Page 44 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
Meanwhile, Monsieur Lamond failed to get a better address for the apothecary. She let that drop. All he wished to do was attempt to get her to extend her run. Ticket sales were excellent. The house was sold out. But the truth was she did want to leave France. The memories Paris engendered had only renewed her sadness over the loss of her family and increased her desire to go home. Home to England. To Norfolk. To peace…and perhaps more with Tate.
She could be his mistress, his tenant who visited the manor house. That would make her similar to her mother. A woman who loved a man despite all Society said against it. But that was not in her nature either.
She shook that off and returned to her own line of thinking on returning to England. If she went back without results, Charmaine would be disappointed in her. Or rather, her sister would be furious with her.
Though Viv was proud she had no desire to find another shop where she’d acquire arsenic, she still owned the little pistol that her groom Fortin had purchased for her. She kept it in her reticule at all times. Or when they rode in the mornings, she tucked it in a small saddlebag. She had always been comfortablewith a gun. A woman who knew how to use one could do much damage.
Her remaining two issues were the lack of an address for the scullery maid and her need to meet a Jarre banker.
One asset she had was that Cyprien Montagne pursued her. At least twice a week, he appeared at the same parties as she. The man followed her like a dog. She would never give in to him, but she had to keep up appearances to be invited to his own soirées.
She had learned from Cyprien that of the two administrators of the Jarre bank, the one who controlled it was his distant cousin, Sylvain Jarre. That man, a few said when asked, was now approximately thirty-three years old. He was therefore the age of one of the men she thought the scullery maid might have seduced.
Rumor said Sylvain was currently away visiting the century-old Vauban French forts along the Atlantic coast. He’d been there, Society gossips speculated, to assess if he would finance Bonaparte’s newest venture. That, she presumed, was fortifying the coastline in preparation either for an attack on Britain or repelling one from Britain.
“It amounts to war, doesn’t it?” she said to Tate when he rode with her one morning.
“That becomes more and more likely,” he said with a bitter tone.
She looked back to see Fortin was out of earshot, and gave the man a lift of her chin that meant he should remain far back. “I understand the first consul will soon sell much land in North America to the new United States.”
“He will,” Tate said with a grimace. “Tomorrow or the next day.”
“So the Americans will own most of the continent?”
“They will,” he said. “Millions of dollars they agreed to pay for it, too.”
“Interesting. Which means the first consul will not only become richer, but by selling it, he proclaims that he does not wish ever to fight over land so far away.”
Tate sighed. “True.”
“Only land close to home.”
He gave a sad laugh. “If you ever get tired of portraying your sister, you could work with me.”
She eyed him, and for a moment, she wanted him—and to surrender. “Oh, Tate, I am tired of this.”
He blinked at her frank admission. “Come home with me,” he said in so mellow a tone she could hear her own heartbeat.
“I wish I could,” she said quickly, and looked ahead.
“You can, sweetheart.”
She shook her head. “She’ll be angry.”
“Charmaine should come do her own dirty work.”
“She can’t.”
“You mean she won’t.”
“No. She’s ill.”
He stopped his horse.
Viv had to pause in order to look back at him. There was no reason to keep the truth from him. “She’s dying, Tate. She could not come here.”
“I see,” he said, blinking at the revelation. Then, at once, he was angry. “She sent you here in her stead to carry out her wishes to learn the truth—or to exact revenge?”
