Tender the Storm (39 page)

Only her?
She thought of Roberta Ashton and Rosamund and Mimi and Fifi, not to mention Germaine de Stael.
Only her?
That did it! "What do you think you're doing?" she burst out, and raked her fingernails across the width of his shoulders, compelling him to release her.

Rolfe laughed softly, a sound of sheer masculine triumph, and he fumbled for the closure on his breeches. Zoë went wild. She went for his hair. One yank was all it took. She screamed when it came away in her hands. My God, what had she done to him?

Several things happened in quick succession. The door burst open. Light flooded the room. A gun went off, shattering a pitcher of water on a commode near the window. Zoë screamed and bolted upright as Rolfe rolled from the bed.

Grim faced, Salome advanced into the room. In one hand she had a candelabrum, in the other, an upraised broom. Behind her, Samson was cursing and valiantly trying to reload an antiquated pistol. Several faces, which Zoë recognized as belonging to the various members of her staff, peeked around the doorframe.

"A w-wig!" sobbed Zoë. "He was wearing a w- wig," and she threw the horrid thing from her.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Three o'clock of the morning, thought Zoë, and could scarcely credit that she was entertaining a gentleman caller in her mother's yellow
salle
at such an ungodly hour. It wasn't proper, but then, the gentleman caller wasn't precisely proper either. In point of fact, everything about the situation was ludicrously
improper,
and if she were in her right mind, she would show him the door. Oh God, what a night it had been.

"You haven't heard a word I've said," said Rolfe, halting in his pacing to pin her with a look.

To prove him wrong, Zoë recited his words back to him. "You are representing your government on a very delicate mission."

"Peace talks," he reminded her.

She believed him. The war was going remarkably well for France. England's allies were falling to French armies one by one. It was only natural that England would wish to sue for favorable terms before she, too, succumbed. Somehow, Zoë could not find it in herself to care one way or another which side eventually won the war.

He was waiting for her to make some response.

"Yes, peace talks," she agreed. "And since there are some in the Convention who are diametrically opposed to peace with England, you are passing yourself off as a Swedish national, a diplomat, until you sound out the opposition."

"It's imperative that my real identity remains a secret for the present. This is all highly irregular, you understand."

"Quite.
Though I don't think much of your disguise.
Anyone might recognize you. Francoise almost did."

"It's a chance I'm willing to take," he answered with a carelessness Zoë could not approve.

He could scarcely credit that she was
so —the
word
gullible
came to mind. He rejected it guiltily in favor of the far more acceptable
trusting.
No sooner had he done so than he lost patience with himself.

Rather sternly, he reminded himself that the subdued young woman who gazed up at him with such mournful, innocent eyes was, contrary to appearances, as guilty as all hell. At the very least, she was a runaway wife whom any self-respecting husband would beat soundly for her misdemeanors. She might well be worse —a member of
La Compagnie
who had connived at his death. To forget that fact was worse than folly. It was dangerous. It might very easily cost him his life.

His eyes roamed over Zoë's slight form, and his logic developed a crack. Every instinct repudiated the suspicion he had nursed since the night Housard had taken him into his confidence. Whatever else she might be, his little wife was no murderess. It wasn't in Zoë to harm a fly. He knew her too well. And it had only taken the sight of her to
give his thoughts a proper direction.

Still, there were things that flicked at him like the sting of the lash. He didn't like the company Zoë kept. The gentlemen were too French by half, libertines to a man, if he knew anything of gentlemen. And the ladies were little better than
barques
of frailty. Rolfe had no real quarrel with the prevailing morals in Paris. He felt quite at home in such society. What set his teeth on edge was that his little wife should be one of its brightest stars.

From the moment she had stepped inside the Swedish Embassy, his eyes had been drawn to her. He had been admiring the lady covertly for some time before it came to him that the lady was none other than his very own wife! From that moment on, he had become as sulky as a schoolboy. With her shorn locks and fashionable, transparent muslins, his little Zoë had changed beyond all recognition. But it was more than that. Her gestures, her poise, her confidence were a wonder to behold. As was her flirting.

