Tender the Storm (24 page)

She took that thought with her to bed.

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As the residents of the Abbey retired for the night, the social whirl in Town, such as it was in that stifling indolent August when London was thin of company, was just getting underway Amy Granger, a young actress of Covent Garden fame, took one last searching glance in the looking glass before flouncing out the stage door.

The
marquess's
hired hackney was waiting for her. One of the coachmen handed her in with gratifying deference. Amy settled herself comfortably on the leather banquette and considered her good fortune.

She'd had her eye on Rivard for some time past, ever since he had taken up with Rosamund and had set her up in a little house in Duke Street. If Amy played her cards right, she was thinking Rosamund might soon become ancient history and she, little Amy Granger, might be the one to lord it over the other girls in the Green Room.

At the thought of the high and mighty Rosamund, she stifled a giggle. Rosamund had no notion that her protector was straying. Not that the marquess had taken any liberties. Amy frowned, wondering why he had not.

Betrand.
It was sheer ill luck that the marquess knew of
Betrand's
existence. That must be it. A gentleman of Rivard's consequence would not offer
carte blanche
to a lady who had another protector hovering in the wings. She had decided that, as soon as may be, Betrand must be given his
conge.
It was too bad that in the last little while, the young Frenchman had removed from town to visit with friends in the country.

She tried to imagine that moment when she turned Betrand off, and her heart began to race unpleasantly.

Betrand would not take his dismissal with grace. He had a temper, that one. He was young and he was reckless. He would challenge the marquess to a duel, if she knew anything of Betrand.

Her eyes glowed with pleasure as she considered how far she had risen in the world. Two gentlemen of consequence fighting a duel over
her—
little Amy Granger! And her sister had predicted that she would come to a bad end! She snorted derisively. Elsie's life of respectability was not for her — not if it meant a life of drudgery. God, how she wished Elsie could see her now —in her silks and satins, and riding in a fine carriage! She giggled, thinking that Elsie would no doubt find some text from the Bible to try and take her down a peg or two. Poor Elsie!
All that beauty gone to waste on an impoverished young farmer in the wilds of Devon.
And all she had to show for it was a passel of brats. Elsie would be old before her time.

The coach drew to a halt at the back entrance of Stephen's Hotel on Bond Street. The marquess received her in a private parlor up one flight of stairs. A late supper had been laid on. But though Rivard was flatteringly attentive, there was no mention of setting her up in her own establishment. Amy swallowed her disappointment. She had been right about one thing. Until she had given Betrand his
conge
the marquess meant to keep his distance. By the time the coach was sent for to take her to her own lodgings, she had quite made up her mind. She would pen a note to Betrand and give it into the hands of the innkeeper at the White Hart. Betrand had advised her that, if it were necessary, he could be reached that way. When next the marquess sent for her, resolved Amy, she would be free of Betrand.

From the upstairs parlor window, Rolfe watched the hackney till it disappeared around a corner. Another hackney pulled out of a side street and, within moments, it too disappeared around the same corner. Miss Amy Granger, reflected Rolfe, had never been better guarded in her life, if only she knew it.

He felt a twinge of guilt. He knew exactly what was going on in Amy's avaricious little mind. When it was over, he must present her with an expensive trinket if only to compensate the girl for her time. If she led them to
Le Patron
he would be happy to throw in a handsome reward.

God, what a debacle! Rolfe threw himself down in the overstuffed armchair flanking the empty grate, reflecting that the week past must surely be one of the worst of his whole life.

Under orders from Mr. Pitt, he had given the signal to arrest all suspected members of
La Compagnie.
With support from a detachment of guards, his agents had moved in. Who could have foreseen the blood bath that followed? They knew, of course, that they were dealing with fanatics. What they had not known was that, when cornered, those fanatics would turn their violence upon themselves. Evidently, a tenet of their dogma was that no one should be taken alive.

Of the forty suspected and known members of the sect, more than twenty had been killed resisting arrest or had died by their own hand. The rest had gone into hiding. Betrand was one of them. And it went without
saying,
Le Patron
was still at large.

Unlike Mr. Pitt, Rolfe could take no comfort from the thought that
La Compagnie
had been effectively smashed in England. They had been so close to capturing
Le Patron.
They had shown their hand prematurely. Betrand was their last link to that elusive gentleman. Hence Rolfe's determined cultivation of
Betrand's
mistress, Amy Granger.

