Page 26 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
“Bonjour, monsieur. Do you never rest?” She went on, never stopping for him, as they took the shady Champs-Élysées.
Good humor was his hallmark, ease in his own skin the element that gave him levity and popularity. “I am well, thank you. How was your visit to Madame Récamier’s salon last night?”
The beautiful and impertinent lady who had made short hair and simple toga-style gowns the Parisian fashion was married to one of Napoleon’s favorite bankers. The first consul rarely liked men of money, so this affection was one both Récamiers worked to their benefit. Known for her lavish soirees, Julie Récamier was one whose invitation one did not refuse. To appear in her salon was to ensure one became at once the talk of the town.
“I was honored to be invited.” Viv clicked her tongue to her mare and rode on.
Her groom politely dropped back in deference.
“As was I,” Tate said when he caught up to her.
She gave in to the need to look him over. He looked marvelous for so early in the day. He’d complemented his charcoal-gray habit this morning with a bronze waistcoat edged in gold passementerie. His robust complexion was a glory. She wanted to brush her fingers across his ruddy cheeks and sink them into his wind-blown locks. The man had always looked like a colorful feast. He was delectable.
You cannot lick him today, Viv.She glanced away.
“I noticed you spoke with a certain banker last night,” he stated.
She knew it was a question. Armand Vernon of the Bourse was an older man who last night came without his wife. The pleasant fellow was no lech when alone—and he was also of no help to Viv. “So I did.”
“Do you take up only with financiers?” He smiled, but his expression was strained.
She gave him a leveling look. He had no right to judge her. She’d trade barb for barb. “Did I rob you of time with him?”
He grinned. His lips, rich and full, formed words that lured her from her aggravation with him. “You rob me of more than that. Well you must know it.”
He sounded like a suitor. She wrestled down her foolish hope. “Good. Keeps you on your toes.”
“Tell me your secrets,ma petite, and I will cease and desist.”
“Ha!” she burst out. “That, I cannot afford.”
He trotted close. “Then you are stuck with me.”
She turned to argue with him, but he urged his horse to a stop. Then, with a tip of his hat, he bade her good day.
Surprised at his early departure, she admitted to herself she was relieved, but disappointed that she could not spar with him. She brightened, choosing the better of her plans.
“Come, we return to the stables,” she said to her groom.
What she needed to do should best be done soon, when the street markets were open. She’d also go on foot for this expedition. She had to take the chance that Tate was done stalking her for today.
For this, she wanted to go alone.
*
As the sunrose in the sky toward nine in the morning, Viv strolled her neighborhood street market near the old abbey. She had ordered her personal maid Alice to her work, and instead called for one footman and her kitchen maid, Suzette, to follow. The footman and the young maid were Parisians. The maid would provide the cover of knowing precisely what was needed to be purchased for the day’s menus—and how to haggle the price of it.
Viv had come this way on foot only twice before this day. She had tried to walk the street ever since she settled into her house in March, but had postponed it. Curiosity had finally overcome her. She wished to see her former home.
Only twice this past week had she and the maid walked in front of the house. Both times Viv forced herself to behold the house for one more minute than the last. Here in the shelter of a shop doorway, she was away from any audience.
Here she did not have to pretend she was anyone other than who she was. In her bones, she was slow to vengeance. She knew that of herself. So she pardoned herself for her tenderness and delay. She would take her vengeance in her own time. Her own way. Heartened, she did not hide the tears that welled in her eyes now as she gazed upon the front door.
A flash of Tate’s expression grinning at her this morning buoyed her. He would applaud her coming here. That had her smiling as she paused directly across from the house where she once had laughed and frolicked.
The five-story townhouse looked in good repair. How it had survived the assault of rioters who looted and burned so much of the city, she did not know. But it had good moldings on the windowpanes. All were intact. The creamy Parisian stone looked worn, but then, the house was more than one hundred years old. The stone on the street level had been washed lately. Shewould be proud to live here. Had been happy to do so…until that horrible night when all went wrong.
“Mademoiselle?” asked Suzette. “You like this house?”
