The Paris Affair

by Teresa Grant

  “I expect he had his reasons for wanting to find favor with you.”

  Gabrielle flushed, then smiled. “Perhaps. He seemed to trust me, which was a bit seductive in itself. Rupert isn’t much in the habit of confiding in me. At least he wasn’t. And I liked being able to talk about Étienne.”

  “What did Rivère tell you?”

  Gabrielle pleated a blue-sprigged muslin fold of her skirt between her fingers. “That at first he’d taken Étienne for something of an idle fribble, a spoiled young aristo with dreams of glory. But that Étienne had surprised him with his determination and his ingenuity.”

  “Did he mention Étienne’s mistress?”

  “I asked about her.” Gabrielle hesitated a moment, waved to the boys, who were now running races in front of the fountain. “He said that without her, they might have pulled it off.”

  “Did he mean she was a distraction?”

  “What else could he have meant?” Gabrielle’s gaze skimmed over Suzanne’s face. “You think Princess Tatiana is the one who betrayed them?”

  “There’s no evidence to suggest that.”

  “But you think it’s a possibility.” Gabrielle watched Suzanne closely.

  “There are a number of possibilities.”

  “Someone betrayed them.”

  “Who did Rivère think it was?”

  “He didn’t know who. Or why it was only Étienne who was betrayed. Only that he’d be forever grateful to Étienne for not betraying him and Christian.” Gabrielle rubbed her arms, bare below the puffed sleeves of her gown. “I didn’t always believe the things Antoine said to me. But that had the ring of truth.”

  “Do you think your cousin Christian knows more?”

  “Perhaps. To own the truth, I don’t know Christian well. Until these past few weeks I hadn’t seen him since I was a baby. I confess I find it hard to imagine him involved in a secret plot. He’s a great admirer of a friend of yours.”

  “Of mine?”

  “Dorothée Talleyrand.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Malcolm rapped at the door of Talleyrand’s study once and then strode into the room. He stood on less ceremony with the prince than he had in Vienna.

  “Malcolm.” Talleyrand looked up from the papers on the desk before him with so little surprise that Malcolm wondered if the prince could recognize his step on the stairs. He wouldn’t put it past Talleyrand for a minute. “An unexpected pleasure.”

  Malcolm pushed the door to and advanced to stand before the desk. “Did you put Tatiana up to her affair with Étienne Laclos?”

  Talleyrand stared at him for the length of a half-dozen heartbeats, then raised his brows. “My dear boy—”

  “You’ve rather exhausted the feigned innocence, sir. Particularly where Tania is concerned.”

  Talleyrand gave him a smile of acknowledgment. “Étienne Laclos wasn’t a trained agent. He had adequate cover for slipping into France, but it was obvious early on he’d been sent by your government. I needed to find out what he was up to.”

  “And when you did know?”

  The brows lifted again, this time with pretension-dampening hauteur. “They were plotting to take my sovereign’s life.”

  “Quite.”

  Talleyrand gave a laugh and waved a hand towards a shield-back chair beside his desk. “God knows Bonaparte and I had our disagreements, but I don’t recall anyone ever accusing me of having designs on his life.”

  “Nor do I.” Malcolm dropped into the chair, not taking his gaze from Talleyrand’s face. “Which doesn’t mean—”

  Talleyrand adjusted a crystal paperweight that anchored a stack of papers beside his elbow. “I won’t ask you to have faith in my morals, Malcolm, but you should have the wit to believe me when I point out that assassination of a leader leaves a dangerous vacuum. I’ve seen enough of chaos in my life to deplore a vacuum.”

  Malcolm scanned Talleyrand’s face. His only prayer of keeping up with the prince was to keep all his wits about him, and even then Talleyrand had the edge. “So it was you and Tania who put an end to the plot.”

  “No, as it happens.” Talleyrand’s fingers curled round the paperweight. “We planned to, if they ever got so far as putting it into action. But someone else betrayed them first.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Nor could I ever find out. Tania was furious. She’d developed quite an affection for Étienne Laclos. She’d made me promise that when we put an end to the plot, Étienne be allowed to escape.”

