Page 45 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
“Mywish is to learn the truth.”
He sent her a rueful glance. “Viv, I cannot stress this enough. Things grow worse with Bonaparte. We have few hopes this peace will last. When it collapses, we must run for the coast and the channel. Come away with me. Pack now. End this escapade.”
“No! I cannot. I may have given up on hurting others. But I must know who hurt Diane!”
“Ma cherie, whatever…” But his words were lost to her because she trotted away.
That afternoon, she sent him a note via her footman. In it, she told him not to join her any longer in the mornings. She gave him no explanations.
But she knew the reasons. She was too sensitive to her own failures—and too drawn to him. To everything about him, in fact. His patience. His devotion.
She had to do without it all. If she succeeded in her plans—no,whenshe succeeded—she trod on dangerous territory. Old members of the commune were still in power. Perhaps even those in the Bonnet-Rouge tribunal or the police office in the Croix-Rouge street crossing. She would not have Tate near her. Once her work was done, he would be tarnished for paying attention to her. She would not ruin him—or have him die because of her.
The next day crawled past. And the next.
Where was Gaspard with the maid’s address?
She sent Alice to the theater, declaring she was ill and could not perform that night. Her absence would allow the understudy to take the role. Viv had better things to do than portray a young girl who died for love. She would die soon for revenge. Alone.
She shivered.
That afternoon, when the kitchen staff sat in their kitchen for their early dinner, she changed into a pauper’s costume she’d taken from the wardrobe at the theater. Out the back door she went. Coins in her pockets, she walked toward Pont Neuf looking for someone who could fill her little glass bottle for herétuiwith arsenic.
*
The next twonights, Viv saw Tate at every party. She went now even after a performance. The more she was out and about, the more she became acquainted with those she sought. But acting five nights a week took the starch out of her. The next morning, she was always limp, depleted. Anxious. And she needed to rest, restore her confidence in her ability to do this. Lying took such energy. She had never known how Charmaine had done it year in and out. Even reveled in it.
Viv’s consolation at each event, however much she would never tell him, was seeing Tate. He was accepted by those in French Society as one who had lived in France before the chaos of the revolution. He had fine manners, spoke perfect French, and dressed like the wealthy aristocrat he was. A member of the diplomatic entourage of the Earl of Ashley, Tate was celebrated as an informal envoy of importance. He continued to cultivate bankers, and so it behooved her to join his little circles of conversation. Now and then, she heard a snippet of how well the Earl of Appleby did attempting to negotiate the impossible transfer of francs to pounds. If he did not speak of money, he spoke of fashion and Sèvres china, the cost of a fine pink and jade Aubusson and bolts of Lyon silks. To every widow and debutante, he was a dashing bachelor, a widower with money, land, and panache. He might be English, but with all those other qualities, he was a young girl’s dream—and an older one’s desire.
Once mine.
Viv admired him that evening at Monsieur Lenoir’s. In a sumptuous embroidered midnight-blue frock coat that complemented a waistcoat of gold, he attracted the attention of most of the women. To them, he returned polite regard. Viv set her teeth, feeling the nip of jealousy, the bite of need. Especially when she found him focusing on her, time and again, with those marvelous jewel-toned eyes of his. His look was an embrace she ached to wrap around her.
“You must not look at me so often,” she told him too gaily in passing.
“I warm you,” he crooned. “How reassuring.”
“Stop.” She could not help the hot flutter in her stomach.
“Never.”
She had to act like Charmaine, so batted her lashes at him. “I go to play cards.”
He came close, his bass voice a breath of temptation. “Come home with me instead.”
She would have swayed against him. But she was Charmaine here, wasn’t she? So she snapped shut her fan and pressed the tip to his waistcoat. “We have no more to say on the subject.”
He grabbed her fan and held. “You bid me end my morning rides with you. We now will speak at night.”
She tugged at the ivory sticks. “I will not speak at all.”
He gave over. “Actions only now.”
He threw down a gauntlet to her? So be it. She had things to do that had nothing to do with him.
He held her wrist. “I am yours. You are mine. Always.”
Then he let her go.
