Stormfire (86 page)

"Surely we can afford it; This house was one of the architectural jewels of the city. You said yourself the former occupants had deplorable taste."

"But the good sense to adjust to the times."
Raoul
clicked the gate shut. "To alter my house to reflect the pomp and greed of France's worst despot immediately after marrying an aristocrat would create a most unfavorable climate for my career."

She stared at him.
"Your
house,
Raoul?"

Scenting battle, the coachman headed for the stable.

"No, of course not,"
Raoul
soothed, mentally cursing his careless slip. "But you must realize you have reason to assist my advancement. After all, your future is linked to mine." He offered his arm.

Catherine hesitated, then accepted it. But as they moved up the walk, she observed quietly, "Somehow, that role in your life suggests a shadow. You said Napoleon wanted to ally with the old regime. I should think he would be delighted to see this house restored. If one can believe his admirers, he's no poor judge of architecture." Her
soft
voice grew more determined. "It won't cost you a franc. I'll use my own income."

"Our income,
chérie,"
Raoul
corrected firmly. "Certainly you'll have a generous allowance for house management,
couturier . . ."

Catherine stopped dead. "I'm not an idiot,
Raoul.
I intend to learn to manage the estate."

He looked grim. "Do you think I would cheat you?"

"No, of course not, but why should I behave like a doll with sawdust brains? I won't be managed!"

Raoul
lightly gripped her shoulders. "Catherine, be reasonable. By law, your property became mine when you married me; you knew that."

"I didn't know I possessed an immediate fortune at the time; certainly, I never assumed you'd appropriate it. You said you loved me!" She pulled away from him. "Perhaps I was naive. Perhaps it's the money you wanted."

"That isn't true," he flung back. "I had no idea Napoleon intended to return the property. I do love you." He hesitated, then said slowly, "I'm only behaving as I've been trained. I'm used to taking command. Perhaps I've gone too far. Forgive me,
chérie.
I'll teach you whatever you wish to learn. And I'll have an architect look at the house."

"You mean it?"

"Yes." He shrugged ruefully. "Even if we're crossed off the guest lists of every Republican in town."

She laid her hand on his arm. "I don't mean to be a spoiled brat,
Raoul.
If you're so certain renovation at this time is unwise, I don't mind waiting. But I would like to see the accounts tomorrow. I don't even know what I . . . we own."

That night, they made up the quarrel as lovers do, but in the morning, after Catherine had gone over the accounts with Monsieur
Armand
Lessier, her husband's solicitor, she saw only one extranational property listed under the
Vigny
holdings. No mention was made of either the Caribbean property, or of holdings in southern Switzerland and the Ruhr, which Amin had described. "Is that all, Monsieur Lessier?"

"Oui, madame.
You are a very rich young woman."

"Certainly richer than one might think," she replied coolly.

That evening, she held out an aperitif to
Raoul
and lightly kissed his lips. "Thank you for sending Monsieur Lessier today. The accounts were most interesting."

He nuzzled her ear. "I'm relieved to hear you weren't bored. That sort of thing quickly becomes dreary."

"Oh, I wasn't bored; far from it. Unfortunately, Monsieur Lessier could only stay for an hour." She sipped her drink. "Perhaps we can finish tomorrow or the day after."

Raoul
looked startled. "Didn't you finish today?"

"Heavens, no. Not half. We've still . . ." And she listed her international holdings.

He rotated his glass. "You're too modest,
chérie;
you seem to know the exact extent of your estate. I'm more surprised your father discussed financial matters with you so frankly. Unfortunately, he recently sold those properties."

She smiled. "Papa is extremely private . . . and shrewd, like you. You once said you'd never underestimate me again; certainly, Papa isn't like to make that mistake. A successful arrangement between us is dependent on complete trust and frankness, don't you agree?"

But even as Amauri began to spill oil over the waters, they both knew she would never completely trust him again.

Sean frowned critically at the rough drawing of a single-limber gun carriage he had just sketched. At first glance, it was much simpler, lighter, and more maneuverable than the double limber commonly used, yet far more complex to build to the required strength. His concentration kept wandering and he hardly knew why he bothered, except to occupy his, mind. The single limber had been tried before with poor results; so far, his ideas showed no more promise.

