Tender the Storm (13 page)

The interior of the house, however, soon dispelled its first, gloomy impression. Zoë and Francoise, with Charles Lagrange acting as their escort, climbed the outer staircase and passed through to the grand entrance hall, two stories high, and with two cantilevered staircases at one end, which rose gracefully to the next floor. The contents of the house Zoë knew to be splendid. The plates, the linen, the fine porcelain and furniture were thought to be worth a king's ransom. And the duke's picture collection was widely held to be without par in all Europe. Thoughts of plates, porcelain, pictures and such like were soon banished, however, when the girls' beheld the elegance of the fashionables, espe
cially the ladies, who waited in line to pay their respects to their hostess.

The padded bustles and hoops of a few years before had given way to a more classical silhouette. Skirts fell in graceful folds from just below the bosom. Trains were longer and swept the floor, a cause for peril for those gentlemen who had yet to accustom themselves to the latest in feminine fashions. And though, at first glance, the sea of pale muslins and silks was uniformly colorless, the precious gems and metals which adorned the bare throats and arms of some of the most beautiful women in London added a brilliance which could not be eclipsed.

Zoë fingered the pearl gray muslin which she had altered to the current mode at Francoise's behest, and she decided that she was very glad she had taken the older girl's advice. True, had she worn the green velvet she would not now be frozen to the marrow. But Zoë counted comfort as next to nothing when making her curtsies to the crème de la crème of English society. She was French. She was female. To be considered
démodé
was to lose face twice over.

"I told you so," murmured Francoise in a soft undertone, and arranged the folds of her pale primrose muslin in a pointed reference to the gowns she and Zoë had spent hours unpicking and putting together for tonight's party.

Zoë flashed her friend an amused look and behind her painted fan remarked that though the ladies were alert on all suits, the gentlemen, from all appearances, could not make up their minds
whether they were fish or fowl.

It was a fair comment in the opinion of Charles Lagrange. Some of the older gentlemen sported powdered wigs with queues. The younger generation, and the French who were present, to a man, eschewed this outdated fashion. Their locks were natural, in a variety of styles, from a short crop, to shoulder-length hair tied in back with a ribbon. Some gentlemen wore elaborately embroidered velvet or silk coats and waistcoats with a fall of lace at the throat and wrists. Others had adopted the more austere French fashion, and sported a simple knotted cravat or stock in pristine white silk or muslin, set off to perfection with a plain dark frock coat.

Snuffboxes were very much in vogue as were quizzing glasses, the latter an affectation which embarrassed Zoë excessively. If a lady caught a gentleman's fancy, he did not hesitate to raise the glass which was suspended from his neck on a ribbon. Bold eyes would thereupon make a thorough appraisal until some other lady chanced to come into the gentleman's line of vision.

At the entrance to the Grand Drawing Room, Zoë made herself known to her hostess. Georgina Devonshire, at something under forty, was the reigning queen of society and still justly accredited as an incomparable. Her hair was of that hue which Zoë.
esteemed
above all others —more fair than titian — and her Junoesque stature filled Zoë with nothing but admiration. But it was the duchess's manners, unstudied and generous, which completely won her over. And though Zoë spent only a moment or two exchanging idle words on the difficulties meeting

French émigrés in London, by the time she passed on down the reception line, she felt as if the duchess was one of her most devoted friends.

The stars of the Devonshire House galaxy were out in force —among them Lady Melbourne, Sheridan the playwright, and Charles James Fox, the Whig orator of some distinction. It was rumored that the Prince of Wales was to put in an appearance later in the evening. But with eight hundred guests congregating in several saloons, Zoë felt sure that in the squeeze she was bound to miss the foremost
chevalier
in the whole of Europe.

There was no music, no cards,
no
entertainment of any description. People wandered about, from one great room to
another, sipping
champagne and striking up conversations with total strangers, as the fancy took them. In the space of an hour, Zoë had conversed with no less than three duchesses, five marchionesses, and a sprinkling of the lesser nobility, and those were of the English fraternity. On the French side, it seemed that every other guest lay- claim to a title.
Some of the faces, Zoë recognized.
She had been introduced to them at various functions since arriving in London.

They were in the supper room, exclaiming over the plethora of delicacies which the duchess had laid out for her guests, when Zoë caught sight of a face she recognized but could not put a name to. Over the brim of her crystal glass, she studied the gentleman in question.

He was, by her reckoning, in his mid-thirties, distinguished looking, but far from handsome. His nose was too big, his chin was too square, and his
bushy, black eyebrows met in the middle. Though he had adopted the newer fashion of simplicity, he wore a powdered wig tied in back in a queue with a black ribbon.

