Page 25 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
Awash in the memories of that first day Tate met them all, he took up his glass of brandy and allowed himself a generous draught. Vivi, as he had called her when she was younger, wasall energy as a child. Her mother had adored her. Her father had held her up—to Diane’s agreement and Charmaine’s envy—as a model of fealty. Spirited, inquisitive, industrious, loving her dogs and her animals, Vivi enjoyed her childhood on her father’s lands. The revolution had robbed her of that—and so much else.
But Vivi had blossomed in England. Free of the fear of attack by rabble, she took to the care of the family cottage and the nurturing of her animals. She sewed, she knitted, she cleaned and cooked. Charmaine exerted herself very little. Vivi cared for their mother, who was increasingly despondent and later crippled, body and soul, by what terror she’d witnessed. Through it all, Vivi grew into a favorite among the Cantrell tenants. A favorite of his.
Now as an adult, his Vivi had grown into her fullness, exquisitely lovely with that rippling river of platinum-blonde hair and sapphire eyes, a graciousness of form and function that could make a man weep to hold her.
That she should now be considering some sinister act was totally against her character. With all that had happened to her family, Tate could identify causes for retribution. Yet that was more than ten years ago. So much had changed in Paris since then. Many had died. Of disease, despair, chaos, and war. He hated that she would indulge in it.
But whom would she hurt?
The list was short. Two people seemed a paltry number, given the enormity of the trauma they had suffered that night in ninety-two, before and afterward. He was certain there might be more who were complicit in the arrest of the Vicomte de Neufchateau and the attempted capture of all in his family. Many Tate could never name, let alone trace.
One he knew was dead. Alfonse Jarre, the banker, had called in the vicomte’s loans and created such a scandal about it that the Committee of Public Safety put Neufchateau on theircondemned list. The vicomte had decided his family should leave France, and he would see them off himself before he fled somewhere else—he told no one where. But the committee and their gendarmes were dogged in their search, found him north of Paris, and hauled him back to the guillotine.
The other person Tate remembered whom Viv might want was the former scullery maid who worked in the house of the rue du Four. The young woman had taken to offering herself to men. One Tate thought may have been a gendarme. Told by the majordom to rid herself of him, the maid did not. And to now find the least important servant who worked in the house ten years ago would be most difficult. Was the woman still in Paris? Was she even alive? Who would know?
Aside from those two, who might Viv want? He did not know.
But he would try to learn. For Viv to ponder their destruction was nigh unto laughable. Yes, certainly she portrayed herself as an actress. Worse, she dubbed herself as her older sister, a virago. An exact opposite, black to white, up to down.
Still Viv had somehow insinuated herself into Charmaine’s life as an actress. Whether Viv had worked in London as Charmaine, he had no idea. But here in the Théâtre de la Gaîté, Viv received sterling reviews for her performances. That, he attributed to her love of books, an odd combination of cookbooks, medicinal books, and plays. Furthermore, Viv had managed her charade to date because she was far from London. Yet like him, some canny person could spot the differences. Many British came to Paris to enjoy the sights. One discerning person could see that off stage Charmaine de Massé was too sweet, too charming, too selfless to be real. They would ask. They could probe. Their curiosity might lead them to search for Charmaine.
But Tate had no idea what the two sisters had contrived.
Or was he suspecting too much? Was Charmaine not involved in Viv’s scheme? He could not imagine otherwise. Viv was never one to plot deception.
Why now?
Why here?
The only answers he had were obvious ones. Viv did this now because of the treaty. She had Talleyrand’s approval and could cross the border into Paris freely. She’d not been able to do that prior to this. But then, Tate knew her strength of will—and the immense challenges she had lived with all her life.
The odd thing was, until the age of twenty-one, when last he saw her, she had accepted what she had lost with a stately equanimity far beyond her years. She built a life for herself in the cottage on his estate. With her animals around her, she sold eggs and butter. She wrote little instructions on housekeeping she intended for new wives. Though she had not yet secured a publisher, she planned for it and kept writing. She wanted to be known as an English lady who wrote useful articles by which young women learned efficiencies and found satisfactions in their daily lives.Fine Ways to Run a Household, she titled her works. “A loving home will sustain a person through all vicissitudes of life,” she had often said.
She had made her own loving home, even if her mother and Charmaine could not or would not appreciate it. And though Viv acceptedwhatshe had lost—land, home, money—she had taken years to acceptwhomshe had lost.
Tate understood that. Terrorists had taken her father. Illness and heartbreak had felled her mother. A mob had captured Diane. He, who had been her friend, however, had disappeared from her life the day he was forced to marry another for money.
He had never become more to her, not because he did not wish it. Since she was sixteen, he had wished for her in his arms as his wife. But his father and his debts and his diabolicalnegotiations with an heiress’s father had cast him from Viv’s life from that day forward. Irredeemably.
The knowledge roiled him.
He downed the last of his brandy and stood. But none of that, he vowed, would block him from trying to save her from herself. Or regain her good graces.
Or kill his love for her.
Chapter Six
She set hermare to a walk. The mid-April morning was bright and gay. Would that she were able to absorb that. Acting required more than she ever knew. She preferred to be herself, by God. Some people could remain who they were all the time. Look at her surly groom. Crabby, no nonsense, spiffy attire, the smell of soap, a pistol at his waist, Fortin was up and working. The man had an approach to the world that worked for him. Would that she could imitate him.
She let out a laugh. Hair loose, stern face, well dressed, good cologne—she felt powerful with a pistol that Fortin had been so kind as to purchase for her in her saddlebag. She was happy at last night’s success with one search. Her frequent evenings at Cyprien Montagne’s house had not yet yielded his two distant cousins, the new administrators of Jarre Bank. But she had information. One by the name of Sylvain, said the gossip sheets, was in the country. The other was ill.
She’d get one of them sooner or later.
She rejoiced too Vaillancourt had not attended any of those entertainments at Cyprien’s house. The man, according to the gossips, was busy at home cultivating a stubborn woman to become his mistress. Whoever she was, she could have him. Vaillancourt made her flesh crawl.
Viv trotted ahead, smiling, loving her solitude. But at the far corner, just as a carriage turned, her peace dissolved. Andlo unto her, Tate sat atop his horse. The man sprang up everywhere! And not just out here on her morning rides, either. The theater, the soirees she attended, even Cyprien’s!
Drat his persistence. She had summoned enough gumption to add a new feature to her investigations this morning. With him beside her, however, she would not go. He’d hector her about her reasons, and she would not hear the end of it.