He was smiling when he addressed her and could not know that his eyes betrayed his volatile thoughts. "You won't give me away?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, hinting of wariness. "No."

He rewarded her with one of his irresistible grins.

Flustered, she asked, "What news of home?"

"Home?"
One eyebrow rose.

"I mean England, of course."

"Of course."
The expression in the cold gray eyes warmed slightly. "What do you wish to know?"

The next few minutes were taken up in satisfying Zoë's curiosity about Rolfe's family. It seemed that
everyone was jogging along in much the same way as before. There were no messages for her, no references to anyone expressing one iota of regret for her absence and her subsequent divorce from Rolfe. It was as if the months she had spent at the Abbey had never taken place, so little impression had she made. She thought of Ladies Emily and Sara and swallowed the lump in her throat, trying not to betray that she was cut to the quick by their indifference.

"I heard about your parents, Zoë. I'm truly sorry, my dear."

Zoë swallowed. "Thank you," she murmured, and felt comforted by the clasp of Rolfe's hand on her shoulder.

"Have you traced your brother and sister yet?"

She shook her head, not daring to look at him.

"Perhaps
I-"

"No!" she cut
in. "I . . .
I have come to accept that they both perished during the Terror. Really, there's no necessity to pursue this any further."

"I see."

She noted a hardening in him and said casually, hoping to divert him, "I presume Madame de Stael knows your real identity?"

"You presume correctly. Germaine and I are old friends. I was a frequent visitor to Juniper Hall when she lived in England." Something in Zoë's expression moved Rolfe to explain, "It was all perfectly innocent. I was there for talks with Monsieur Talleyrand. And now I wish you would tell me why your maid did a sudden turnabout when I grabbed my walking stick and swung it in the air."

The undignified scene in Zoë's bedchamber would
be forever imprinted on his mind. Rolfe hadn't experienced such extreme mortification since the day his mother had barged unannounced into his rooms in Baker Street and surprised him in bed with the attractive young wife of the portly and elderly earl of Summerfield. His mother had gone into one of her spasms. Zoë's maid, on the other hand, had gone into transports.

What happened next was even more incomprehensible. With all due respect, as if he had been an honored guest, he was ushered down the stairs and into Zoë's drawing room where he was plied with brandy and every sort of mouthwatering delicacy until Zoë should make
herself
presentable and join him.

Rolfe recognized that there had been some relaxation in the proprieties governing conduct between the sexes in France. Nevertheless, he had been discovered in a most compromising position, to all intents and purposes on the point of ravishing the lady of the house. That Zoë's servants had treated the episode with so little regard for her good name, did not sit well with him.

There was a hard glitter to his eyes when he demanded peremptorily, "I should like to know why I have been treated like an honored guest when I ought to have been set upon and thrown to the dogs. Do you realize that it's after three o'clock of the morning?" He swung his walking cane and pointed it in the direction of the mantel clock. "And you are entertaining a gentleman caller in your drawing room?"

Zoë winced at the volume of Rolfe's voice. She was glad that he had stopped his angry pacing. It
made her nervous. This irate gentleman in the powdered wig bore no resemblance to the Rolfe she remembered.

This man frightened her. He was volatile. She didn't know what to make of him. One moment, his glances were almost soft with tenderness and the next moment sparks were shooting from his eyes. His control was on a tight
leash, that
much was obvious. Instinct warned her to proceed with extreme caution.

"I'm waiting for the dignity of a reply." His tone promised very unpleasant consequences if she offered him an unacceptable answer.

Swallowing, Zoë said, "It was the walking cane, you see."

"No, I don't see," said Rolfe, and raised his cane a few inches from the floor and brought it down smartly.

Zoë jumped. After a moment, she licked her lips and said, "Salome, my maid, took it for
a . . . a
wand."

"A wand?"

"You're not familiar with Tarot cards?" queried Zoë. At Rolfe's blank look she went on, "No, well, I'm not very familiar with them either. But Salome is, you see. She thinks that she is something of a fortune teller. And she had taken into her head that you are in my cards."