Yesterday, Grouchy had informed him Napoleon wished an interview. Sean knew he should have held his tongue about artillery at the Amauri wedding reception, but the chance to tap the mind of a genius had been irresistible. His tour of armaments factories and barges had been another mistake. Grouchy had made sure he had seen things no foreigner should have.

To avoid incidents with Javet's cronies, Sean rarely left his rooms. He had not been back to Madeleine's since the night of Catherine's marriage. Meh Lih had been strangely subdued, and he remembered his drinking and demands on her body. Even more callously, he had made Meh Lih Catherine's surrogate. Catherine. Slamming her out of his mind, he grabbed for the wooden triangle.

Sean had drawn no more than a few lines when he heard a knock at the door. He swore and went to answer it.

"Gil, you skinny bastard! I was beginning to think the British had rammed you down a cannon bore!"

The slim young naval lieutenant grinned. "Not a chance!
Maman
is preventing that with her cooking. I've only been home a week and she's already letting out my breeches." Beneath his sandy hair, Gil Lachaise's fine- boned face had the innocent charm of a young Parcival; his gray eyes, the lucid clarity of dew. His grin softened and he held out his hand. "It's good to see you again, my friend. I heard you were dead."

Sean clasped his hand, then they embraced tightly. He drew Lachaise into the room. "You haven't changed much, Gil."

"More than you think." Gil winked. "I'm to be a captain within the month.

Sean grinned and slapped the young naval officer on the shoulder. "We'll have a drink to celebrate."

An hour later, the two men sat, legs stretched out, a fire crackling in the fireplace, their reminiscences well warmed with Irish whiskey.

An old classmate from the
École,
Gil was the illegitimate son of an aristocrat. Generously, he had left Gil a legacy and, though married with other sons, had seen him regularly. When he and his family died in the Revolution, Gil and his mother had genuinely mourned them.

Although Gil had not suffered from the question of illegitimacy as had Sean, the young cadets had reached an understanding thaH-an far deeper than did their relationships with others. Besides Catherine, Gil was the truest friend Culhane had ever known.

"You will come to dinner, Sean? Maman's upset that you haven't called. All she heard was that a wounded Irish rebel had floated practically to Paris in a wrecked boat." He grinned wickedly. "When we learned the fellow was wrapped in the arms of a meagerly clad beauty, we knew he had to be you."

The Irishman's easy manner ebbed. "The woman in the boat was my sister-in-law. She'd been widowed only a few days before when Shelan was overrun by the English."

Gil sobered instantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Don't be too sorry. You're not entirely off." Hesitantly, the story came out of him like the draining of a long- cankered sore, in a way that once would have been impossible for him before Catherine had made him face his need for other human beings. The only thing Sean could not admit, even to Gil, was the extent of his degradation in prison.

When he was at last silent, dusk had fallen along with one of the last light snows of the season, which left the dome of
Sacre Coeur
a ghostly mound of white hovering above the indistinct rooftops of the city. The room had grown cold and Sean threw wood on the fire.

Gil watched the fire's red reflection play about his friend's dark face. Agony of spirit seemed to burn under the flesh, pitilessly searing away its prison.

The Frenchman hated to say what he had come to say, but now it was doubly necessary. "Sean, you must leave Paris. The officers are debating about who should have the honor of calling you out. They're after your blood. Not just Javet's friends. The city is full of idiots who haven't spent their recklessness on the battlefield."

Sean leaned against the mantel. "I'm leaving day after tomorrow. My staying on can only compromise Catherine. Amauri will protect her now; God knows the poor devil will probably have his career ruined for his trouble."

Gil frowned. "Why do you say that?"

Sean shrugged. "Napoleon can hardly be delighted to be eluded at the altar."

Gil sighed. "Sean, I think you've been duped. Amauri made brigadier general on the eve of his wedding; his friends congratulate him, not only on his bride's beauty, but on her magnificent dowry."