He turned to the side, revealing the presence of two gentlemen with whom he had been conversing. Zoë gave only a cursory glance to his fair-haired companion. But it jogged her memory as nothing else could. Deputy Rolfe had blond hair. And then she recognized the older gentleman. It was Housard, the man who had acted as their coachman from Rouen to Coutances. The last she had seen of him was on the island of Jersey.

Her eyes swiveled back to his blond-haired companion. She gave a little cry and set down her glass, spilling droplets of wine over the white linen tablecloth.

"Zoë?
You look as though you'd seen a ghost." Francoise touched a finger to Zoë's ashen cheeks. "Are you all right, dear?"

"Excuse me," said Zoë. Her voice trembled in agitation. The gentlemen had their backs to her as they idled their way to the marble foyer. A whole roomful of people obstructed her path to the man whom she was almost certain was Deputy Rolfe.

"Zoë, what . . . ?"

She used her elbows to clear a way to the door. In the foyer, the crush of people was formidable. She looked around wildly, refusing to accept that she had lost her quarry. But Deputy Rolfe and Housard were nowhere to be seen. Drawing several, steadying breaths, she took stock of her surroundings. A number of people were already calling for their coaches to convey them to the next soiree in their round of parties. Others were ascending the stairs to take in the famous picture gallery. She sagged against a table, not knowing where to begin to look for them.

It was Tinteniac who led the way as they ascended the marble staircase. Rolfe and Housard fell into step behind him. They lingered in the gallery, ostensibly to admire their host's picture collection, then, unobserved, slipped into a small anteroom.

"Her Grace is most generous," observed Tinteniac, indicating a silver salver set with three crystal glasses and a decanter of amber liquid. Not one of the gentlemen doubted that it was the finest contraband cognac that France had to offer.

For a time, conversation was desultory and touched on the war and recent events in France. The gentlemen were ready to replenish their glasses before the reason for their clandestine meeting was finally broached.

Rolfe had heard some of it before from Tinteniac. It was known that a secret society with its origins in France was behind a series of assassination attempts in England.

"We suspect that your own brother may have been one of the first casualties," observed Tinteniac.

"Have you proof of this?" asked Rolfe sharply.

"None whatsoever.
But all things considered, it's not an unreasonable supposition."

"What Monsieur Tinteniac means to say," interposed Housard, "is that the victims of these plots
were not chosen at random. Your late brother, in common with three other victims, was known to be backing a Royalist landing in France."

"Backing?
Do you mean with money? It's the first I've heard of it!"

"Nevertheless, it's the truth," retorted Housard.
"To the tune of ten thousand pounds, to be exact."

Rolfe's expression was arrested. "Ten thousand pounds?" he murmured. He was remembering that when he had taken over the estates on his brother's demise, that very sum of money had shown up in the account books as having been dispersed to a certain charity for French émigrés,
Les Amis du Soleil.
He'd been curious about the group. Investigation had proved fruitless. No trace of any group by that name could be found, and he had come to the conclusion that the whole thing was a fabrication.

"I presume your brother did not take you into his confidence," commented Housard.

"You presume correctly. In those days, France seemed like the end of the world. Quite frankly, I wasn't interested, and Edward knew it." Rolfe gazed speculatively at his two companions. "What exactly is to be my assignment?" he asked.

Tinteniac rose to his feet. "Ill leave Housard to put you in the picture," he said and bolted his drink. "No sense taking any chances. I'll patrol the gallery. Better lock the door behind me."

When the door was locked behind Tinteniac, Rolfe turned his attention to his companion. "Well, Monsieur Housard, I'm listening. How do you fit into Tinteniac's network, precisely?"

Housard brought his glass to his lips and imbibed
slowly. After a moment's considering silence, he said, "Tinteniac's network has nothing to do with me except insofar as Tinteniac and I collaborate from time to time."

"Such as at the present moment," interposed Rolfe.

"As you say," Housard readily agreed. "In normal circumstances, France is my field of operations, not England."

"Then why the change?"

"This secret society, which goes by the name of
La Compagnie,
by the bye, has spread to England."

"I see." Rolfe knew he would not get a straight answer, but he asked the question just the same. "Who are you, Monsieur Housard?"

He had known, of course, that his coachman was no ordinary fugitive from the French authorities. His instructions had been to deliver him to the safe house in Coutances whatever the cost to life or limb. The child, Fleur, was small fry in comparison.

Housard carefully adjusted his stocky frame in the commodious Queen Anne chair. "Who I am is not important. For the moment, I am passing myself off as an émigré, a former lawyer of moderate persuasions, whose name went on the prescribed lists last spring."