Tender the Storm (41 page)

"You knew what you were doing, all right. You were wild for me. And I've got the scratches on my back to prove it."

Breasts heaving, color heating her cheekbones, Zoë regarded him in tight-lipped silence. It took a moment or two before she could find her voice. "I'm not denying that I responded to you at first but . . ."

Rolfe made a derisive sound.

"All right, so I responded to you. You're that kind of man. A marble statue would respond to you. It's a knack all rakes possess otherwise they wouldn't be rakes, would they?"

When Rolfe could unlock his jaw, he said tersely, "I never pretended that I was a monk. And if you were a real woman, you would not wish me to be one. God, you still haven't grown up, in spite of appearances."

He could not know that he had insulted Zoë in the worst way possible. "Get out," she hissed. "Get

out
before I have my man throw you out."

Rolfe practically threw her from him. He snatched up his cane and strode for the door. At the threshold, he turned back to face her. He seemed to be on the point of saying something, hesitated,
then
closed his mouth firmly. A moment later, the front door slammed as he exited.

When Paul Varlet called on Zoë the following morning, he was informed that she was not at home. In point of fact, Zoë was still sleeping off the effects of her tumultuous night. Nothing daunted, Varlet returned late of the same afternoon. This time, Zoë received him in her yellow
salle.
She was seated at the piano.

She gave him her hand. He kissed it lingeringly, looked deep into her eyes, and told her that he loved her.

Zoë covered her shock with remarkable aplomb. It was only in the last little while that it had been impressed upon her that Varlet's interest might be less than innocent. Varlet had a most unsavory reputation, Tresier had told her. She had paid scant attention until Charles Lagrange had taken her aside and reiterated Tresier's warning. In spite of finding Charles a bit of a bore, Zoë respected his opinions. That Varlet should offer her his hand in marriage had never once occurred to her.

She tried to stay the words she knew must follow, hoping to save him the pain and embarrass
ment of a refusal. Varlet, however, was determined to have his say.

"I'm so sorry, Paul," she said, after hearing him out. "I can't marry you."

"You don't mean that, Zoë. You could not be so cruel as to let me pay court to you these many months past, knowing how I care for you."

"I didn't
know . . .
I never dreamed . . . the difference in our ages," said Zoë feebly.

"That has nothing to say to anything, my dear. Observe Madame Recamier, and your own friend, Madame Lagrange. They married older gentlemen, and see how happy they are."

"But I don't love you," insisted Zoë.

"You like me a little," he said, smiling persuasively. "In time, love will come. And as for my reputation," he shrugged negligently, "naturally, it must offend one of your innocence. When you are my wife, you need never be troubled by that side of my life."

The interview became painful. Varlet would not take no for an answer. And behind his suave compliments and promises, Zoë sensed an unspecified threat to herself should she, indeed, decline his offer. She became frightened. There was a way of putting an end, once and for all, to his addresses if she were bold enough to grasp it.

Quickly coming to a decision, she said, "I can't accept your offer for the simple reason that I already am a married lady."

She knew at once that she had said the wrong thing. He went rigid. The smile was wiped from his lips.

"I . . .
I never meant to deceive you," she began, groping for words to deflect his fury. "It was a mistake. My husband and I did not suit."

"And where is this husband now?" His words were soft. His eyes were as hard as diamonds.

Dry mouthed, Zoë answered, "I —I left him in England." She was careful not to betray whether she had married an Englishman or a French émigré. "Perhaps I may divorce him. But for the moment, you see, I am not free to accept anyone."

He stepped back. The light played tricks with the angles of his face, giving him a demonic aspect. His eyes swept over her, damning, insulting. Zoë began to quake visibly.

"You jade!" he sneered.
"You slut!
You were my obsession! Little, untouched Zoë! You've made a fool of me —me, Paul Varlet! My God, I'll teach you-"

He never completed the sentence. At that moment, the door was pushed open, and Samson entered bearing a folded note on a silver salver. With trembling fingers, Zoë accepted it. Samson set down the tray and stationed himself, arms akimbo, at the open door.

Varlet's face turned purple with rage. His eyes assessed Samson's huge bulk. After a muttered imprecation, he strode from the room. Zoë went limp with relief. Only then did she unfold the note in her hand. It was nothing but a piece of blank paper. She looked a question at her retainer.

