Almost a Lady (33 page)

“Is that a good sign or not?”

“Probably,” he said. “I would imagine that any woman who has caught Bonaparte’s attention would be vetted closely. Even if I’m wrong, there’s nothing to trace you to anything suspicious.”

“So, when the general knocks on my door this morning, I welcome him with open arms,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Certainly, my dear Meg.” He stood up, adding, “If he comes.”

Meg looked as put out as she felt. “Why would he not? Do you think I failed to attract him sufficiently?”

He laughed softly. “Impossible, love. But Napoleon does not in general go to people, they come to him. He will remember this in the morning. You may expect a summons.”

Meg huddled closer into her robe. “And should I obey it?”

“Oh, I think so. But maybe not immediately.” He looked at her for a moment and then made up his mind. “Play it by ear. I think you’ll sense what’s best to do. If you need to consult me, then rearrange the roses on the hall table.”

“How very cloak-and-dagger,” Meg said, then saw immediately that her lovemaking-induced levity was not appreciated. “It’s all right, Cosimo, I understand the seriousness of this. How could I not?”

The light died in her eyes as what they were doing here flooded back with full force. It could never be far from the forefront of her mind, but she had the innate sense that on the occasions when it wasn’t paramount, she should indulge them as providing some relief from the relentless tension of the game. “I can’t live in the role all the time,” she said.

“No, of course not. I understand that,” he responded swiftly. “I’m only concerned that you should not step out of it too often.”

“I know that.” Meg slipped back against the pillows, her eyelids drooping. “I need to sleep before my next bout with the general.”

He bent to kiss her again, brushing the hair off her forehead before pressing his lips to her temples. “I am here,” he said. “Always right behind you.”

Except in Bonaparte’s den,
she thought.
There were places Cosimo could not follow her.

But even as she thought that, she knew that he meant he was in her mind, that she would not take a step without hearing his voice in her head.

That if she needed him, she had only to rearrange the roses on the hall table.

Meg had not sufficiently lost the euphoria of the night’s lovemaking to find that idea anything but exquisitely amusing. She smiled sleepily up into Cosimo’s face, which hovered over hers with a look of anxious inquiry in his eyes. She reached up a hand and stroked his cheek in benediction.
“Bonne nuit, Charles.”

He clicked his heels and touched his hand to his forehead in a half salute.
“Bonne nuit, Madame Giverny.”
At the door he glanced over his shoulder and said, “I’m happy to have been of service, madame.”

Her muffled laughter followed him into the corridor.

Chapter   23

M
eg dressed carefully the next morning, choosing a delicate morning gown of apple-green-and-white-striped muslin with little puff sleeves and a high collar. She dressed her hair with a dark green velvet ribbon that matched the wide band that confined the gown beneath her bosom, and powdered her freckles vigorously. Then she dabbed a touch of orange flower water behind her ears, on her wrists, and in the hollow of her throat. Her desire this morning was to present the impeccable image of a society lady about whom there could not be a breath of scandal. The contrast between her performance the previous evening and the interpretation of her role she would offer the general in the light of day should intrigue him even further.

At ten o’clock she was standing partially concealed by the damask curtain at the long window of her salon that overlooked the narrow street. Would he come himself, or would Cosimo be right? She rather thought the latter, since it tended to be the case. And, indeed, it was so. A landau drew up outside and out stepped Colonel Alain Montaine, resplendent in dress uniform, a cocked hat under his arm. He looked up at the house and Meg drew back fully behind the curtain, then went to the chaise and took up her embroidery frame.

She heard the imperative bang of the door knocker and carefully set another stitch, listening to the voices in the hall. The salon door opened and Cosimo said, “Colonel Alain Montaine, madame.”

Meg looked up from her needle and said with a smile, “Why, Colonel, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Alas, madame, you flatter me,” he said with a bow. “I know whom you were expecting and I cannot compete.” He came towards her, taking the hand she extended without getting to her feet. He brought the hand to his lips with another low bow. “General Bonaparte is desolated to find he is unable to come to you himself, some work that he must attend to, but he begs that you will do him the honor of joining him for a tisane this morning at his office.”

“I would not disturb the general at his work,” Meg demurred. “Do pray take a seat, Colonel.” She gestured to a chair opposite.

“Forgive me, madame, but I have little time,” he said, clasping his hands at his back and rocking a little on his heels. “The general will be most disappointed not to see you this morning.”

Meg put her head on one side, seeming to consider this. Then she said, “I own I was looking forward to renewing my conversation with General Bonaparte . . . if you are sure I would not be in any way disturbing him at his work . . . ?”

“Madame, I assure you that the general allows
nothing
to take his mind from his work,” the colonel declared with perfect truth. “He awaits you most eagerly. I have a carriage outside.”

