Almost a Lady (31 page)

“Oh, have no fear,” she said, taking her seat. “I’ll manage that without any difficulty. One question, though. Can I not afford both a coachman
and
a majordomo?”

The sharp-edged tone would have amused him in other circumstances, but it couldn’t now. Cosimo turned away and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Everyone makes economies at present and it would not be questioned that I would take both positions.” He turned his head to look at her, his gaze intent. “It’s important that only I drive you. I need to see you safely at your destination, and get you safely home afterwards.”

Meg nodded, her ironic levity of a moment ago banished.

“I also speak English, by the way.” Cosimo raised his whip to give the horses the signal to start. “You should feel comfortable in either language, it’s what people are expecting of Madame Giverny of Scottish descent . . . who, by the way, is choosing not to use her title in the light of the political situation after the revolution.”

“But of course, why would I insist on an outmoded form of address?” Meg asked coolly.

“Of course Madame wouldn’t,” he agreed with a hidden smile, flicking his whip above the horses’ hindquarters. “I should mention, however, that in the company of Bonaparte and his cohorts, you should endeavor to speak only French, for the same political reasons.”

“How much easier it would be if I spoke Corsican,” Meg mused. “To seduce a man in his own language . . . wouldn’t that make this so much simpler?”

“Enough now,” he said as the horses moved forward. “Remember that the only time you can talk to me in such fashion is when I say so. Even if you think we’re alone, if I don’t give you an indication that it’s safe, you must not drop your role. Is that clear?”

“What do you think?” Meg asked. “I’m not a fool.”

“If I thought you were, we wouldn’t be doing this now.”

It was such an obvious fact Meg didn’t trouble to follow it up. She folded her hands daintily in her lap and settled back, closely watching the terrain around her, learning what she could from what she saw. It was clear to her that any observation, however casual, could prove useful.

As they drove along the coast the road became busier, with carriages and horse traffic. They passed troops of soldiers and sutler wagons laden with supplies. As the road followed the curve of a bay the town of Toulon lay ahead. The harbor was a mass of masts, pennants flying in the brisk sea breeze.

Meg’s stomach clenched, her heart speeded up, sweat gathered on the nape of her neck and in the hollow of her throat. They were deep in enemy country and all she had was the flimsiest of disguises.

And the partnership of a man who had done all this before, more times than she wanted to know.

She took a slow, deep breath, watching Cosimo’s back as he guided the horses through increasingly narrow streets along the quay. Nothing about his posture indicated tension. And clearly his hands weren’t giving any such signals to the horses, who obeyed the slightest touch of the reins, walking sedately around obstacles, not so much as flicking their ears at the raucous shouts coming from the quay.

Cosimo turned the horses away from the quay, into a cobbled lane. He drew up in a quiet square behind a church and in front of a tall, thin, stone row house. A groom appeared as if from nowhere to take the horses as Cosimo stepped down from the carriage and opened the door for Meg.

“Madame,” he said with a deep bow.

“Thank you,” she said distantly, stepping onto the curb.

Cosimo went up to the front door and it opened before he reached it. “Madame Giverny,” he announced, brushing aside the maid who had opened the door. He held it for Meg’s ceremonial entrance.

She stepped into a cool, dim hall with a flagstone floor and white plaster walls. A small group of servants were gathered at the foot of a staircase at the rear of the hall.

“Madame, may I introduce your staff.” Her majordomo presented her housekeeper, her cook, her personal maid, and with an all-encompassing gesture the various members of the under staff who would keep the household going without her ever needing to address them by name.

Meg acknowledged each one with a vague smile, although she took swift notice of the woman Cosimo had chosen to wait on her personally. Her abigail would be the most difficult servant to deceive.

Estelle was young, rather flustered as she curtsied. Probably not too experienced, Meg guessed, therefore more than willing to ignore any oddities in this household simply for the status of working for a
comtesse
. . . even if the countess chose to drop the title in the interests of discretion. Cosimo would have reckoned that any shortcomings the inexperienced maid possessed, Meg would be able to deflect. She was accustomed to taking care of herself, after all. And the youngster would not ask awkward questions when she was being given the opportunity to learn a trade at the hands of a kind and understanding mistress.

