Page 9 of Lord Ashley's Beautiful Alibi
Pelletier barked with laughter. “That helps with Josephine and her ladies.”
“You will be taken care of,” Scarlett said as she stared into Kane’s eyes with a determination he had often seen in her. She slid a watercolor sketch of the lady across the expanse of her desktop. “First, find Madame St. Antoine.”
Kane knew well Maurice St. Antoine. Having met the man more than ten years ago, Kane respected the older gentleman and was shocked the fellow had wed after the death of his beloved first wife. The man was over fifty, rich as Midas for producing on his Reims vineyards the finestvin blanc. A generous employer who paid his farmers well, he had never been attacked during the uprisings of the revolution. He had kept his head, his land, and his good wine production—and amazingly, he had decided to marry a second time.
Kane leaned forward and picked up the drawing. The portrait was on thick paper to hold the fine applications of Frenchpeintures.The picture had been folded, carried in someone’s pocket, the edges frayed in the journey.
The portrait had been done four or five years ago, when the fashion for women’s hair was extravagantly long ringlets and the style of gowns was a surplus of flowing fabric worn with dangerously low décolleté. The young woman sat facing forward, staring out at the world with the conceit so redolent of those among the courtiers of theancien regime. The young Madame St. Antoine was attractive, with a heart-shaped face, dark, almond-shaped eyes, a riot of red curls, and a lush mouth, ripe for a man’s aspirations of hours in a bed with her.
“She disappeared two weeks ago Tuesday from court,” Scarlett continued. “She was last seen in her traveling coach, leaving the Tuileries at approximately noon. She told her friends she was retiring to her estate in Reims in the Champagne. When last we had word two days ago from a runner from Calais, she had not yet arrived in Reims or back in Paris.”
“What do you know about her?” Kane passed the sketch to his friends. Over the years as a youth, and later as a saboteur, Kane had met many lovely young women of the demimonde and lesser aristocracy. This lady’s portrait spoke of a certain licentiousness, but struck no chords in him. Was she, then, froman aristocratic family? “And when did Monsieur St. Antoine marry her?”
Scarlett pressed her lips together, her hesitation a warning to him, though he knew not why. “A year and a half ago. She is British.”
Kane narrowed his gaze on Scarlett, connecting the missing woman’s usefulness to those Scarlett would know well. But she paused, as if she would say more but suddenly chose otherwise.
The corners of Scarlett’s lips twitched. “Valuable to us. I know that since she has gone missing, I do not get my reports promptly. I had hoped you might have met her. When last you were in France, perhaps?”
Kane’s mind jolted. He fingered the portrait of St. Antoine. Her hair was bright red. She looked fashionably slender. But he could not say this was the lady on the road to Malmaison. The one he remembered all too well was his Raven with the lush mouth and the gall to bite him when he kissed her. “I have not met her, no.”
“Well,” said Scarlett with concern marring her brow, “we proceed, in any case. She’s twenty-four, a dear friend of Josephine, and has been since she was in prison with her in Carmes.”
So we know St. Antoine’s age. The same age as Scarlett. We know her tribulations in prison. We also know enough about her to fear her safety may be at stake, as well as what and whom she knows.
Ram grunted. “Carmes? The Parisian prison where they slaughtered hundreds in a few days?”
“The same,” said Kane with stones sinking in his stomach. Friends made in prison were especially ruthless.
Ram tsked. “Extraordinary that Josephine survived. And this St. Antoine as well.”
“Few did,” said Scarlett. “There are reasons she and the others were not taken.”
Kane frowned.Really?Scarlett knew that too. “Did we have anything to do with that?”
“With Madame St. Antoine, yes.” Scarlett answered that without a moment’s pause. “Not with Josephine or their other friend from the cells in Carmes, Cecily, Countess Nugent.”
“The mistress of the old Duc d’Orleans still survives.” Kane knew all about Nugent. Infamous, once the mistress of the prince regent, the Englishwoman had been personally recommended by him to his friend, the French duke who was so supportive of the revolution that they killed him for his service.
“Nugent lives with Josephine,” Scarlett confirmed. “She’s very amusing to Josephine. Likes her silks and feathers. Advises on fashion, which scarf to wear today.”
Kane took the sketch of St. Antoine from Dirk and placed it in his waistcoat’s inner pocket. Many women took up residence with Josephine. Thérésa Tallien, the wife of a former revolutionary, who slept with Paul Barras and wore transparent silk to the opera. Nugent, the Englishwoman, and this St. Antoine.
Kane again recalled the delicious young creature he’d kissed on the road that morning at Malmaison. Was she also in residence in the Tuileries? A friend of Josephine or her servant? Was any other man kissing her now?
No matter. He had other things to consider. “Any idea who might harm St. Antoine?”
Scarlett cocked an elegant auburn brow. “Pick a name. Any name.”
He smacked his lips. “Fouché?” Kane hated the man.
Scarlett did not blink.
“Vaillancourt?”Fouché’s deputy?Kane hated him more. A vicious blackguard who had murdered his cousin Fabien and his friend on the Malmaison road, Brussard.
Scarlett conceded, her face pale.
“I see,” he said. “She is central to our operation. Since when?”