Meg set aside her embroidery frame and rose gracefully to her feet, the muslin skirts settling delicately around her. “That’s most civil of you, Colonel. If you will give me a few minutes, I’ll join you directly.”

He bowed his acquiescence and she left him with a faint smile, closing the door quietly behind her. “Ah, Charles,” she said to the solemn majordomo who appeared to be supervising a maidservant who was polishing the brass door handles in the hall. “I am going with the colonel to pay a call on General Bonaparte.” She made her way to the stairs. “Would you bring the carriage to collect me in precisely one hour? I have a luncheon engagement.”

Without so much as a flicker of an eyelid, Cosimo bowed. “In one hour, madame.”

Meg nodded and went up the stairs to fetch gloves and hat. Cosimo glanced towards the closed door to the salon, then crossed to it and opened it. The colonel spun around from the secretaire at the sound of the latch.

“May I offer you some refreshment, Colonel, while you wait for Madame?” the majordomo asked coolly, even as he mentally reviewed what the colonel might have seen in his exploration of the secretaire.

“No, I have no time,” the colonel said harshly, red patches blooming on his cheekbone.

Not a smooth operator, Cosimo reflected with derision. He looked as guilty as sin. Deliberately, the majordomo crossed the salon to the secretaire, straightening cushions as he went. At the desk he carefully tidied the pile of papers as if it was merely part of his general domestic duties, his eyes scanning them. There was nothing there that could arouse suspicions, merely a few visiting cards, several invitations, and a sheaf of suggested menus from the cook. All perfectly in order for the lady of the house.

He offered the colonel a bow as he left the salon. As he went into the hall, Meg was coming down the stairs, drawing on long green kid gloves. She really did clean up nicely, Cosimo reflected with an inner grin, thinking of the britches-clad Anatole and the time she’d dived without a murmur into a muddy ditch to avoid a French patrol. The wide brim of her green silk hat framed her face, giving her a piquant look that was quite enticing. Napoleon would find her irresistible.

“One hour, remember, Charles,” she said over her shoulder as she reentered the salon. “I’m ready, Colonel. Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

“Not at all, madame.” He offered her his arm. The majordomo opened the front door for them and sprang to open the door of the landau.

“Thank you, Charles.” Meg gave him a distant nod as the colonel handed her into the carriage. The majordomo merely bowed in response and waited until the carriage had rounded the corner of the street before returning to the house.

Bonaparte’s headquarters was a large mansion on the Place d’Armes set behind high walls and reached through a magnificent pair of wrought-iron gates that opened onto a large square courtyard. Soldiers patrolled the walls in front of the house, a guardhouse was positioned at the gates, and yet more soldiers guarded the massive double doors that led into the mansion itself.

“I trust the general is not anxious for his safety,” Meg murmured at this impressive array of military might.

The colonel gave a short laugh. “On the contrary, madame.”

Meg made no response, reflecting that this ostentatious display was presumably designed to feed the general’s self-consequence and to impress anyone who might have the temerity to doubt the supreme power of the Commander of the Army of the Orient.

She alighted from the carriage at the double doors and the colonel escorted her into a huge, marble-floored entrance hall where there were yet more soldiers, standing at ease around the paneled walls. A magnificent double staircase rose to the upper floors, and the colonel, with a hand under her elbow, urged her forward.

Meg to her surprise realized that she was not nervous, despite being alone and unprotected in the heart of the lion’s den. At the head of the stairs, the colonel turned down a wide, door-lined corridor. Two soldiers stood on guard outside the double doors at the end of the corridor. Colonel Montaine opened the door without knocking and ushered Meg into what was clearly a drawing room. A silver tray with a teapot and Sevres cups rested on a loo table beside a damask-covered sofa.

“The general will join you shortly, Madame Giverny,” he said, and backed out.

Meg drew off her gloves and went to the bank of windows that gave onto a long balustraded terrace and a splendid view of the harbor. She waited for what seemed a very long time before an inner door opened behind her and General Bonaparte appeared.

“Madame Giverny, forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

Meg was reminded of a cocky bantam as he strode towards her, one hand resting on the slight paunch that strained a button of his waistcoat. She considered deliberate unpunctuality the ultimate discourtesy and was rapidly developing a considerable dislike of the man’s conceit.

“I’m sure you’re very busy, sir,” she said with a noncommittal smile. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “But I’m afraid I have very little time left. My carriage will come for me in half an hour.”

He looked first disconcerted and then annoyed. “Montaine will escort you home, madame.”

She shook her head firmly. “I would not put you to any further trouble.” She moved towards the table. “May I pour you a tisane, sir?”