So, unsurprisingly, Cosimo knew what he was doing.

“I understand Paul, the coiffeur, is expected at six, Estelle,” she said, sweeping to the stairs. “Majordomo, have the milliners and dressmakers left their choices for my selection?”

“In your chamber, madame,” the majordomo said with a low bow. “And they will wait upon you at your convenience to make any alterations you deem necessary.”

Meg gave him a nod of thanks and swept up the stairs, Estelle hurrying behind her.

“This way, madame.” Estelle darted sideways at the head of the stairs and flung open a pair of double doors that opened onto a large bedchamber. Another set of doors stood open to a balcony that offered a sliver of a view of the harbor in the distance. “I trust Madame will be comfortable.” She stood aside as Meg examined the room.

“Yes, thank you, Estelle,” Meg said warmly. “Now, let us look at these offerings of the dressmakers before Paul comes to do my hair.”

Chapter   22

A
lain, who is that woman who just came in?” The short, thickset young man wore a general’s uniform crusted with gold braid and medals that bespoke a triumphant career barely believable in a man not yet out of his twenties. He spoke in a low voice to his equerry, who as always stood in readiness at his shoulder.

“Which one, General?” The equerry peered around the crowded salon. It seemed that the entire French social elite had gathered in Toulon to bid General Bonaparte and the French navy fair winds and victory on the conquering hero’s latest campaign. Beautiful women were everywhere to be seen, and hostesses vied with each other to put on the most elegant soirees, balls, and dinners.

“Redhead,” Bonaparte said, gesturing with his champagne glass. “She reminds me of someone. She came in with Jean Guillaume.” He gave a short laugh. “That one’s always the first to latch on to anyone interesting.”

The equerry followed the indicating glass and saw a petite red-haired woman in a striking gown of bronze silk with a pronounced décolletage that revealed small but very white breasts, their crowns barely concealed. A collar of emeralds encircled her white throat, and an emerald comb nestled in the fashionably cropped red curls. “
Distinguée,”
he pronounced. “Definitely no ingénue.” His general, for all his youth, had little or no interest in debutantes.

“No, but who
is
she?” the general demanded impatiently. “I would swear I’ve met her before.”

“I’ll find out at once, sir.” The equerry melted into the crowd. He paused beside a knot of officers standing in the window embrasure and a murmured exchange took place, accompanied by many extravagant hand gestures and a few knowing chuckles. Now in possession of her name, and even more intrigued by a few other facts he’d gleaned, the equerry continued to circle the room until he reached the side of the red-haired new arrival.

She was in the middle of a group of men, her escort, Major Guillaume, standing beside her with a rather proprietorial air. She turned immediately to include the equerry in the circle, offering him a dazzling smile, her green eyes crinkling at the corners.

Definitely no ingénue, the equerry reiterated. And from what he’d heard, definitely a woman of experience. Very much General Bonaparte’s style for the casual liaisons he liked to enjoy before a campaign. Facilitating and monitoring such contacts for his commander had long fallen to the equerry’s hand. He bowed. “Madame Giverny, I believe?”

“You believe right, sir,” she said in faintly accented French. “But I do not have the pleasure?” She plied her ivory fan with a leisurely movement that somehow contrived to be unmistakably inviting, her eyebrows slightly raised in a question mark, eyes smiling at him over the delicately painted chicken skin.

“Colonel Alain Montaine, at your service, madame.” He swept her another deeper bow, taking the hand she proffered and carrying it to his lips. “Guillaume, where have you been keeping the lovely lady?” he demanded of the major.

Meg laughed, a musical trill long perfected in the game of flirtation. “You flatter me, Colonel, but I assure you no one keeps me anywhere.”

“Madame Giverny has but recently arrived in town,” the major said somewhat stiffly, clearly not enjoying this banter between his companion and the colonel.

“That’s true, Colonel,” the lady said. “I arrived from Paris two days ago. I
had
to come to Toulon to offer my support to General Bonaparte, his army, and the fleet. Such a bold enterprise.” The fan moved slowly, the green eyes sparkling at him over the top.

