Page 3 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
“No, madame. And rightly so.”
She nodded, then turned for the hall and took the stairs. At the top of the landing, she felt the kindly glow of the moonlight through the dome above. No sounds came from the servants’ floor above. Nancy had not awakened, and Amber was pleased she hadn’t. The girl slept soundly, working hard each day, deaf though she was, and hampered by the club foot that she dragged along with her every step. Amber would miss seeing the girl who always hurried to embrace her each time she came home to Reims.
Frowning, Amber hastened down the hall to the master suites. She opened the sitting room double doors and smiled at the wonderful, yet heartbreaking, familiarity. The last time she’d been here was months ago during a fierce snowstorm. Gus hadbeen with her, her friend, her finest comfort in her grief over the death of her husband, Maurice.
She strode to the window overlooking the cathedral where kings and queens of France had always been crowned and who now must turn in their graves in St. Denis at the catastrophic end to their kingdom.
“For lack of moderation of your arrogance and greed,” she murmured in insult for their failures, for which they were now replaced by others with the same foibles.
She sucked in air and marched to her dressing table. As per her instructions to Bonnet when last she was here, this piece of furniture was not covered in a clean white cloth. During her all-too-brief marriage, she would sit and Maurice would stand behind her to comb and brush her long red hair before he took her to their bed and they made exquisite love to each other.
Before her lay her combs and bushes, her hand cream, her perfumes, all five of them. The bottles and jars were in their exact spots. The ivory comb, sleek. The china-handled brushes, without a trace of her hair. That was how it would remain, too. She would leave nothing behind.
Still, she could not resist pulling open the right-hand drawer. Her face cream lay there, untouched. Giving in to temptation, she applied dabs to her dry cheeks and chin. Who would know from their movement in the drawer that she had been here? That she liked using them. That she needed such amenities to soothe her.
Gus would know.
Amber stood a long minute, considering her next move.
Should she leave a note for Gus? The question tormented her so that she crossed her arms and strode about the room, circling, thinking.
Augustine Bolton was the closest person to Amber in this world. Gus would panic when she realized she had left Pariswithout any indication of where she truly went, or why, or how long she would stay away. Gus, to Amber’s dismay, had become involved in the same work she was. For that reason alone, she would most likely come here searching for her.At her own risk.
Amber considered opening the last drawer and penning some words of comfort. A directive or a line of consolation could be helpful.
No.
Gus would come.
But she would find nothing.
It would be safest for her to know nothing.
Vaillancourt would snap at the chance to detain Gus and harass her for information. And the man was capable of such atrocities. Especially against women.
So no. I leave nothing.
Instead, Amber made quick work of the wall safe and took a suitable amount of gold Louis pieces and small silver coins. She’d sew them into the hem of her trousers tomorrow.
And when she used all that?
She froze.
Then what? Return here for more?
She ran a hand through her short-cropped curls.No.
On to business.
She removed her boots and socks, then laid aside her dagger and dropped her tattered clothes in a pile. Hat, too. But she kept the cotton binding around her breasts. She had little time to fiddle with that. Instead, she donned a fresh set of Maurice’s aged vineyard breeches, shirt, and wool coat. Old boots and a floppy, dark-gray wool hat finished off her look. The fine stiletto she carefully inserted into her thick knitted socks, then spun away.
But she caught sight of herself in her grand cheval mirror. She stood, paralyzed as sudden tears stung her eyes. Far fromthe fashionable wife of the dashing, gray-haired vintner, this woman looked like a thin, sad man.
She swiped her tears away and stood a moment. Rallying, she pondered how to find the priest who was in hiding in the town in some brave soul’s cellars.PereJosef, the former canon at Reims Cathedral, was a crafty fellow who for years, at risk to his own life, had still tended to the city’s pious Catholics. In addition, he also aided those like Amber who tended to the country’s dissident democrats. Far from a religious zealot, Josef was a believer in the rights of men and women.
But at one in the morning, she would not find him. Anyone who hid the priest was tucked into his bed, sleeping the rest of the righteous.
“Christ, too, was hunted,” she blurted as she pushed away thoughts of Josef, caught up her pile of dirty clothes, and headed for the stairs down. “I flee Herod’s kingdom and I hate that I fear him. More, I hate myself for the coward that I am.”