  “She tried to hide him.”

  “Yes, I know. And when he was arrested, she begged me to intervene. Begged, entreated, threatened, wheedled. I’ve never seen even Tania run such a gamut of emotions. But of course there was a limit to what I could do. I could hardly let it be said I’d come to the aid of a traitor in the pay of the British with designs on the emperor’s life.” He stared down at the sunlight bouncing off the crystal of the paperweight. “I think it was one of the worst quarrels Tatiana and I ever had. She wouldn’t speak to me for weeks afterwards.”

  “And then she asked you to help her leave Paris quietly.”

  “A few months later, yes.”

  Malcolm drew a breath. “Do you think Étienne Laclos was the father of her child?”

  Talleyrand’s eyes narrowed.

  “You can’t tell me you never considered it.”

  “No, it was an obvious possibility. The strongest argument against it was that it’s difficult then to see the reason for such overwhelming secrecy. For the actual birth, yes, she wouldn’t have wanted open scandal. But to fear any whisper of mention of the father’s name—?”

  “Perhaps she didn’t want it known she’d been the lover of a traitor.”

  “That would have garnered her sympathy in some circles. Especially after Bonaparte was exiled.”

  “Could she have feared vengeance?”

  “From whom? The Lacloses were in England. Christian Laclos was hardly the sort for anyone to fear, let alone Tatiana, who could run rings round him without trying.”

  “Could she have been afraid it would come out that she’d betrayed Étienne?”

  Talleyrand’s brows lifted. “I told you, we didn’t—”

  “You didn’t. Could Tania have done it on her own?”

  Talleyrand didn’t give the quick denial Malcolm more than half-expected. He sat back in his chair, fingers loose on the ink blotter. “I won’t deny I’ve thought of it. But if you’d seen her concern for Laclos—” He shrugged his satin-clad shoulders. “Then again I’m the last to put store in emotional outbursts.”

  “You didn’t take Rivère into custody.”

  “No. As I told you, I found it useful to watch Rivère. I was rather annoyed that whoever exposed the plot had disrupted one of my best sources. At least the damage was contained to Étienne Laclos.”

  “What about the gold?”

  “Gold?”

  “Dewhurst told me the gold to fund the plot was never recovered.”

  “And you’re asking if it found its way into French coffers?”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “No. Any more than I can expect you to believe me when I deny it.”

  “We’re not going to see Manon Caret.” Aline looked up as Suzanne dropped into the chair beside her at the rail of their box in the Comédie-Française. “Apparently she’s ill. Such a pity. She even makes me enjoy all that declamation in Racine, and I’ve never seen anyone I liked so much as Countess Almaviva.”

  “Sometimes an understudy can surprise one,” Suzanne said in a steady voice. She still didn’t know if Manon had made it safely out of Paris. Or if Raoul had safely returned.

  “I imagine there are gentlemen sighing all over the theatre.” Cordelia settled her skirts—black opera net over seafoam satin—as she seated herself beside Suzanne.

  “Yes, I think even Geoff isn’t immune to Mademoiselle Caret’s charms,” Aline said. “She’s rather a thinking man’s Aphrodite.”


  “Have you heard?” Dorothée brushed through the curtains at the back of the box.

  “That Manon Caret is ill?” Aline asked.

  “But she isn’t.” Dorothée dropped into a chair in the row behind them in a swirl of jade crêpe and Pomona green satin. “At least not according to the gossip I’ve been hearing. They say the management’s put it about that she’s ill, but in fact she’s disappeared from Paris. There are even odds on whether she’s run off with a lover or disappeared to escape her creditors.”

  “I would think it would take something more serious for an actress to forego her profession,” Cordelia said, glancing down at the programme in her lap. “I doubt a mere man would do it and surely a woman in her position could evade creditors. Don’t you think, Suzanne?”

  “Quite.” Suzanne was scanning the boxes with her opera glasses. She caught sight of a familiar graying dark brown head and sharp profile across the theatre. The constriction in her chest eased. Raoul had made it back to Paris.

  “But plenty of people have reason to flee Paris these days,” Aline said. “Was Mademoiselle Caret political?”

