Almost a Lady (37 page)

She turned then and he looked in vain for the glimmer of mischief he’d expected, but her pale face was sculpted in porcelain, not a hint of emotion of any kind. Silently she held out the parchment to him.

He looked at it, then nodded. “You have a luncheon engagement with Madame Beaufort?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must keep it. Do everything that you intended to do, don’t change your plans.”

“But this evening I’m engaged to attend a concert with a party of Major Guillaume’s.”

“Obviously you’ll cry off from that. I think it would be best if you were to mention casually at luncheon that you’re feeling a little under the weather . . . nothing serious, just a touch of the sun perhaps. I’ll deliver your message of excuse to Guillaume after I’ve brought you home from the Beauforts’.” He spoke swiftly, decisively, refolding Bonaparte’s map and tucking it into the inside pocket of his waistcoat.

“And then what?” Meg asked in the same distant tone.

He looked at her, noting anew her pallor, the deadness in those usually lively green eyes. “Sweetheart, I know this is hard—”

“Yes, it is,” she interrupted brusquely. “And the sooner it’s over, the better. You haven’t told me yet how we’re to get away from here, back to the
Mary Rose
.”

“You don’t need to know that at present,” he said, his tone once more decisive, all the tenderness banished. “You already know what you do need to know. We’ve been over it several times. Go to bed early and tell the household to do the same, dress in your britches, and at precisely eleven o’clock let yourself out of the house and make your way to the stables, where I’ll be waiting. Is that clear?”

Meg nodded. “Yes, it’s clear.”

“Good. I shall go off now and run these errands you have for me . . .” He tried a conspiratorial smile but received no response. With a shrug he turned to the door. “I’m going to follow the map but I’ll be back in time to drive you to the Beauforts’ at one o’clock.”

Meg heard the front door close almost immediately after he’d left her, and hurried to the window. Cosimo was striding down the street with the air of a man on a mission. He couldn’t possibly be checking out the rendezvous on foot, she thought. And then she shook her head dispiritedly. What did she know about his plans? He’d gone to considerable lengths to keep her from knowing anything except what was essential for her to play her own part.

Cosimo walked to a livery stable on the edge of the city and rented a nag that had seen better days. He didn’t argue the price, however, or comment on the animal’s woeful condition. He had no desire to draw attention to himself. He followed the beautifully drawn map and within a short space of time arrived at an isolated cottage set back from the pathway.

An old man was sitting on a wooden bench dozing in the sun while a woman picked beans in a kitchen garden. The only other buildings Cosimo could see were a lean-to outside of which a goat was tethered, and a hut that he guessed was the privy way off to the side of the cottage.

Humble quarters for General Bonaparte, he reflected. Were the old couple to be allowed to remain in situ for the assignation? Not that it would matter. They could offer no obstacle to the assassin. He dismounted and went to the gate. “M’sieur?”

The old man jerked awake. “Eh . . . eh?” He stared at the visitor as if he had dropped from the sky. The woman, on the other hand, set down her basket of beans and came over, wiping her hands on her apron.

“M’sieur?”

He smiled warmly and apologized for disturbing them. “
Pardon, madame
. I am looking for the road to La Valette.”

“Ah, m’sieur.” The woman threw up her hands in horror. “You are going in quite the wrong direction. Thataway, m’sieur.” She pointed back the way he had come.

He exclaimed suitably at his own stupidity, and wiped his brow pointedly with his handkerchief.

“Ah, come in . . . come in . . .” the old woman urged. “A drink of milk fresh from the goat will set you right. This way now. And my good man will water your horse.”

Cosimo with profuse thanks and apologies followed her into the low-ceilinged cottage. It was clean, freshly swept, and there was a ladder leading upwards into what he assumed was a loft. Well, Bonaparte would not think twice about such sleeping accommodations, he had enjoyed much worse on campaign, but it was still an interesting choice of venue for a night of passion with a gently bred lady. In other circumstances the thought would have made him chuckle.

He accepted a cup of warm goat’s milk, controlling a grimace of distaste even as his eyes darted around the small space looking for the right place to position himself for the ambush. The old couple would have to receive an urgent message that would take them out of the cottage, but from whom?

