“She is not simply a mistress. She has taken over his life. Comte Lejeune was never a saintly man, and if he does not dote on his wife, he at least remained quietly within his circle of friends. Until, that is, he was dazzled by Isadora Ruggeri. She arrived in Lyon this spring, and caused a sensation when she appeared at the theatre—in the audience, not on the stage. Naturally, he strove to meet her. She is quite beautiful.” Fernand shrugged, as though this were the only excuse a gentleman needed for committing adultery.
“She beguiled him?” I asked. “So might many a lady, without enraging an entire city.”
“It was a harmless affair, at first.” Fernand relaxed into his story. “A flirtation that led to a rendezvous, which led to him putting her in a small house in the Presqu’île that he owns. All would have been well if Signora Ruggeri had simply been grateful for what the comte gave her, but she proved to be ambitious and greedy. She declared that the house in town was not good enough, and he must move her—immediately. So he evicted a tenant in one of his villas, a bishop, no less, and installed her there.”
“Ah, I begin to see.”
“That is not the end of it. The comte began to buy her ropes of jewels from around the world, the larger the stones, the better. He nearly bankrupted himself with this endeavor, or would have, had his wife not stepped in. From a powerful family herself, the comtesse was able to have the comte’s men of business answer to her for any expenditure.”
“Wise,” I said. “Though heartbreaking for the comtesse, I’d think. My own wife would cast me out and bar the door.” I imagined Donata’s chill and cutting anger and took a warming sip of coffee.
“The comtesse is a good woman,” Fernand said with admiration. “Valiant.” He gave this praise in French, and the graying heads around us bobbed in agreement. “Hers is a very old family, with origins going back to the twelfth century, long before this region became part of France. Her husband, in contrast, is from Paris.”
Snorts sounded, the people of the south derisive of those in the north, very much like those in my own country.
“Though I have compassion for the comtesse, this is not a new tale,” I pointed out.
“Perhaps, but then Signora Ruggeri began appearing at the theatre and the opera in the comte’s box,” Fernand continued. “Arriving early enough so the comtesse would have to retreat rather than confront her in public. The signora insisted on the comte giving her precedence at all gatherings—fetes in the Place Royale, and so forth. Finally, she tried to persuade Lejeune to divorce his wife, though as a good Catholic, he never will. When she did not succeed with that, she began trying to have his two sons disinherited, I suppose with a goal to have the comte leave her as much money as possible in his will. He is, unfortunately, believing her, in spite of the comtesse’s pristine reputation.”
I listened to all this in growing amazement. “She certainly is audacious. I take it that sympathy lies with the comtesse?”
“Of course,” Fernand said adamantly. “The signora has paid a few ruffians to protect her, but the comtesse is ours, isn’t she? Though, I believe Signora Ruggeri will have others to turn to when the comte finally comes to his senses. She has made other conquests.” Fernand winced. “Some too close to home.”
I wasn’t certain what Fernand meant by that but decided I’d ask him when there weren’t so many ears turned our way.
“Perhaps the fact that she cannot appear in the street without being attacked will convince her to go elsewhere,” I said.
“That is my hope.” Fernand took a fortifying sip of coffee. “Then our city can return to its peace.”
I agreed that this would be for the best. I continued my small breakfast, while the men around us went back to their own conversations, and Fernand turned to more neutral topics, such as his last trip to London and what he’d enjoyed there.
“Your food is terrible,” he said good-naturedly. “But your ale is fine.”
“Very true,” I answered. “We can turn grains into any number of liquids, excellent for keeping warm in the winter.”
Fernand chuckled along with me.
Presently, I glimpsed Gabriella through the doorway and excused myself to meet her. Fernand accompanied me, after sliding Beaumont coins for my meal and coffee before I could stop him.
Gabriella’s face lit when she saw Fernand. She and Emile’s uncle kissed each other’s cheeks, Gabriella speaking comfortably with him in French and Lyonnais.
This was her home, I realized anew as the three of us started for the Pont Tilsit would take us across the Saône. No matter how often Gabriella visited England, enjoying Donata’s parents’ home in Oxfordshire or our house in South Audley Street, she was part of this place. She’d known Emile and his family for years, and the Deveres were happy to embrace her as their own.
Envy stung me, though I told myself I was ridiculous. Gabriella had spent most of her life near Lyon, and of course, she’d be connected to the city and its people far more than she ever would be to me. She’d grown up as an Auberge, who were prosperous farmers south of the city, linked to and absorbed by the Deveres when she’d become betrothed to Emile.
We passed from the narrow streets to the bridge, an arched structure that would take us over the Saône. The river was running high, as was the Rhône on the other side of the Presqu’île, spring rains and snowmelt rushing from the faraway Alps to fill it. The cathedral of Saint-Jean-Baptiste rose on the other side of the Saône, the stained glass windows of its nave facing east, toward us.
As we emerged into an open space near the bridge, I spied the Frenchman I’d seen earlier.
The tall man strolled along not far from us, heading in the opposite direction on the quay on this side of the river. He did not see me this time, intent on whatever was his destination.
“Devere,” I said, interrupting his conversation with Gabriella. “Do you know that gentleman?” I gestured covertly at the man in question, not wanting to rudely point.
“Eh?” Fernand squinted across the distance. “Ah, yes, that is Colonel Moreau. Why do you ask?”
“I’m certain I’ve met him before, but I can’t quite place him.” The niggling feeling unnerved me.
“His forename is Nicolas, and he lives in Vieux Lyon,” Fernand said helpfully. “Began as a lieutenant in Bonaparte’s army, and rose to the rank of colonel. Well thought of, even if he favored the new regime.”