  “Not particularly,” Dorothée said. “She was rumored to have a liaison with Jerome Bonaparte, but then any number of actresses have been connected to the Bonapartes. Look at Mademoiselle Georges’s success, and she was linked to the emperor himself.”

  “Perhaps it was something that wasn’t common knowledge,” Aline said. “Suzanne, have you heard anything?”

  “No,” Suzanne assured her husband’s cousin. Why did lying seem more of a strain these days? This was the sort of deception that should be second nature to her. “But then I’m hardly in the confidence of the minister of police. Doro, I’m glad you’re here. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I understand Christian Laclos is one of your cavaliers.”

  “Yes, that’s why I came. That is, I wouldn’t call Christian a cavalier, but he comes to my salons. He’s quite sweet in a bumbling sort of way. Willie told me. That you might want to talk to him. . . .” Dorothée hesitated.

  “Don’t mind us,” Aline said. “We’re used to secrets with Malcolm and Suzanne.”

  “And it’s not exactly surprising that Suzanne would want to talk to a Laclos cousin,” Cordelia said.

  “Can you help me talk to him at the interval?” Suzanne asked Dorothée.

  “Yes, of course. You know I’ve been longing to help.”

  Malcolm, Harry, and Geoffrey came through the curtains from the anteroom, and Dorothée left to go to her sister’s box. Her thoughts with Manon, wherever she might be, Suzanne settled in to watch Phèdre. With the part of her mind that could focus on the stage, she noted that the understudy was giving a quite creditable performance but lacked Manon’s sparkle and fire.

  Dorothée found her in the salon during the first interval. “Stewart’s already drunk,” Doro said, slipping her arm through Suzanne’s. “I don’t know how Willie stands it.”

  “Love can cloud the mind.”

  “I can’t believe Willie loves him.” She glanced up at Suzanne. “I wasn’t sure how much Lady Cordelia and Aline knew.”

  “They don’t know about the child.”

  “I’m honored Malcolm told Willie and me. There’s Christian.”

  “Madame la comtesse.” Christian Laclos pushed back his chair, getting his feet tangled up with the rungs. He made a grab for the gilded chairback, knocked the chair forwards, and jostled the table, spattering champagne from his glass onto the marble surface. “Terribly sorry.” He righted the chair and stepped away from it as though it were a dog liable to bite. “Won’t you sit down?” He pulled out two more chairs from the table, with great care.

  “Thank you.” Dorothée sank into one of the chairs, settling the crêpe and satin folds of her skirt with care. “You know Madame Rannoch, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. That is, I don’t know that we’ve been properly introduced, but one can’t fail but to be aware of Madame Rannoch.” Christian sketched a bow and nearly collided with the table again. He had disordered brown hair cut into a fashionable Brutus crop and wore a well-cut coat and high shirt points.

  Suzanne sank into a chair beside Dorothée. “I’m sorry we’ve interrupted you.”

  “No. Not in the least.” Christian tugged a handkerchief from his sleeve and blotted the spilled champagne. He turned to summon a waiter, but Dorothée had already done so with a simple lift of a finger.

  The waiter brought Suzanne and Dorothée champagne. Christian returned to his chair without mishap. “Jolly good show, as the British would say. Pity about Manon Caret, but the actress is charming. Of course not quite as much of a spectacle as the Waterloo ballet at the opera last week.”

  Suzanne’s gloved fingers tightened on the beaded strap of her reticule. The ballet had re-created the battle in great detail and had ended with an English officer presenting a French officer he had taken prisoner to the Frenchman’s mistress, who had believed him dead. They had knelt and kissed the hem of the English officer’s garment before dancing the finale. The French audience had gone wild with applause. Suzanne hadn’t known whether to laugh or to cry.

  “Certainly memorable, though to me it didn’t seem in quite the best taste.” Dorothée took a sip of champagne. “You must be wondering why we wanted to see you,” she said with one of her charming smiles.

  “No. Yes. That is, always a pleasure to see you of course, madame la comtesse.”

  “I fear it’s about your cousin.”

