Page 76 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
A young woman stomped down the stone stairs as if she had bricks strapped to her shoes. She held up her head in defiance, her silken skirts swishing in fury as she descended. Her disheveled golden hair hung from a once-elaborate coiffure, and her pinched face spoke of danger and frustration.
“Prinzessin!” The man who chased her appeared at the landing. A tall fellow, he held a towel around his lean hips. His effort to conceal his accoutrements was fraught with the challenge of running after her. In his fury, he lapsed into English. “Damn it! Wait. We must talk!”
To which the lady whirled toward him and proclaimed, “We have, sir.”
“No!” He took the last few stairs to stand before her, a foot taller and glowering. “You yelled at me.”
She tsked at him as if he were a naughty child. “I will repeat softly, then, so you can hear.” She smiled ruefully and poked one fingertip to his bare ribs to punctuate her words. “You. Have. Failed. I will report that.”
“Report the truth, then!” He caught up to her again, towered over her, and stalked her backward to the open door. “We make progress.”
She did not blanch or yield, but tipped up her pert chin, and, as her foot went back and hit the threshold, she retorted, “You’ve had a year. Now you are done.”
After which, she nodded with apologetic violet eyes to Viv, Tate, and the startled, open-mouthed butler. Then she spun away into the night.
Their host—because that was the exasperated man Viv assumed stood before them—held one hand to his sagging towel, one to his hip. With a light flashing in his hazel eyes, he pushedback a lock of his white-blond hair and growled like a frustrated beast.
But when he turned, he gave Tate the biggest, most welcoming smile. With one arm out, he took his friend into his embrace.
“I do not usually welcome guests in the nude,” he said to Viv. “Appleby, whatever in hell you are doing here, I welcome you and your lady. I leave you both to Bartel and will see you at breakfast. Forgive me.” He ran back up the circular staircase.
Within minutes, she and Tate climbed the same stairs to the third floor and their suite of rooms.
“Does Lord Fournier know that lady well?” Viv asked as they walked behind Bartel.
“I will have a discussion with him over breakfast about that. But I will answer your question and tell you that I know her.”
“You do?”
Bartel opened the sitting room door and bade them good evening.
“I do not know her personally,” Tate said when they were alone and eager for the inviting bed. “But I was shown her portrait—a sketch, really—a few weeks ago. She has been in Paris recently, assuming three different names.”
“A talented lady.” Viv was surprised that someone could manage that. “I could not even do one.”
Tate took her in his arms. “You, my darling, did very well with that one. This lady… I am not certain what her objective is.”
“Lord Fournier knows. She means to tarnish his name.”
“The footmen will bring up hot water for your bath. Enjoy that and think not of anyone’s challenges. Ours are about to end.”
“I want to believe that. But the coast is a long way off.”
“We are safe now. The French cannot touch us. Dirk will ensure our passage north. We will be home a week from now.”
*
Viv was gratefulFournier had given them separate bedrooms. It was proper, after all, but she turned to Tate to explain her need to be alone.
He bent near and squeezed her hand.
“Sleep well. We both need it.” Since Chateau-Thierry, they had slept in each other’s arms in rough bedding and cramped quarters, but never comfortably. Their accommodations had been crude. Even if their affections were those of tender care, they had not been intimate. Nor had she wanted that, because she was still too bruised by the truth of Diane’s death and Charmaine’s complicity.
Viv felt oddly like a being living outside her own skin. The journey from Paris to Baden had been one in which she attempted to accept what she’d learned. That her oldest sister had betrayed Diane—them all, really—for her own gratification appalled Viv. The enormity of Charmaine’s crime filled her with an incredulity that robbed her of any ability to accept what had happened and how.
“Go.” Tate hugged her and left her at her door. “Tomorrow we leave.”
She went to her room and waited for the maids to fill the tub in the boudoir. She anxiously awaited it, pacing the floor.