“No,” he said abruptly. “Never touch the stuff. I’ll take a glass of claret.” He strode to the sideboard where a row of decanters stood. “But pour for yourself, madame.” This last seemed like an afterthought.

Meg calmly poured a thin verbena-fragrant stream into one of the delicate cups and turned back to the general, who stood in front of the window, a full wineglass in his hand and a glower on his face.

“Perhaps something troubles you, General,” she suggested with a coaxing smile, crossing the Aubusson carpet towards him, holding her cup and saucer. “The cares of campaigning, I dare say.”

“Nonsense,” he said with a snort. “I never worry, Madame Giverny, about the conduct of my campaigns. I make decisions and I abide by them.” He drank wine and stood with his short legs apart, regarding her now with less of a glower, a gleam of interested appreciation in his bright eyes as he took in her appearance properly.

Meg perched delicately on the scrolled arm of a chaise longue and sipped her tea, giving him a coquettish look over the rim of her cup. “You don’t appear careworn, I’ll admit, General.”

He laughed. “Never, madame. I am as confident of my success as I am that the sun will come up at dawn.” He came over to her, taking the cup from her and placing it on the sideboard, before grasping her hands and drawing her to her feet. “Come, now, Nathalie, let us be a little less formal. Such a pretty name, Nathalie.”

She smiled. “And how am I to address you, sir?”

“You may call me Napoleon,” he stated, pulling her closer to him. “Ah, what a delicate scent.” He bent his head and darted a kiss behind her ear.

Meg drew back with a startled protest. “Sir . . . Napoleon, please.”

“Oh, come now,” he said, laughing. “Don’t play the ingénue with me, Nathalie. You did not come here just to drink that insipid liquid. You came to spend time with Napoleon.” He pulled her closer again, his mouth hovering over hers.

Meg allowed him to kiss her, but without responding herself, then she firmly stepped back, shaking her hands free of his clasp. “You presume too far, General,” she declared, but with a half laugh that took any sting out of the accusation. “Now, indeed I must go, or I shall be late.” She picked up her gloves. “I can find my own way downstairs, I believe.”

He was glowering again, a man who clearly didn’t like to be gainsaid . . . a man who was not in the least accustomed to being denied his will. “You will dine here with me tomorrow evening,” he pronounced after a moment.

Meg hesitated, in no doubt that he meant a
dîner à deux
. This man was not one for a long, drawn-out seduction. Would she be able to hold him off in such an intimate setting while drawing him in close enough to suggest her own assignation? There was something frighteningly predatory about Napoleon Bonaparte, but would he attempt to force an unwilling woman? Well, she had no choice but to risk it. It was a fine line to tread but she had the sense that he would lose interest quickly if she put him off too much.

“Perhaps,” she said, drawing on her gloves finger by finger, making a sensual game of each movement as she stroked the fine kid over each finger. His fascinated gaze was riveted on her hands.

“Tomorrow night,” he insisted, moistening his lips. “I will send my carriage for you at eight o’clock.”

“No,” Meg said, making a minute adjustment to the brim of her hat. “I will come in my own carriage, Napoleon, and it will wait for me.” She stepped closer to him and lightly brushed his cheek with a gloved finger. “I am an independent woman, General. I like to make my own arrangements.”

His face darkened and for a moment she thought he was going to explode, then suddenly he threw back his head and guffawed. “Do you, indeed, Nathalie Giverny?” He grasped her hand at the wrist. “Well, I appreciate independence, madame. Come to me at eight o’clock tomorrow evening.” He turned her hand and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. “I will await you most eagerly.”

“Until tomorrow then,” she said, gently extricating her hand and walking to the door. Only when she was safely on the other side of it did she realize how fast her heart was beating.

“A short visit, madame,” said the colonel, stepping out of a shadowy embrasure where clearly he had been waiting for her reappearance.

“I have a luncheon engagement,” she informed him with a haughty toss of her head. “My coachman will be in the courtyard.”

“Allow me to escort you.” He offered his arm and ushered her downstairs and outside into the brilliant sunshine. Her carriage and coachman were waiting at the gates to the courtyard, and Charles jumped quickly down the minute he saw them.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Meg said, giving him her hand with a cool smile of dismissal. “Thank you for your escort.”

“My pleasure, madame.” He regarded her with a puzzled frown in his eyes. She was unlike any of Bonaparte’s other fancies. For the most part the women he took a fancy to were all too eager to fawn over him, to hang on his every word, to eke out the last minute of any visit. The colonel knew that the general would have kept the lady waiting for close to half an hour. It was his habit to do so, to impress upon visitors the honor he was conferring upon them, carving out a precious slice of his day for an interview.