Page 78 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
Cecily?
Ram ran two hands through his ruffled hair and reached for his frock coat.
“I have taken her to the yellow salon, monsieur. I ordered tea.”
“Make that brandy.” For Cecily to come here to him, she either had news about Amber—or the lady was here to condemn him to hell.
Either merited a good, stiff drink.
Chapter Twenty-Four
For decades, CecilyAnn Struthers-Sumner, Countess Nugent, had made a reputation for doing the outrageous, the unpredictable. At age seventeen she’d become the mistress of the Prince of Wales. But the enchantment did not last. Within months, she had been ordered by him to marry Earl Nugent, a sickly, simple-minded creature. Soon after the wedding, Cecily disappeared from court. Many speculated as to the cause.
But eleven months later, and suddenly a rich widow, she appeared in Paris. She became the talk of the town, a friend of Madame du Barry. Soon, Cecily was the mistress of the infamous Duc d’Orleans. That man, though a Bourbon close to the throne, increasingly voiced liberal causes. Later dubbed Philippe Égalité for his sentiments, he nonetheless was carted off to the guillotine. Because of her association with him, Cecily was sent to Carmes Prison along with her young charge, an English girl Cecily had brought into her home. The orphan was Amber.
But Cecily’s friendship with Josephine Beauharnais saved her. The young wife of a successful military man, Josephine took Cecily into her home and the new Parisian Society.
Cecily had long been heralded as a beauty. But she was also wily enough to befriend dutifully those in power. She burnished her earlier reputation by never openly consorting with any other men—and saving the fortunes her two famous lovers had generously bestowed upon her.
Cecily had never called on Ram. She had always been reserved with him, polite, never warming. But then, she had no reason to do otherwise. To her, he was an English envoy, a friend of Lord Ashley’s, and therefore most likely another agent of the Crown. Her friendship with Josephine, more than any other characteristic, kept Cecily from regarding Ram in any other way than she had. Indifferent and aloof. For her to come here now that he and Amber were publicly estranged was surprising. Unless the lady knew that he and Amber met regularly and that, for some reason, Amber had stopped.
Ram opened the salon doors and closed them firmly behind him. Whatever the woman had to say to him was most likely a tirade, but God only knew about what. In any case, his household did not need to hear it.
She paced before the elaborate alabaster mantel. Dressed formally for calling upon others, she wore a sedate mix of embroidered amethyst silk with fuchsia trim. The colors should have complemented her complexion and made her vibrant. Instead, she was drained of every color, her pallor ghastly. She’d been in such a hurry or in such distress this morning that her attire might be superbly fitted and exotically rich in fabric, but the rest of her was untidy, to say the kindest. Tendrils of her black hair escaped her coiffure. Her gold-rimmed green eyes were swollen, the whites red. She walked stiffly, her fingers working a tall, thick ivory-tipped walking stick.
She appeared aged, much older than her forty-some-odd years. Her full lips were pressed tightly to a thin line, and her greeting to him held no smile. Why she would call upon him, he hoped, she would quickly reveal. He had better things to do than be upbraided for his love of her adopted daughter. Her lovely child who now mysteriously could not meet him. Might the lady know why? She usually knew everything in this city.
“Madam,” he said as he strode toward her, “since you have never regraded me with any approval, I doubt you come to me now with a change of heart. Will you sit?” His gaze dropped to her ivory stick. “Or will you run me through?”
Her green eyes flashed, and in that moment, he thought he saw the same look of another woman, Gus.
But Ram shook the thought away as the lady mashed her lips together, unhappy with him. “No assassination, Ramsey.”
“So then…” He offered the nearest chair.
She dug her hefty stick into his Aubusson carpet. “We’ve no time for that.”
“Very well.” He put his arms behind him and clasped his wrists. If he did not hold himself together, he would fly about the room in helpless rage. “I’ve much to do to leave Paris. Whatever you want, both you and I are in a hurry.”
“I have been to see Amber.”
That struck him. Whatever means she’d used, he might use too. “Vaillancourt let you in?”
“No. I have friends on his staff,” she bit off.
“How good for you,” he said with venom.
Cecily narrowed her eyes upon him. “You have not seen her lately, have you?”
“I, unlike you, am not welcome at Monsieur Vaillancourt’s house.”
Canny woman, she eyed him as if she speculated whether he told her the whole truth. “I went this morning, Ramsey.”
“Good of you.”
Once more, she used her stick on his carpet. The poor rug would have a hole if she kept that up. “Amber is ill.”
His heart stopped. It took him a moment to process that odd news. Amber, who had lived in a cold, dank tunnel under Cecily’s house in Compiègne. Amber, who had walked the streetsof Reims and Varennes in the chilly nights. Amber, who had cold hands…unless they clasped his. She was ill?
