Page 42 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
He came near, his lips by her ear. “I think that makes you wise.”
She cringed. “But I want answers. And with them, I still want blood. That is not wise, Tate. It’s evil.”
“Let’s look for the answers and deal with the evil after all else is known.”
*
Viv drove Tatequite insane. The business about the house, the maid, the infamous Bonnet-Rouge tribunal—it was all so sordid. What did she derive from remembering? Reliving it all?
He knew.
Her statement of retribution was the desire she bore to punish those responsible for that night they fled Paris. But what was her plan to implement it?
That sparked horror in him. She knew not what chaos she created.
So the morning three days later, when he followed her, and she went not to the corner market, nor to the house on rue du Four, but to the tawdry stalls under the quays of the Pont Neuf, he could not decide whether to be alarmed or relieved.
Her destination was the renowned two-century-old square on the right bank. Decreed by Henry the Fourth as the newest improvement to his capital city, the Place des Vosges was the square of residences and shops facing a green park. The houses were the same size and frontage, with similar materials and quality. The harmonious appearance of the houses, all of the same red brick and the same number and size of windows, had quickly become a favored location for the aristocracy. Inside, they could decorate as they wished. Outside, the buildings were not to be changed.
At first when Viv alighted from her hired carriage with her maid and a footman, Tate surmised she meant to visit a friend. As she walked along the colonnade, stopping here and there as if in thought, he realized she searched for something.
Whatever it was, she ducked into a small shop on the eastern wing and emerged ten or so minutes later. She talked to no one and carried no packages, only her little reticule. Her journey perplexed him.
“You worry, friend.” Kane cocked a brow at him as they sat facing each other in Kane’s library on rue Saint-Honoré the following afternoon.
“I do.” They had just finished an analysis of what to do about Ramsey, who had sent round a note and begged off their regular meeting today. Their mutual friend and colleague, so prompt, so dedicated, was in a coil performing his latest assignment. He had nothing new to report.
Kane explained that in January, he had assigned Ram to follow a French émigré who was sent to Paris by Scarlett. Ram’s duty was to track if the lady met with any officials in the government. Scarlett had questions about the trustworthiness of the woman. Ram had continued to trail the woman on her journeys throughout Paris, but he’d sent word this morning to Kane that for the next few days, he was incapable of tracking her. Might Tate substitute for him temporarily?
“Scarlett questions if the woman is a double agent?” Tate asked, and put his coffee cup and saucer on a near table.
“She does.”
He must not disappoint their spymaster. “I can do it.”
“Thank you. I have another, if by taking this on you will destroy your schedule.”
“I can do this for a few days.” He employed two men to follow Viv when he could not. That meant he could help Ram. “Who is the lady?”
Kane stood and took from his desk a large piece of parchment. “Here she is.”
The sketch was of pencil, hastily done but exquisitely precise. The subject was a lady, young, with pouting lips and sultry, darkeyes, and beneath an elaborate turban, she had a wealth of short golden curls. “Who is she?”
“Madame Albert duPre.”
“Lovely. I’ve never heard of her.”
“She is also Mrs. Clement McAllister.”
Tate grimaced. “I do not know of her, either.”
Kane gave a laugh. “Have you heard of a Baroness Bergheim?”
“Ha! Never.”
“The lady has money to burn, slips around Paris like fog, and has met with two of Bonaparte’s generals. In private. Follow her if you can. We’d love to learn where she lives.”
“I’ll do my best. Who did the sketch?”