Gently he drew the woman out about her family and her circumstances. She was more than happy to chat and when her husband came in he proved even more garrulous. Cosimo learned of the daughter in the neighboring hamlet who was expecting a baby any day, and the son who had joined the army of the Republic under the flag of the great Bonaparte. He listened, prodded a little, and finally took his leave, discreetly putting two livres on the table in ostensible payment for the milk.

He rode the pathetic nag back to the livery stable, his plan now shaped in his mind. He walked back to the house, fetched the carriage from the mews, and brought it round to the front door.

Meg was waiting for him, dressed in filmy jonquil muslin, a high-crowned silk hat perched atop her red curls. She was still paler than normal, and with a knowing eye he could see that she had powdered her freckles rather more than usual, but he could also detect a resolution, a hardness in her that showed in the tight smile she gave him, the set of her shoulders, the swing of her hips as she walked to the carriage.

They said nothing. He left her at the Beauforts’ and went to his own apartments to check and double-check the weapons on which his life would depend. He chose his knives, sharpened them, practiced sliding them smoothly and swiftly out of the sheath. He cleaned his pistol. Now he was not thinking of anything but what his hands were doing. And when he was satisfied, he sat down and wrote to Meg.

It was a letter he hoped she would never have to read. But if he did not come back for her, then she needed to know how to get out of Toulon to rendezvous with the
Mary Rose
.

By the time his preparations were complete, it was time to return to the Beauforts’ for his mistress.

Meg emerged from the house looking wan, leaning on the butler’s arm. “Madame is not feeling very well, Charles,” the butler informed Madame Giverny’s coachman as he helped the ailing lady into the carriage.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Meg said weakly. “I find the heat so oppressive.”

“I’ll have Madame home in no time,” her coachman said, sending a curt nod in the butler’s direction. He snapped the reins and the horses started off at a brisk trot.

“How are you?” Cosimo asked quietly, for once risking a personal conversation in the public street.

“I don’t know,” Meg said candidly. “This day is interminable.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But it’s always like that.”

Always.
Meg felt as if her breath had stopped. How could he say that so casually?
Always.
How many assassinations had he accomplished, for God’s sake? How many days had he spent like this? She let her head fall back against the seat and closed her eyes. This was not her world. She had yearned for adventure, for passion . . . and she had found both. But sweet heaven, at what a price.

When they reached the house, Cosimo helped her down from the carriage and then said in a bare whisper, his lips hardly moving, “I will not see you again until this is over, Meg.” He put a paper into her nerveless hand. “If I am not in the stables when you get there, then follow these instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” She scrunched the paper in her hand and began to walk away from him up to the front door. Halfway she stopped, looked back to where he stood beside the carriage. The sun glinted off the silver streaks in his gray hair and seemed reflected in the sea-washed blue of his eyes. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She lifted her hand in a tiny gesture of farewell, then went into the house.

The remainder of the afternoon Meg spent in the relative cool of her bedchamber. She could find no peace. Whether she paced the carpet, or tried to read, or lay down and closed her eyes, images, red and twisted and violent, rose relentless in her mind’s eye. She thought of taking a dose of laudanum that would at least grant her a few hours of sleep, but knew she didn’t dare risk muddling her mind.

Where was he now? What was he doing?

Cosimo reached the cottage at eight that evening, more than two hours before Bonaparte would arrive for the rendezvous. It would give him ample time to make his preparations.

“Shall I go now, m’sieur?” the lad demanded eagerly as they stood a hundred yards down the pathway in the deep shadow of a plane tree.

“In a minute,” the assassin said, laying a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He’d found the lad on the beach, searching for driftwood, and it hadn’t taken more than the promise of five sous to persuade him to deliver an urgent message.

The boy danced impatiently, anxious for his payment, anxious for his supper. At last Cosimo said, “Now, you remember what you’re to say?”

“Yes, baby’s coming. They have to hurry,” the child said, holding out his hands. “I can do it, m’sieur. Honest I can.”