The girl knew nothing. Rolfe was sure of it. She had played no part in
La Compagnie.
Their only hope was that Betrand would grow careless. If luck was on their side, he would come out of hiding to be with the girl. And if and when he did, they would be waiting.

Some days after the contretemps with the dowager, Zoë descended the stairs to the Great Hall. She was dressed in a light traveling cloak and carried a well- worn portmanteau in one hand. She'd been refused admission to her mother-in-law's chambers, but Charlotte was there to see her off.

"Say good-bye to the children for me," said Zoë.

Charlotte opened her mouth and shut it again. Nothing she could find to say would dissuade Zoë. She did not know if she wished to dissuade her. When she thought about it, she wished she could go with her. One day, she might.

When carriage and outriders took the last turn in the drive, Charlotte turned back into the house. At the top of the stairs, she was met by the dowager's maid with the message that she was wanted in the dowager's chamber at once.

The smell of burnt feathers assailed her nostrils. Her mother-in-law was propped up in bed, reclining languidly against a mound of cushions and pillows. The maids were dismissed.

"Has . . . has she gone?" asked the dowager.

"She has."

"Frightful, ungrateful wretch of a girl!
I hope Rolfe beats her!"

"Do you?" asked Charlotte noncommittally. She toyed with the tassel on the silk rope which held back one of the curtains.

The dowager slanted her daughter-in-law a puzzled look. After a moment, she let out a breath and said, "Well, I, for one, cannot be sorry that she has gone. I wish Rolfe
would
keep her in town. Yes, and I shall write and tell him so. Then we may go on as before. How pleasant things were before
she
came among us."

Charlotte's interest was caught by something outside the window. It was a moment before she replied. "The children have just discovered that their Aunt Zoë has gone. Can you hear them? I must go to them."

"Charlotte!" commanded the dowager. Shock vibrated through her voice.

"
Mmm
?"
Charlotte halted with her hand on the doorknob.
"Oh, no.
I don't think things shall go on as before. They never do, you know. Shall I send your maids to you?"

"My maids?
But-but what about you?"

"I'm promised to the children," answered Charlotte and left the dowager open-mouthed and staring.

Zoë reached town without mishap. That Rolfe was not at home occasioned her more relief than disappointment. There was just enough time, if he so wished it, to have a fresh team hitched to the carriage to return her to the Abbey before nightfall.

With this in mind, she wasted no time in unpacking, but left the maid who had accompanied her to see to it while she set off to pay a call on Francoise. A hired hackney took her to an address in the district of
Soho
.

Much to her surprise, she found valises and trunks in the narrow vestibule and the furniture under Holland covers. Zoë had known that her friends were resolved to return to France. But by the looks of things, it seemed that their departure was imminent.

With sinking spirits, Zoë followed Francoise to a small, downstairs parlor which was still habitable. Only then, when Francoise turned to face her, did Zoë observe the older girl's unnaturally pale complexion and red-rimmed eyes.

"My dear, what is it?" she asked. "I thought you were happy to be going home to France."

"I was. I am. It's just that I'm sorry to be leaving England." Francoise gave a watery smile. "I shall miss all my friends, you see, yourself most of all."

It was an evasion, and Zoë knew it, though she could not have said how she came by that knowledge. Something was very far wrong, and Zoë had a good idea of the source of her friend's distress.

Francoise had been married for little under a month, and Zoë was beginning to wonder if her friend had come to regret her hasty marriage to Charles Lagrange. Zoë was aware that it was not a love match. Francoise had indicated as much when she had written to inform her that the marriage had already taken place. Francoise was not a romantic. She had no use for love. She wanted security, so she had written. Charles was twenty years her senior. She respected him. She would make him a good wife. They considered themselves fortunate to have found each other. Zoë did not share Francoise's sentiments. Though she was fond of Charles Lagrange, she thought that Francoise could have done so much better for herself.

The older girl made a visible effort to control her
self. She forced a smile. As if divining Zoë's thoughts, she said, "Charles thinks I'm foolish beyond permission to take on so. It's just that . . ." She shook her head helplessly before continuing, "Oh God, Zoë, I'm afraid to return to France. Who knows what awaits us there? I can never forget those last months before I came to England. I'm a coward, Zoë, and I can't seem to help myself."