructions and a slightly outdated map of central Paris.
Augustus preferred not to address the fact that he had been equally amateur when William Wickham had first recruited him for covert operations, fresh out of Cambridge. At the time, he had been an aspiring poet by vocation, a fledgling clergyman by necessity, resigned to the prospect of taking a parish and sandwiching verse between his sermons. His encounter with Wickham had changed all that.
Twelve years later, Augustus could hardly imagine having been that young or that naïve. That young, that naïve, and that eager.
Augustus cocked his head, listening. After this many years in the field, he could discern the subtleties of a silence, the way a painter could distinguish between the various forms of black. There was no listening presence from behind the door; he would have known her from the breathing.
Augustus turned back to Horace. “She’s gone,” he said. “What do you know?”
Leaning forward, Horace braced his palms on the knees of his breeches. His hands were too large for his frame, as if he hadn’t quite yet grown into his height. “The First Consul summoned Admiral Decres to Saint-Cloud. It was a warm day, so he left the window ajar. I,” he added modestly, “was beneath it.”
“What did you hear?”
“The fleet. They’re readying it.”
“Which fleet?” There was more than one.
“All of them!” Horace said excitedly. “The plan, it has been approved at last. I heard it direct from the First Consul’s lips. Save just one thing, all is readiness.”
Augustus didn’t need to ask, but he did. “For?”
“The First Consul, he is giving the orders for the invasion of England!”
Chapter 2
“Whither wend ye, sir?” Cytherea cried,
“And why hast thou come for me?
To drag me, O, so far from home!
Along the wine dark sea!”
—Augustus Whittlesby, The Perils of the
Pulchritudinous Princess of the Azure Toes,
Canto XII, 28–31
You really must stop poking at him like that,” said Jane, as the poet made his offended way out of the room.
“I wasn’t poking,” said Emma.
Her friend gave her a look. Jane had a way with looks.
“Well, maybe just a little,” Emma admitted. “But when he perpetrates poems like that, it’s just too tempting not to poke.”
Jane continued to look, her gray eyes amused.
“What?” said Emma defensively.
“There are better ways to get someone’s attention.”
Emma chose to ignore that. “All I did was offer a little helpful criticism.”
“In the middle of his reading,” pointed out Jane.
“Was it the middle? It’s so hard to tell when it goes on for forty-five cantos.”
“Twenty-two,” corrected Jane. She would know. Whittlesby had dedicated all of them to her, his Princess of the Pulchritudinous Toes. “Haven’t you ever thought of just conducting a conversation with him rather than embarrassing him in public? It might better serve your cause.”
Emma wrinkled her nose at her friend. “I don’t have a cause.”
Jane adjusted an already perfectly aligned flounce. “You go to every single one of his readings. Poetic devotion?”
“Consider it a well-developed sense of the absurd?” Emma suggested. “For farce, he’s better than the commedia dell’arte.”
“Almost anything is better than the commedia dell’arte,” said Jane. As Emma had learned, her friend was something of a snob when it came to theatre. It was one of the few flaws in an otherwise perfect personality. Fortunately, Emma had caught Jane reading gothic novels, or else they might never have become friends. “Care to try again?”
“It’s not like that,” said Emma. “Well, it’s not! It’s like…pining after an actor. You don’t mean anything to come of it, but he does look so very nice in his pantaloons.”
“Mmm,” said Jane. “Does he now?”
Emma felt her cheeks flush. “That was meant as a general he, not this he in particular. Although, yes,” she admitted, “he does look very good in his breeches. It’s his one redeeming quality. That and his hair. He has very nice hair. And fine eyes. Oh, stop!”
“Hmm?” said Jane, but the lace of her fan couldn’t quite hide her smile. “Did I do anything?”
“You know what you did,” said Emma severely. “It’s really just a diversion. Something safe and harmless.”
There was nothing like an affair, her friends had told her years ago. How else was a young widow to divert herself? She had tried it and found it wanting. Now all she wanted was a little amusement, just a little game to play, silly and safe.
What could be sillier or safer that Augustus Whittlesby?
It hardly even counted as a tendre. It was just a diversion.
“If you say so,” said Jane, in that maddening way of hers. “Aren’t you to be writing your own magnum opus soon? That ought to engender some artistic fellow feeling with Mr. Whittlesby.”
“Magnum opus?”
“I heard you were commissioned to contrive a play, for a party at Malmaison.”
“Oh, that.” Emma shook her head in dismissal. “Not a play, a masque, just a short piece, more spectacle than verse. Madame Bonaparte suggested it. I told her I would think about it.”
“I won’t accept no,” Madame Bonaparte had said in her lingering Creole drawl, tapping Emma’s cheek in that way she had, that way that made her feel fifteen again, a schoolgirl at Madame Campan’s academy for young ladies, meeting Hortense’s mother for the first time, surrounded by the scent of roses and the warmth of Madame Bonaparte’s smile.
They had been more family to Emma than her own family in those early days after her elopement, Hortense de Beauharnais and her mother. Hortense’s mother had just married again, an army sort, a general named Bonaparte, but they found room for Emma anyway, in the crowded house in the Rue Chantereine. They had taken her in while her own family had roared with disbelief and disapproval, had sheltered her during the disillusionment of those early days of her marriage to Paul, comforted her, helped her, asking no questions and demanding no favors in return.
It was meant as a signal honor, this conferring of the writing of the masque. An honor and a politic move. As much as Hortense and Mme. Bonaparte might love her for herself, Emma didn’t delude herself that the offer was tendered out of affection alone. The only reason she had been asked to contrive the en
tertainment was because the party was being held in honor of her cousin, the American envoy to France. Bonaparte needed the goodwill of the Americans, and Emma was about as American as they came, at least when it came to being related to envoys. Her uncle, Monroe, had been the first of the envoys to France; her cousin, Robert Livingston, currently held the post. In diplomatic circles, Emma had become known as a person to cultivate, not out of any virtue of her own but as a circumstance of the position of her relations.
She didn’t want it to be like this. She didn’t want to think of position and status and political advantage. Only of old friendship and good fellowship. Was that so much to ask?
“Madame Bonaparte wants the masque as a surprise for cousin Robert.” Emma looked at Jane over her fan. “I suppose that means that half of Paris already knows it, and the rest will be told by nightfall.”
“Three quarters,” corrected Jane, with a smile. “And everyone agog to know what the subject will be and who is to act which part.”
“Would you like to tell me?” Emma quipped. “I’m sure the rest of Paris will know before I do. Madame Bonaparte suggested a nautical theme, but other than that, there were no requirements, other than that there be a nice singing part for Hortense.”
“Is Monsieur Talma to help you?” The famous actor regularly directed plays for the theatre-mad Bonapartes in their private theatre at Malmaison.
“If I agree to do it.”
“Why not?” asked Jane.
Emma toyed with the edge of her fan. Nervous hands, her mother had called it, as if one could be scolded to serenity. “I don’t mind scribbling in my spare time, but it seems cruel to inflict it on a whole audience. Just look at Mr. Whittlesby!”
“But he brings amusement to so many,” said Jane blandly.
“Laughing with him or at him? Ha! My point.” Emma cast around for a change of subject before Jane pressed on about the masque—or about Mr. Whittlesby. Emma pointed with her fan. “Look. That man over there. Another of your admirers? He’s been staring at us for a good ten minutes.”
The Garden Intrigue Page 3