A Cantata of Love (The Code Breakers 4) (19 page)

Gabby added a chocolate biscuit. His spirits vastly improved by Gabby’s agreement, he was about to tease her about her sweet tooth but was interrupted by Weston’s arrival at the table.

Michael’s body locked in readiness to claim and protect. He was turning into a brute when in close proximity to Gabby.

Weston bowed grandly. “Mademoiselle Gabrielle, my mood is much improved by your appearance this afternoon.”

Michael let out a slow breath of relief at Weston’s flowery asinine flattery. Gabby wouldn’t be impressed with such tomfoolery.

“Kendal.” Weston’s voice held a challenge that no male could miss.

Michael bristled, but he had to curb his primitive urges around Gabby. No easy feat for him, since he had never experienced these extreme and intense feelings before and he wanted to proclaim his devotion for Gabby to the entire world. He wasn’t a man known for his subtlety.

“Weston.” Michael nodded. And then, smiling down at Gabby, “I’ve taken too much of your time, mademoiselle, when your attention is in such high demand.” He bowed. “Good afternoon, my lady. Weston.”

And Michael walked away, leaving his Gabby. He’d do anything to protect her. Which at this moment meant walking away, releasing her to be admired and charmed by the entire male population of England. Bloody hell.

Chapter Twenty-three

Fouché paced outside the office of the First Consul. The sound of his boots echoed in the long mirrored hallway. The most powerful man in Paris, the Minister of Police, waiting outside closed doors, like a servant anticipating his master. The delay was unbearable and untenable. Unable to sit patiently, he strode into the hall, away from the calculating glances of Monsieur Brugiere, the First Consul’s confidante and chargé d’affairs, who was seated in the antechamber.

Brugiere wasn’t intimidated by Fouché, and unlike most of Paris, chargé d’affairs had never been blackmailed. Fouché was paralyzed to threaten the man with no family ties and a spotless reputation.

Fouché stopped his pacing to stare at the long, perfect rows of blossoming roses in the gardens. He didn’t need his skills as a statesman to read yet another sign of his weakening position of favor with Bonaparte. Had Talleyrand found out his plan to kill Mademoiselle de Valmont and reported his treacherous behavior to Bonaparte?

Never a man to be indecisive, Fouché always planned for all possible consequences of his actions, rather like anticipating five moves ahead in a chess game. His ability to maintain his powerful position over the chaotic years was also due to his training to become a priest. He recognized the evil lurking in men and used their dark needs to his benefit.

But what he had considered a minor problem, a gnat to swat away, had grown into trouble he hadn’t foreseen. He needed to send a messenger to England to stop Anatole from killing the girl. He hoped he wasn’t too late.

But if the messenger arrived too late, his latest intrigue would win him favor again. Within weeks, the English King would be dead, thus strengthening his power and reestablishing his favored dominant position with Bonaparte.

No one would be able to track the murder to him. The English might have theories but no proof of his culpability. The finesse of the plot would suggest Talleyrand’s sophisticated touch. And if he were questioned by Bonaparte for his duplicity, he would claim ignorance. How could an unsophisticated man like him devise a plot around an Italian opera and a Bach cantata? In contrast, the Foreign Minister was well known as a connoisseur of the arts.

The outer door opened and out swept Talleyrand, as always dressed in velvet and lace, a great contrast to Fouché’s utilitarian solid black uniform and black boots. Gold buttons were his only adornment. Hiding his surprise at the Foreign Minister’s appearance, Fouché remained by the window.

Talleyrand, always a gentleman, gestured grandly with the sunlight glinting off his ostentatious ring. “Walk with me. I’m late for a meeting with the Austrian ambassador.”

Fouché stiffened in response to Talleyrand’s air of royal command and planted his feet wider apart, in a clear message that the skilled diplomat wouldn’t misread.

“I’ve a meeting with the First Consul,” Fouché said.

“No, the First Consul summoned you to meet with me.”