“Indeed, madame,” he agreed, aware of the general’s impatient eyes upon him from across the room. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe the general wants me.” He bowed in farewell and stepped back into the crowd.

“Charming gentleman,” Meg observed, turning her smiling attention back to her escort.

The major acceded to this with a faint and unconvincing smile. “May I fetch you a glass of champagne, madame?”

“Thank you, how delightful,” she said. “But don’t be long now.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“No . . . no . . . not a second more than necessary, I assure you, madame.” He hastened away, and straight into the ambush prepared for him by the equerry, who had renewed orders from the general.

“What do you know of her, Guillaume? She’s very free in her manner.”

The major glanced over his shoulder to where Madame Giverny stood chatting easily to the circle of men around her. He fretted at the delay in returning to her side, but the general’s equerry could not be put off. “As I understand it, she’s a widow . . . a wealthy widow judging by her household establishment. She has taken a substantial house just behind Ste. Marie.”

“Yes, that much I already know. But who are her friends?” The colonel’s speculative gaze rested on the woman’s animated countenance.

The major shrugged. “I don’t know. I came upon her yesterday morning driving along the corniche. Beautiful pair of match bays,” he added. “She hailed me, or rather her driver hailed me. He wanted to know how to reach the Place d’Armes. Apparently someone had told Madame Giverny that the troops were reviewed there every morning and she wanted to see the spectacle.”

“And no one knows anything concrete about her except her name and that she’s a widow,” the colonel mused. “A rich widow.” He frowned, his intent gaze still on Madame Giverny. “She is
very
free in her manner.”

The major looked a little put out. “Just because a woman is alone is no reason to assume some scandal,” he declared, well aware now that the equerry had been making other inquiries and knowing full well what he would have heard. “The whispers about her are baseless.”

“One would like to think so,” the colonel mused. “But she is both alone and
unknown,
” he pointed out. “And she has a strange accent. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“She’s only half French,” the major stated. “Her mother’s family are Scottish. She married a Swiss count, I’m told.”

“Giverny.” The equerry shook his head. “Not a name I know.”

“Why should you?” snapped the major. “Provincial Swiss nobility. There are plenty such in France these days, all too eager to deny their
aristo
roots.”

“Quite so.” Colonel Montaine nodded. “Well, she’s interesting, I grant you that.” He strode off towards his pacing general, unconvinced by the major’s partisanship. He would lay odds the wealthy widow probably had a checkered past and if the general was interested in her, then it was part of his equerry’s remit to examine the lady’s past and present credentials very carefully. A discreet exercise usually conducted without Bonaparte’s knowledge.

“Well?” Bonaparte demanded as the colonel reached his side.

“There’s not much to tell, General. Madame Giverny is newly arrived in town and appears to have no connections here.” He told the general what little he had gleaned, omitting the whispers. Bonaparte would consider them irrelevant to a casual and very limited liaison.

“Did you say she reminded you of someone, sir?” he asked when he’d laid out his scanty information.

Bonaparte frowned. “Yes, but I can’t remember who or when. I can’t put my finger on it.” He shook his head, dismissing the puzzle. “Bring her to me.”

The colonel bowed. “Immediately, sir.” He threaded his way back through the crowd. General Bonaparte was so certain of the power of his position, it wouldn’t occur to him that a civilian might resent being summoned with such lack of ceremony. It was up to his equerry to present the command in more palatable terms.

The lady and her escort had moved to another conversational group and he could hear Madame Giverny’s trill of laughter above the buzz. She tapped a gentleman on the arm with her fan in mock reproof at whatever he’d said to her. It was striking that there were no women in her circle, but if the whispers had any foundation, it would seem that the lady had little interest in her own sex, he reflected with a dry smile.

“Madame Giverny, I bring an entreaty from General Bonaparte,” he said entering the circle without preamble. “He most earnestly requests an introduction.” He offered his arm.

So it had begun.
Meg was aware of a thrill of fear, and almost immediately a surge of exhilaration. A cool smile played over her lips, which utterly belied the rapid beat of her heart and the slight moistening of her palms. “I’m honored, Colonel,” she said, placing her gloved hand on his brocaded arm. “I would never have dared hope for the opportunity to meet General Bonaparte in person.” This last was said in a confidential tone that carried a hint of awed reverence.

