“Marie,” Ram called to her, “get my carriage to come round the front.”
“But monsieur,” she whispered, “that is not wise.”
“But necessary, Marie. Do it.”
And away she went, down the servants’ stairs.
Downstairs, themajordomconversed with a man whose voice became louder, angrier. Two men continued to argue.
All at once, footsteps were on the circular stairs below.
Ram heard people charge upward.
Merde.
Marie’s father, Vaillancourt’s butler, ran behind Vaillancourt as the two of them reached the first landing.
“Monsieur le Vicomte Ramsey,” said the deputy, coming to a halt steps below Ram. “Where in hell do you think you are going?”
“Away from you, Vaillancourt.”
“You cannot have her.”
“But I do.” Ram gave him a sardonic smile and took the steps down to face the man. “Out of my way.”
“No. She is ill.”
One well-dressed man appeared on the steps below. A visitor, Ram assumed.
Good, an audience.He would nail Vaillancourt to his own cross. “And what have you done to nurse her back to health, eh?”
“She is sickly. I have had a physician.” He glared up at Ram. “Given her medicine.”
“Really? And you have also fed her poison?”
“Never!” Vaillancourt darted in front of him. “She will not go!”
Ram scoffed. “But she does. Step aside, Vaillancourt!”
Their voices had risen, and a commotion below resulted in three more men appearing at the landing of the first floor.
One of them was an assistant to Talleyrand. At sight of Ram, the man, whose name was Didier, circled the others and looked up at Ram. He knew the Frenchman well, having met him at court when he, Kane, and Fournier first arrived more than a year ago.
Vaillancourt saw his guests assembled and stiffened in his bravado. “She is mine.”
“Monsieur, she never was.” Ram meant to walk around him. “Move.”
Didier mounted the stairs, his expression a mix of shock and anger.
“Bon soir, Monsieur Didier,” Ram bade the diplomat. “I take Madame St. Antoine from Vaillancourt, who treats her badly.”
“Poison,” Amber announced to him loud enough that Didier heard—and blanched.
Ram rejoiced that Amber could tell her own tale.
“He put poison in my tea,” she moaned. “In my wine.”
“I did no such thing!” the fellow objected, indignant.
