Page 7 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
Vivi glared at her. Was there anything in this world more heinous Charmaine could do than to deprive a friend of succor? In disgust, Vivi said, “Very well. I have my medicines in the boot. We can stop.”
“No, we cannot!” Tate shook his head. “We drive on lest they follow. We do not stop, Vivi. We never stop.”
Chapter One
February 18, 1803
Théâtre de la Gaîté
Paris
Tate Cantrell climbedthe steps of the Paris theater on the left bank, weaving through the jostling, exuberant crowd. Good God, how many were here tonight to see the performance of the French star of Drury Lane? The wily one who had eluded him for five months?
The theater was jammed with eager patrons. He could not fault them. He himself was smiling that after those long months he had finally found the woman for whom he’d searched—and discovered her in Paris, of all places. Why she’d disappeared was a mystery, for the woman loved every bit of attention anyone paid her. Where she’d absconded to and why she had secluded herself, he had no idea. But he’d learn, by God. He wring it out of her.
He scoffed. He was an experienced British envoy. A seasoned spy for Scarlett Hawthorne, the heiress merchant, in London. He knew dozens who deceived easily and often.
Charmaine de Massé could easily be one of them. She had led a remarkable existence full of wealth, prominence, loss, deception, and cruelty. She was the oldest daughter of a well-intentioned minor Bourbon vicomte who worked for reform butwho fell nonetheless to the guillotine courtesy of Robespierre. Her major characteristics, however, were her pride, her selfishness, and her artfulness. She’d had years of practice, lying to her family and cheating them out of a share of the family treasures she hocked. Charmaine de Massé was a clever charlatan who could easily pose as someone else. She’d often pretended to be sweet, innocent, and kind. Duping far too many.
He paused, seizing his anger at Charmaine’s disappearance and molding it to his purpose. His focus must be on the greater goal of finding—and keeping—her half-sister, Vivienne.
Dozens surged around him, talking of their excitement as they rushed through the foyer. Many buzzed, hoping Bonaparte and his wife would appear to honor the French émigré who had escaped Robespierre with her family. First Consul Bonaparte, who had reestablished order and sanity after the Terror, loved the theater and attended often and without prior notice. He also liked blonde actresses. Too much, too quickly, it was said, tongue in cheek.
“Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.” Tate stepped to one side, the crush of theatergoers on the stairs enough to send one tripping down them.
He nodded to a few to whom he’d been introduced last night in Madame Récamier’s salon. That occasion had been acclaimed in the gossip sheets this morning as the notable Earl of Appleby’s third—if more louche—entréeto Parisian Society. His second had been at Bonaparte’s court in the Tuileries three nights ago. His first, at Lord Ashley’s home last week, had been his formal entrance. He was this time, after decades of secretive journeys throughout Europe, an official in Ashley’s entourage of British informal envoys responsible for aiding in the peaceful ties between France and her longtime adversary.
Of course, being in charge of balancing currency values for products imported and exported between the two formerbelligerents was a dry task to which he publicly applied himself. But wringing the neck of that acclaimed London actress Charmaine de Massé was his only goal. Shocked to learn this morning from his friend and spymaster, Kane, Lord Ashley, that Charmaine was in Paris, Tate readily accepted the invitation to attend. Backstage afterward, he would corner her and squeeze the truth from her lovely, deceitful lips.
He had searched for her last spring in England and found no traces. Wherever the wily lady had gone, she had influenced her youngest sister Vivienne to disappear as well. His tenants told him so. Whatever had induced Viv to leave her little cottage, her garden, and her beloved flocks of chickens and ducks, even her darling donkey Fred, had to have been momentous. To his eternal dismay, Tate had no clue what fable Charmaine could have woven to enchant Vivienne to follow. Viv brooked no nonsense from her oldest sister and had created a life without her.
“Bon soir,” he greeted one of Bonaparte’s generals upon the stairs up to the private boxes. Tate bowed to the lady on the officer’s arm. The military man came tonight with a ravishing brunette creature who was definitely not the plain-faced little wife Tate had met last night at Madame Recamier’s. Using his excellent French and anything else he’d learned in years abroad, he intended to make many friends.
“How are you this evening?” He met one and then another. “Well? Very good. Very good. As am I. Enjoy the play. I do love a fine comedy. Please, after you.”
He followed the crowd up, made the landing on the second tier, and turned to begin his hunt for box four. He was late. Had planned to be. He had little appetite for the conversations required in such situations when he had a precise mission. Or he should say, he did not care to indulge in such frivolous talk when he had so much anticipation of tonight’s long-awaited success.
He had searched for Charmaine Massey for too long. Tonight was his triumph. The end of his search for the woman who stole from so many for so many years.
Ah.Box four. He opened the door.
He was greeted by a chorus of welcome from Kane, the Earl of Ashley, whom he’d known since he was a lad of thirteen, and three of his friends, whom he’d met last week at Ashley’s reception. Aside from Kane and Tate, none in the box were agents. Or at least as far as Tate knew, they were not. The Chilterns and Lord Manning declared that they had come to Paris to enjoy the winter’s entertainments. They were not alone. Ever since Lord Cornwallis had signed the Treaty of Amiens last spring, hundreds of British had flocked to the French capital. Lord Elgin and his wife, the Cholmondeleys, and even Charles James Fox had come to drink the wine, stand for lavish newa la modewardrobes—and hope to dine with the little Corsican and his oh-so-charming wife, Josephine, who ruled over the newbeau monde.
Tate had no tolerance for politics. Not tonight. He had run to ground the woman who had disappeared last spring along with her younger sister. He would get from Charmaine where his darling Vivienne was. Then he would go find her and do what he had intended last spring. He would propose marriage.
Kane did his duties as host and introduced Tate all around as his newest colleague.
Lord Chiltern put down his monocle as they all took their chairs. “You’re to improve the rate of currency exchange for goods, Appleby?”
“I am.” Tate tucked his program inside his frock coat pocket. “My usual job.”Not my only one. With Scarlett, one tracks whatever mystery will lead to excellent intelligence.
“I understand you’ve practice,” said Chiltern with an arched brow, “with Italian funds and Ottoman.”
“Just so,” Tate said, his attention on the red velvet curtain.
“For the Levant Company out of Jaffa?” Chiltern persisted. “I understand they are very corrupt. Isn’t that difficult?”
“But interesting,” Tate demurred. It was not in his remit to discuss how well an official British company like the Levant managed its trade. Jerusalem’s prices rose and fell with the local sultan’s delight in his newest wife.