  “Gabrielle? Is anything the matter with her? Just saw her across the theatre. Looked perfectly lovely. Or Gui? Has he got himself into some sort of trouble?”

  “No.” Dorothée set down her glass. “Étienne.”

  Christian’s champagne glass tilted in his fingers. Dorothée righted it before it could spatter over the table again. “It must have been very hard to lose him.”

  “Yes. That is—I didn’t know him well. Just a boy when they all left Paris. And I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s all right, Christian.” Dorothée squeezed his hand. “We know about the plot. We know you were part of it. It’s nothing to hide now. You should be proud.”

  Christian dragged his glass closer and took a quick swallow. “Seems mad now. But we thought it could work. Étienne was fearfully clever. I just mentioned about a line about the security at Malmaison in a letter to him. No one was more shocked than I was when Étienne said he was coming to France in secret and had to see me. He arrived with the whole plot worked out.” Christian stared into the glass for a moment, then took another swallow. “To own the truth, I was more than half-inclined to refuse to get involved. Wanted Bonaparte gone as much as the next man, of course. Well, the next Royalist. But never thought to take a hand personally. Not really my thing. Had a job, an income. Managing to get along. Which isn’t easy in Paris. Wasn’t easy. Well, still isn’t for that matter.” He shifted in his chair.

  “But—?” Dorothée said gently.

  “Family, you know. Étienne was family, for all we hadn’t seen each other since we were boys. And he was so sure he could make it work. Change the future of France. Bit hard not to get caught up in that.”

  “And Monsieur Rivère worked with you as well,” Suzanne said.

  “Étienne had been put in touch with him. Good thing. Rivère seemed to know what he was doing. Felt better about the whole thing after I met him.”

  “Did you see a great deal of Étienne after he came to Paris?” Suzanne asked.

  “Not overmuch.” Christian took a sip of champagne. “Had to keep up the appearance of our regular lives. Used to meet in secret in a room above a café. Les Trois Rois. Had to go round in the dark, up the stairs, knock three times. Felt as though I was in a novel.”

  “But you would have been one of the few people Étienne could confide in,” Suzanne said in the tone she’d used to draw confidences from young ensigns and seasoned diplomats. “Did he talk to you about a woman he’d become involved wit
h?”

  Christian shifted in his chair. “Besotted. Étienne played his cards close to his chest, but he couldn’t seem to stop talking about her.” He shook his head. “Got a bit tiresome, I confess. Though of course I tried to listen.”

  Suzanne reached for her champagne glass. “Did you meet her?”

  “Once. I got there early. To the café. She was with him. Wearing a cloak, but I could see her face was beautiful. Made a bit more sense of why Étienne couldn’t stop talking about her. Of course I saw no reason not to trust her.”

  “Then?” Suzanne asked.

  Christian took another sip of champagne and stared into the glass. “Couldn’t figure out who betrayed us.” He twisted the glass between his hands. “Bertrand came to see me when he came to France. Wanted to know what I knew about Étienne. Couldn’t tell him much. Then he wrote to me again just before he was killed.”

  “About Étienne?” Dorothée asked.

  “No.” Christian frowned into his champagne glass. “It was odd, because I hadn’t seen him since we were in the nursery and then of course he’d been gone—that is, we all thought he was dead—”

  “ ‘He’?” Dorothée prompted.

  “Gui.” Christian set his glass down. “Bertrand wanted to know what I knew about Gui before he’d been sent to England.”

  “Madame Rannoch.” The quiet, lethal voice stopped Suzanne as she moved into the passage to the boxes. Dorothée had been claimed by Clam-Martinitz.

  “Monsieur le duc.” Suzanne extended her hand to the minister of police, now Duc d’Otrante, though she would always think of him as Fouché, and willed her fingers to remain steady as he bent over it. She was not generally given to fancies and she had dealt with—and on more than one occasion spent the night with—people she found quite repellant. But Fouché always sent a chill through her. His quiet demeanor radiated menace. Or perhaps it was the knowledge of the number of people he had tortured and sent to their death, whether Bonapartist or Royalist. Or that he didn’t even pretend to have principles.