Page 65 of Lord Ramsey's Red-Headed Ruin
“I need you out tomorrow night at the theater,” Ashley had insisted yesterday. Ram and he met every other Monday in a café on the Champs-Élysées. “Gus and I host Lord Appleby to introduce him to Society.”
Tonight’s party in the Ashley box was to include many for the sake of appearances. Lord Manning was one. He came alone, his wife curiously indisposed. The Earl and Countess of Chiltern had arrived in Paris, intending to spend the winter.
All did this to show off handsome widower Lord Appleby, who was an expert in finance—and in warding off young ladies who wished to marry his fortune and esteemed title. The Earl of Appleby was from Norfolk, and Ram and Kane had first met him at Eton. Appleby had the formal role to improve the exchange of currency between Britain and France. No small task was that, especially because Bonaparte became increasingly belligerent toward the British ambassador.
Rumors even flew this morning that the first consul had met privately with Ambassador Whitworth last night and they had not gotten on well. Many feared it portended more trouble.
But setbacks in diplomacy were normal, especially with a temperamental man like Bonaparte at the helm. Ram had no illusions about the wiliness of the little Corsican.
The crowd around Ram urged him up the steps. Tonight was an oddity for Paris because the star of the show was a returned émigré. It was said that Josephine had personally asked Talleyrand to authorize the young actress’s return to her homeland. This woman was a twenty-three-year-old who had been the rage in Drury Lane for the past few years.
Hundreds around Ram talked of their excitement as they surged toward the entrances. Many mentioned they hoped Bonaparte and his wife would appear to honor the Frenchwoman. The first consul loved the theater and attended often and without prior notice.
Tonight’s play at the Gaîté starred the London sensation who performed the Bard’s plays as if she were born to it. Though she was known for her abilities as a comedienne, Charmaine Massey had lived a frightful and tragic life. She had fled Paris and the Terror in the middle of the night with her younger sister, her father’s mistress and that lady’s illegitimate daughter.
Charmaine was the oldest daughter of the guillotined Vicomte de Neufchateau. A notorious minor member of the royal house of Orleans, the vicomte had stepped out of his usual role as roué to espouse a strong republican government. Once a friend of Louis XVI, he had fled to Brussels but been discovered and hustled back to Paris so that his old enemy Robespierre could condemn him to the blade.
The vicomte had preempted his radical foe and dispersed his large family, legitimate and not, to the four winds. Charmaine, the vicomte’s mistress, and that woman’s daughter had escapedthe Paris mobs that night. But one other sister had been abducted from their carriage. The gossip sheets proclaimed that the girl had never been found.
Charmaine had made a living in the theater and supported the other three in her extended family in good style. Tonight was her debut on the Paris stage. She was said to be blonde, petite, and utterly charming. Returning to her country, according to the Paris gossip sheets, she had insisted that she would honor the occasion by performing only comedy, preferably Molière.
Across town, the sixteen-year-old French actress Mademoiselle George had opened the night before last in Racine’sPhèdre. Charmaine refused to compete with the more famous French girl who was turning heads with her talent. Charmaine was a scintillating twenty-three—and unlike most actresses, she was said to be a virgin. Many a man was said to be intrigued by that.
Ram, in no mood for comedy or anything else tonight, was here out of duty. He was intrigued that he would see the daughter of the man whose house he had rented in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He thought it a curious tangle that the vicomte had bought the house for one of his mistresses. Ram wondered if the woman so honored was the one Charmaine Massey had fled with to England.
In all, it did not matter to Ram. He was here at Ashley’s request. Molière did not thrill him, either. Really, why not give the crowd a right, good, bloodyMacbethorJulius Caesar? He savored the idea these days of proud men brought low by betrayal.
After giving his name at reception, he swung off his greatcoat and wended his way with the throng toward the wide marble stairs up to the boxes.
He rounded a chattering group and halted. Amber stood alone in the far corner. Cast in the glow of a chandelier ablazewith a dozen candles, she sparkled in a violet gown trimmed in gold lamé ribbons at her bodice and sleeves. A choker of gold and amethysts surrounded her slim throat. Her winter coat trimmed in white fox hung on her arm. She scanned those who passed before her, but when she found him, she locked her gaze on his.
Resistance was impossible. He strode toward her and, for the benefit of the gossips, smiled with the pretense of a former lover, now indifferent to her charms.
“Bon soir,madame.” He took her hand. Her skin was gossamer silk. What hell this was to see her.
“Bon soir,monsieur. How are you this evening?”
How do you think I am?He glared at her and bent to her hand. “Surprised.”
“Of course.” Her voice sounded choked, nervous. But her lashes fluttered with raw desire as he rose to absorb her beauty. Had she not slept lately? Could he hope that was because she missed him? “Shall we go up?”
“You join the Ashleys?” He was surprised at that. She could sit with anyone in Paris. Even Vaillancourt. Did the jealous deputy chief of police allow her out with others?
She stared into Ram’s eyes, and something there begged for a truce. “I asked if I might.”
“Do you like Molière?”
“No.” She took his arm, digging her nails into his sleeve.Hell. She presented such a nonchalant attitude toward the swarms around them that he wondered if it were she who might be the star in the play tonight.
Fury ate up his good intentions to present a friendly façade for this farce. They climbed the stairs to the boxes in silence.
How are you?he wanted to ask like a good actor—and a smitten fool. Instead, he put his hand atop her cold one andpatted it like a good swain.Is Vaillancourt not keeping you warm?
“I miss you,” she whispered blithely, gutting him as surely as if she’d done it with her little stiletto.
He fought for breath.
Her arm through his, she smiled and nodded to others as they reached the landing and made their way round the circle.