Grinning sheepishly, Samson said, "If Salome or I could write, it would say, 'Help has arrived.' "

Samson did not know where to look when his
tearful mistress pressed a grateful kiss on his cheek.

It was guilt that decided Zoë to accompany Tresier to the masquerade. In normal circumstances, she would never have considered attending this kind of function —a clandestine party, made all the more intriguing, according to Tresier, because all the principals would be incognito, and it had yet to be decided where the party was to be held. To her weak objections, Tresier had protested that no harm could come to her with him as her escort. Still, Zoë hesitated. Many ladies of her class, she knew, were not above frequenting the most questionable establishments just for the fun of it, so long as their identities remained a secret. She wondered if this was to be just such an event.

Finally, she consented. Hours before, she had refused Tresier on another matter. She could not bring herself to refuse him a second time.

Her first refusal came when he reminded her of the conversation which had taken place in Germaine de Stael's salon, when she had promised to advance him a loan. Zoë could scarcely remember more than a few words of that particular exchange. At the time, she had been flustered, her mind wandering to the gentleman who reminded her so forcibly of Rolfe.

"Of course," she said to Tresier. "How much do you require?"

He named a sum. Zoë was aghast. It was astronomical and she told him so.

"But you agreed to that sum."

"I'm sorry, Jean. I must have misunderstood," and she offered an amount that was not a tenth of what Tresier has named. She gasped when her wrist was shaken with bone-crashing strength.

"Don't play games with me. Damn, I'm sorry, Zoë. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was counting on you. It's an investment."

But no argument he put forward had the power to persuade her. A plan was forming in her mind. She meant to transfer to America as much of her funds as she dared without rousing suspicion so that she and Leon could have a fresh start. Already, she had made an appointment to see her bankers. What Tresier proposed was out of the question.

"I'm sorry. Most of my funds are invested," she said, and he could see that her decision was final.

She and Tresier had parted with every mark of civility, and when she saw him later that evening, at Juliette Recamier's salon, though ail her instincts warned her against it, she agreed to accept his escort to the masquerade, feeling that she owed him some recompense for refusing him the loan.

She should have trusted to her instincts. As soon as Tresier's coach stopped in the Rue de Richelieu, Zoë knew that she should never have agreed to come with him. They were at the Palais Royal where no decent woman dared show her face after sunset.

Rigid with hostility, she permitted Tresier to escort her through groups of
merveilleuses,
common streetwalkers in their transparent gauzes, and
incroy
-
ables
,
those outlandish fops who were brazenly mak
ing their selections for the night's pleasure. Averting her head, Zoë swept past them. They came to the theatre, now dark and empty of patrons. Tresier stepped through an arched doorway and waited for Zoë to precede him. They were in the foyer of a magnificent set of apartments.

"Whose apartments are these?" asked Zoë, the first words she had spoken to Tresier since he had helped her from the carriage.

"Madame Montansier's," he answered without elaboration.

Footmen came forward to take their black dominoes. Zoë adjusted the mask which covered half her face. The gentlemen wore
demimasks
, but took no other precaution to conceal their identities. Why should they?
reflected
Zoë, mildly irritated. Gentlemen were permitted a greater freedom than ladies. No one judged them by the company they kept.

She waited silently as Tresier spoke in low tones to the waiting footman. She could not look at him for anger. Madame
Montansier
was notorious. Some said she was under
Barras's
protection. What was indisputable was the
madame's
theatre provided her masculine patrons not only with the expected dramatic fare, but also with a choice of young girls to amuse them after the final curtain came down.

Zoë was suddenly very afraid and, at the same time, reckless with the force of her emotions.

Tresier put a hand on her arm. Almost shamefaced, he said, "Zoë . . ."

"Shall we go in?"

He bowed stiffly and held out his arm. Zoë shook out her skirts before gingerly placing her fin
gers on his sleeve. A woman's laughter close by turned her head. Josephine de Beauharnais was present. Zoë was more than a little relieved.

An hour later, Tresier stood at one of the windows, staring into his empty glass. He looked up and gave a slow, ironic smile when he saw Paul Varlet approaching.

"My dear Jean.
I was hoping to find you."