The colonel said nothing, merely inclined his head in acknowledgment of a sentiment that could only be the truth.

General Bonaparte was pacing restlessly in the window embrasure, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze watching their progress through the crowd. As they reached him, he bowed and seized Meg’s hand, carrying it to his lips. “Madame, this is an honor.” His eyes from beneath deeply arched brows were as bright and sharp as an eagle’s as they rested on her countenance, and when his large mouth curved in a smile he revealed unusually white, even teeth.

Meg gave him a frank smile that masked her own swiftly assessing scrutiny and said with a sketched curtsy, “The honor is only mine, General Bonaparte. As I was telling the colonel, I had never dared to hope I would meet you in person.”

He drew her hand into his arm. “Let us stroll on the terrace, madame, it’s a veritable beehive in here. Alain, bring us some champagne, and some of those little lobster patties. I find them delightful.”

“Yes, General.” The equerry went off to do his errand, glancing over his shoulder at the pair as the general held aside a heavy velvet curtain for the lady to pass through the open French window onto the terrace that looked out over the harbor.

“So, madame, I understand you are Scottish,” the general said, patting the hand that rested on his arm. “There are close ties between our two countries.”

Be careful now,
she told herself. With a cool head she was word perfect in her story, but now with excitement and apprehension warring in her blood she could easily slip up.

“Historically, yes, General,” she agreed, pausing at the balustrade and deftly changing the subject. “What a magnificent sight that is.” She gestured with her fan towards the mass of ships in the harbor, their lights ablaze. “Will you engage with Admiral Nelson, do you think?”

Bonaparte smiled with a touch of condescension. “If Admiral Nelson is foolish enough to desire such an engagement, then, indeed, madame, we shall embrace the opportunity.”

Meg felt the hairs on the back of her neck lift. For two days she had been playing the game, so caught up in her role as the scandalous widow she had almost forgotten how high the stakes were. Now, looking down at the massed fleet in the harbor, the most powerful and dangerous man in Europe standing at her shoulder, she was hit by the full force of the implications of this war with all the impact of a fist in her stomach.

“Perhaps he won’t be foolish enough,” she suggested with a light laugh from behind her fan. “You are not known for losing engagements, General Bonaparte.”

A low rumble of laughter came from deep within his barrel chest. “No, indeed not, madame.” He turned his large head to look at her, his gaze lascivious. “I am not known for losing engagements of any kind, dear lady.” He became aware of a servant standing discreetly behind them and clicked his fingers at him.

The man stepped forward. The general took a glass of champagne from the tray the man proffered and gave it to Meg, with a half bow, then took one himself. “Try one of these, madame.” He took one of the little vol-au-vents from the silver platter and held it to Meg’s lips.

Napoleon Bonaparte didn’t waste any time,
Meg reflected, allowing him to pop the morsel into her mouth. Well, she wasn’t interested in wasting too much time herself, but neither could she capitulate too quickly. It was time to beat a strategic retreat.

“You are too kind, General,” she murmured as she swallowed what to her tongue was as tasteless and dry as dust. “But if you’ll excuse me now, I must rejoin my escort.”

“My dear madame, I’m not sure I will excuse you,” he said, laying a detaining hand on her arm. “Surely you can spare me a few more minutes of your time. Or is the company of Major Guillaume so enticing?” He waggled an arched eyebrow at her.

Meg’s eyes smiled at him over her fan. “Why, of course not, sir. How could anyone compete with General Bonaparte? I mean only that I would not intrude upon your time. You are the busiest man in France, after all.”

“Oh, you flatter me, madame,” he said with a careless wave that seemed to encompass the fleet below them as if in denial of his demur.

“I doubt that, sir.” Meg adjusted the gauzy scarf draped over her elbows and rested her arms on the balustrade. “When do you intend to make sail? If I may ask such a question . . .”

“In a little under two weeks, madame. The fleet will be outfitted by then, and the Army of the Orient will set sail for Malta.” He spoke with a satisfied confidence that gave Meg another inner shudder. His belief in himself and his prowess was so absolute it was almost impossible not to believe it oneself.