Page 64 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
Ram moved throughhis days a man outside himself. Riding a particular stallion he favored and rented from a stable nearby. Diningal frescoin his own gardens. Perfecting his aim with his pistol—knowing his real target was a certain deputy of police.
In the beginning, he declined invitations to social events. He had no ability to carry a conversation. Nor did he dance.
He would take himself to cafés on the Champs-Élysée, idling for hours examining those who passed him by. He drank coffee. Avoided alcohol. If he started, he would never stop.
He wrote to his mother and grandmother. The letters were perfunctory but kind. He knew how to hide his feelings in print. He performed his work for Ashley, traveling to northern towns seeking more information on supplies and increasing military standards at depots and forts. The increase in Charleville muskets was only one such.
More cannon were ordered, cast, and sent not only to northern and eastern forts but also to Bordeaux, Lille, and Amiens.
By September, he was able to attend dinner parties without grinding his teeth at the vacuity of conversation. He read the scandal sheets. In late autumn, Amber’s name had begun to appear. Ram found it intriguing that she had not jumped into the role of mistress. Instead her name was not linked to any man. Some speculated she nursed a broken heart.
God knew he did.
In January, Ashley assigned him the duty to follow a French émigré who was sent to Paris by Scarlett Hawthorne. Ram’s duty, said Ashley, was to track if she met with any officials in the government. Scarlett had questions about the trustworthiness of the woman.
Ram trailed the lady to the left bank one afternoon, and she disappeared into the old church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Bonaparte had made peace with the Catholic Church and all churches were open to the public once more.
As Ram sat in the sun that rare warm day following the suspected double agent, Amber walked across the street. The sight of her was like a shot to his heart. With narrowed gaze on her, he watched her casually stroll to the church and take a turn toward the bench where she had waited for her contact. Hestood, paid for his coffee, and walked along his side of the street. Amber sat on the bench, spoke with no one, stayed only a few minutes, then stood to leave.
When she turned her back on the meeting place, he caught a glimpse of her face. She had changed. Determination that had once etched her features in bold lines had waned. She wore a vulnerability on her softened features. Was it real? Was she using that to appeal to Vaillancourt? Or was the change a reflection of something else?
Whatever it signified, she was no more the woman he had held in his arms.
Lest he put too much stock in that, he strode quickly away. To see her with her guard down surprised him. Had she changed—or did he merely wish it?
If she had, he did not know how much. Nor why.
For that, he would wait…bide his time, follow her, and assess any lasting shifts in her behavior.
*
One evening aftera theater dinner party, Amber wandered in Vaillancourt’s house as she usually did. His house was orderly. No elaborate furnishings were there. He was a bachelor, and the house reflected that, well appointed and comfortable as it was. The colors of upholstery and draperies were blues and whites, cool and indifferent. In his library, his bookshelves were orderly, the books in such strict alphabetical order that she perceived he never read them.
Tonight to justify her wandering, she feigned a horrid headache. She found in his library, in a small drawer of his desk, a set of two keys. He kept all his desk drawers locked. One of the two keys fit the small drawer at the top right. At the noise in thehall, she replaced the keys and scurried to a chair. One hand to her brow, she grimaced.
The footman who entered found her thus, apologized for his intrusion, and departed.
Three nights later, she returned.
The prize she found, not in the top right compartment, but in the blind drawer behind it, was a small leather folio with names.
Dozens of British. Kane and Gus, Ram and Fournier.
Scores of French. Two of her dearest friends.
Many émigrés. All of whom she knew well.
She memorized one list five at a time…and returned home to scribble them down.
She just needed a way to transfer the information. Some discreet, reliable way.
Chapter Eighteen
February 18, 1803
Paris
Ram climbed downfrom his hired fiacre and hesitated on the steps of the stylish theater. Tapping his hat on his head, he buttoned his greatcoat against the chill of the winter night and resigned himself to this required bit of public display.
