Page 83 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
Five people regarded Vaillancourt with curled lips. With the wall to one side, Ram took the rest of the stairs down, balanced with his hip at the railing. Step by step, he descended to the foyer. In his arms, Amber kept repeating a breathless “Poison.”
If Ram had ever thought he might smote another where he stood, he’d have killed Vaillancourt in that moment.
But as he gained the foyer, and the various guests joined Vaillancourt, Ram had the impression that Didier would do much of that work for him. Spreading the word that Vaillancourt was accused of poisoning his mistress—the illustrious niece of the honored Countess Nugent—would do much to hamper the influence of the young deputy of police. Didier’s superior, Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand, had a fine opinion of Cecily.Plus, Didier would tell Vaillancourt’s superior, the vainglorious chief of police Joseph Fouché. That man was a bastard to anyone he remotely suspected of any crime. But in private, the minister of police was a devoted family man. Fouché believed one loved dearly. And one did not treat loved ones so basely as to try to kill them.
In Ram’s arms, Amber trained wide brown eyes on the deputy. She appeared now for the first time this evening to be aware of what was happening.
“Monsieur,” Ram addressed themajordom, “the door, please.”
Ram stepped out onto the wide front step just as his carriage rounded the corner.
He strode down the remaining steps. If Vaillancourt were to try to stop him, it would have to be now.
The coachman halted the carriage and climbed down from his perch to yank open the passenger door.
Ram placed Amber inside as best he could and stepped in carefully beside her.
“Go quickly,” he told the coachman before he shut the door against the evil before them.
In the flickering flames from the lamps on the porch, Ram watched Vaillancourt glare at the departing coach. Around the deputy stood Didier and his four other well-tailored guests. None was happy. Least of all the deputy chief of police.
*
The next morning,Ram surveyed the traffic in the convergence of streets from the bedroom window of his and Amber’s former house in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Intent on secrecy, he had gone to Gaspard before he went to Vaillancourt’s house. Ram was overjoyed to learn from their formermajordomthat thehouse was empty, and paid a handsome sum for the letting of it for an extended period.
He turned to watch Amber. She slept peacefully in the bed near him. He had tended her all night. Her retching had lessened in frequency. She breathed more easily. Slept less fitfully. And she drank—sipped, really—everything he offered.
Outside, everyone scurried to and fro, like wild animals caged. They had good reason. Gaspard came in at dusk with a handful of gossip sheets. News came from London late yesterday that Parliament had declared war on France. He and Amber were therefore illegals. Caught, they could be sent to prison. Fouché and Vaillancourt were already at it. Rounding up British of any ilk, French gendarmes could arrest and detain anyone with papers of passport or without.
This house was the best place to bring Amber. It was on the left bank—out of Society. He had always liked the house, small, comfortable, close to a main road to the south, but far enough away from the abodes of the highest Parisian Society that few of any import would note that these particular chimneys belched smoke again.
*
Corsini came tocheck on them every night at ten.
The first night, Ram said, “See if you can find a vintner among those in the Halle by the name of Bechard. Luc Bechard.”
“I know him.”
“You do? How?” Ram asked.
Corsini grinned. “He came a few times to meet Monsieur le Comte Ashley.”
Amber trusted Bechard and so did Kane. That meant the man worked for both? Intriguing. Ram shook his head.
“Monsieur, may I suggest that you go south to leave the city? The Paris streets north are at impasse. The roads northwest to Rouen and barges along the Seine, too. None of it is safe. The gendarmes, monsieur, are out in force to capture any British, young or old.”
“Merci beaucoup, but I have my own plan, Corsini.” Ram would not share it in total with anyone, however. “I’ll need a coat and hat for madame. Something modest, old, and worn.”
“And you, sir?”
“Merci, Corsini. I have my own disguise to goincognito. As for madame, I also need many clean, old blankets for her comfort. She is weak and cold. Get me good brandy.”
“A fewpetits fouras well?”
“That might entice her as little else.” Ram wanted to smile amid his fear for her. “She will appreciate that you thought of her so dearly.”
*