Infuriated by Bonaparte’s manipulation, Fouché resisted the urges that would give any indication of the blow Talleyrand had just delivered. He smiled broadly at Talleyrand. “Of course, it must be of great importance to take the time of the man who singlehandedly is keeping Europe from going to war.”

Obviously harried and not in the mood for gamesmanship, Talleyrand ignored the comment and walked briskly down the long marble corridor. Talleyrand’s sour mood made Fouché wonder what had transpired at the meeting with the First Consul. Talleyrand’s long strides didn’t impede Fouché from keeping up with the taller man.

Talleyrand wasn’t a fool and, although it was hard to admit, was a very skilled statesman and a man of great vision. He worked steadfastly trying to negotiate favorable treaties for France.

“My network hasn’t been able to unearth your newest intrigue in London yet, but I want you to stop your machinations.”

This was very straight talking for a man who never revealed his plans. “I’m trying to extend the terms of the Amiens Treaty with England, keeping peace between our countries. And I don’t want your plans to disgrace me or ruin my negotiations to regain the First Consul’s favor.”

Bonaparte had no plans for peace with England. Talleyrand’s plans must have been a way to distract and appease England while Bonaparte built his empire in the rest of Europe. Fouché recognized the greed, need for power, and manipulation in Bonaparte. It was the reason he supported Bonaparte’s coup d’état of 18 Brumaire.

Bonaparte was an opportunist. Peace was one of many instruments to be used to gain his goal of complete world domination.

“I would never interfere with your plans for peace. I believe we are all in accord with the First Consul’s plans for France.”

Talleyrand paused. “I knew it was a fool’s errand to even approach you, but the First Consul requested this discussion. Let’s be very clear. I will do everything in my power, with the support of the First Consul, to stop whatever new plans you have with your circle of criminals in England.”

Interesting approach by the silk-talking and silk-handed diplomat. Did Talleyrand recognize the challenge in his words? Of course, he did. Was this more of a manipulation to encourage Fouché to do the deed, enabling Talleyrand and Bonaparte to distance themselves and deny?

He wondered how much Talleyrand really knew of his plan to kill George the Third. In the years of knowing the diplomat, Fouché had never had an honest confrontation with him. Neither man was capable of trustworthiness.

“And I won’t brook any interference in the removal of Mademoiselle de Valmont from England. It is time to stop your intrigues on the greater European scene. This is not my warning. The order came directly from the First Consul. Restrict your conspiracies to France and your position as Minister of Police.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Gabby avoided watching Michael’s departure. Disappointment and longing sank heavily in her stomach, causing the lemon tart and chocolate biscuit to form a lump of misery. She placed her plate back on the table, unable to look at the sweets that had been tempting when Michael was near.

She had never felt this unsteady. The excitement and disappointment of love was more challenging than mastering a Beethoven sonata. The death of her brother, followed by the intimidating note, was the cause of her shakiness, not the green-eyed gentleman who devoured her with his eyes and made her pulse leap by his nearness.

Gabby didn’t listen to Lord Weston wax on about her beauty. Her mind twirled on whether she should trust Michael. She mulled over her friends’ honesty about the difference between the way women and men loved. She wanted to trust Michael. He was good man. It was her sadness over her brother and the unfamiliarity of this new world, as well as the note, that caused her to question her relationships with everyone.

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that Lord Weston’s voice had grown quiet, almost to a whisper. “Lady Sauvage wants to speak to you about your brother.”

“Lady Sauvage was acquainted with my brother?” Gabby realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth. But the shock that someone had known Lucien made her forget the ruse of her false identity.

“How does the lady know I have a brother?” Her voice quivered like the strings of a violin hovering over a sharp note.

“She didn’t share the information with me. She only asked me to escort you to her. She knew you’d be interested in hearing about your brother and she didn’t want to discuss him in front of the English ladies.”

Chills of heat and cold chased over every inch of her skin. “Why not? The ladies are my dear friends.”

“Lady Sauvage didn’t explain. You must ask her yourself.”

Gabby nodded. “I’d love to speak with the lady.”