“I know you can,” Cosimo responded, reaching into his pocket and carefully counting the coins into the grubby palm. “Now go.” He gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder and watched as he scampered away to the cottage.

The lad was back in minutes and gave his paymaster a cheeky grin as he ran back along the path towards his own home. Cosimo swung himself into the branches of the plane tree and settled down to wait. He didn’t have long. The old man and his wife hurried out of the cottage, each carrying a bundle, and without a backward glance set off up the path.

Cosimo waited in the tree until they had disappeared from sight. They had a five-mile walk ahead of them for which he was sorry, but at least they were out of harm’s way. And once they realized there was no emergency they would not walk back tonight.

He moved stealthily to the cottage, circling it once. The goat was tucked up in its shed, the chickens put to bed away from the fox. Conveniently there was no dog. And neither was the door locked. He lifted the latch and entered the cottage. They had extinguished the cooking fire but a lantern stood upon the table with its wick freshly trimmed and its oil chamber filled, flint and tinder beside it. The old couple had not forgotten their august visitor.

The assassin went up the ladder to the loft. It smelled of lavender and apples. The linen on the straw mattress that formed the couple’s bed was clean and fresh. A flagon of cider and two cups stood on a wooden crate beside the bed, and, most touching, two apples had been placed on the bolster, a gift for the lovers.

Cosimo exhaled on a long slow breath. Then he retreated down the ladder and slipped into the inglenook, where he waited, his body so calm and still now that he barely needed to breathe. His hand rested on the rapier knife in the sheath strapped to his thigh, and every sense was stretched into the silence, listening for the first hoofbeat on the sandy path.

Meg heard the front door knocker soon after eight o’clock. The loud, insistent sound made her heart jump. She went out onto the upstairs landing. Cosimo was not there to open the door, he’d told the staff that Madame Giverny had given him the night off, and the head footman did the honors.

Meg listened, stunned, as Alain Montaine’s voice rose from the hall below. “Tell Madame Giverny that General Bonaparte’s equerry wishes to speak with her.” There was something about the tone, an insolent edge, that set her teeth on edge, but that also screamed danger.

Her first thought was that he had been sent by Napoleon with a message to cancel the assignation. But that arrogant, importunate tone was not that of a messenger. Had they discovered something? Was Cosimo even now in their hands?

She slipped back into her chamber and sat down at the dresser, examining her reflection in the mirror. A touch of rouge, a dusting of powder, and in the soft light of candles her pallor would be less noticeable. She glanced over her shoulder as Estelle burst in.

“Who’s that at the door, Estelle?” Meg was astounded at her calm detachment. She felt not a flicker of panic. Her mind was working fast but with absolute clarity. She would greet Montaine with a haughty indignation at such an unceremonious intrusion on an evening she had intended to spend in peaceful solitude. If she
had
been keeping her rendezvous with Napoleon, it would be more difficult to carry off, but as it was she would merely be telling the truth about her evening’s plans. Or at least, the first part of the evening.

“General Bonaparte’s equerry, madame.” The abigail twisted her hands in her apron in her agitation. “He said he wants to see you.”

“Indeed?” Meg sounded incredulous. She turned around, her eyebrows raised. “Come now, girl, I cannot believe he would have made such a demand.”

“Oh, but he did, madame. He said to tell you that he wants to see you.”

“Well, he must wait in that case,” Meg said, turning back to the mirror. “I’m not yet dressed for dinner. Run down and tell Denis to put our visitor into the salon. He may tell him that I will be down shortly.”

Estelle, breathless, bobbed a curtsy and went to do her mistress’s bidding.

Meg drew several deep breaths, and held out her hands. Not a quiver. She touched her forehead. Dry and cool. She would not think about Cosimo. If she allowed the slightest chink in the fortress she’d built around her imagination, the whole structure would tumble into ruin. She would simply play the part she had to play and trust Cosimo to take care of himself.

She touched the hare’s foot to her cheeks and opened the jewel casket, taking out a string of matched pearls. She was fastening them around her neck when Estelle reappeared, closing the door at her back with a dramatic click.