Lord Weston offered his arm. “I believe she is in Lady Bostwick’s salon. She avoids the outdoors in the warmer months.”

Ignoring the shakiness behind her knees, Gabby weighed the danger of the lady’s request. The lady couldn’t be a threat to her safety in the middle of the party since Gabby wouldn’t hesitate to scream and fight.

Gabby scanned the crowd for Gwyneth. She spotted her friend chatting with two gentlemen, her back to Gabby. The men were enthralled by Gwyneth’s conversation or possibly by how stunning and voluptuous she looked in her ivory muslin dress with its cobalt blue ribbon under the bodice. The dress was in the French style, but with Gwyneth’s jet black hair, ivory skin, and her womanly curves, she looked like a Madonna in a Raphael painting.

Lord Ashworth stood alone at the end of the refreshment table, watching the gentlemen who watched his wife. She found it hard to believe that Ashworth, a very perceptive man, had been slow in recognizing Gwyneth’s beauty and generosity. By the way his eyes tracked her every movement, it was obvious he now reveled in his wife’s beauty and wasn’t pleased that other gentlemen also appreciated her natural gifts.

Gabby caught his eye to acknowledge her departure.

He gave her a slight nod. He must trust Lord Weston, despite the suspicions of Gwyneth and Amelia concerning the gentleman and Lady Sauvage. He’d allowed Lord Weston to accompany her to the opera and now to escort her through the house. Gabby dismissed the minor fact that Lord Ashworth didn’t know Lord Weston was taking her to a secluded part of the Bostwick estate. She assumed if so, he or one of the men would follow her.

Walking into the cool, dark, and silent house was a dramatic change after the bright sunlight and plethora of sweet scents of the summer blossoms. Like its medieval history, the confiscated abbey smelled old and musty. Lord Weston guided her down a corridor to the right of the entrance and straight into the family quarters.

Her heart raced in surges against her chest. She could hear the noise of the outside party, but the cold silence, the dim walls, and the creaking dark wood floors unnerved her. She took small breaths through her mouth, trying to slow her choppy breathing.

Lord Weston opened a door into a drawing room where the lady of the house could entertain her family and closest friends.

Lady Sauvage, in a stunning magenta gown, sat in an armchair upholstered in Fragonard Blue Toile fabric. The hanging crystal chandelier, the Louis XV Rococo gilt wood console table, and the matching Fragonard Blue Sevres vases could have been taken out of any salon in Paris.

“Come, my dear. Join me.” Lady Sauvage held a champagne flute in her hand. “Can’t abide the sweet punch at these parties.” She gave a husky laugh. “Please let me serve you a glass of bubbly.”

Gabby released Lord Weston’s arm and moved to the chair opposite Lady Sauvage. Her heartbeat thrummed an uneasy rhythm with each step she took.

The two chairs, turned away from their winter position in front of the fireplace, faced out to acres of manicured gardens outlined by gravel paths and carefully sculpted hedges. The blue skies, blooming roses, and the full sunshine didn’t ease the sensation of her heart bounding out of her chest.

Lord Weston remained at the door. He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I will return to the party.”

Lady Sauvage stood and swept her billowing skirt around the small table separating the two chairs and lifted a flute from the side table. “French champagne.”

Gabby took the goblet from the thin woman who stood over her. Gabby leaned back in the chair and the imposing woman. “Thank you, Lady Sauvage.”

Gabby pretended to sip the chilled champagne and waited, to avoid blurting out her questions about her brother. The way the woman had arranged for Lord Weston to escort her to this separate room away from the party, and provided a comforting and familiar French room with exquisite French champagne was suspicious.

“You know you look a lot like him. Your eyes, the same turquoise blue, the same flaxen curls, and the full lower lip. You’re beautiful, but he too was beautiful. Not effeminate in his beauty. It was probably the strength of his personality.”

Lucien and she looked like their mother, but Lucien had inherited their father’s mercurial temperament.

The need to speak of her brother fueled her longing to trust this woman, to learn the details of his death from someone who recently knew him. “I know not of whom you speak.”