He was not impressive in the fashion of a king, no powdered wig or ermine robes while meeting his subjects. Malcolm supposed that was one reason the people liked him, believing he was one of them. Yet that was a carefully crafted ruse.
His ambitious and aggressive military nature was apparent in his green and white uniform, that of a colonel of thechasseurs à chevalof the Imperial Guard. Piped with red, his jacket was accessorized with gold, embroidered hunting-horns and adorned with eagle crowned buttons. Napoleon enjoyed all the trappings of an emperor and lived a lifestyle far above any ordinary citizen of Paris, yet in the guise of nothing more than a distinguished soldier.
At Mademoiselle’s Renault’s behest, Bonaparte took a loaf from the basket Malcolm held out to him and brought it to his nose.
“Smells delicious,” the emperor said, before tearing off a piece to taste. “Not as good as your wine, but it is very good bread.” He spoke to Mademoiselle Renault, even though Malcolm had said nothing about being deaf. It was almost as though he didn’t exist next to the beautiful fiery-haired woman. And that was perfectly fine.
“Mm,”Malcolm said, and they both looked at him. Adjusting his cap which had slipped, he set the basket at the emperor’s feet, crouched down, and fished out a paper sack.
When she appeared alarmed, so did Boney, and Malcolm realized Mademoiselle Renault probably thought he’d brought a pistol. Quickly, before he was grabbed and put in chains, Malcolm ripped open the sack to expose a piece of perfectly bakedpâte feuilletéewith slivers of almonds on top.
“What is this?” Bonaparte asked, and Malcolm shoved it closer.
The emperor accepted it, sniffed it, and then took a bite. He closed his eyes as the buttery pastry melted upon his tongue.
“C’est incroyable. Trés delicieux,”he added. “This actually might be as good as your wine, mademoiselle.” And he stuffed the rest into his mouth without offering anyone a bite.
“You must return with your bread from Boulangerie Marineau,” Napoleon told him, “but only if you bring more of these pastries.”
Malcolm bowed low. In a very few minutes, they were outside, walking beside the Seine in the sunshine. Mademoiselle Renault had remained silent since their departure from the Tuileries. Now, she spoke.
“That was a stupid thing for you to try by yourself.”
He appreciated her honesty. “I was not supposed to play the part of a baker.” Malcolm wasn’t going to disclose how Versanne had not shown up. There must be a good reason for it, albeit one he wouldn’t like. Perhaps, the Frenchman had been compromised and could no longer walk the streets without someone pointing him out as a royalist.
“My friend,” Malcolm said carefully, “should have been here. He is French through and through, I assure you.”
“Monsieur Marineau?” she asked, sounding doubtful.
He ignored her question because he hated lying when unnecessary. “We knew today was the day to make these connections with the palace, and I thought I would try on his behalf.” He couldn’t tell her anything more.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t been there?” she asked.
That was a good question.
“Believe it or not, I would still have pretended to be mute. I would have done exactly the same. Although without your charm, I doubt the emperor would have even tasted the bread, let alone the pastry. I am again in your debt.”
She nodded. She had a quiet maturity about her beyond her years, and an admirable confidence.
“It seems we are somewhat aligned in our purposes,” he ventured, for if she was entirely in favor of the emperor’s return, she wouldn’t have risked helping Malcolm to get close.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Or maybe I just didn’t want to see you taken into custody.”
That made him smile. “Why, mademoiselle? Have you developed atendrefor me?”
Her steps faltered briefly, and he regretted embarrassing her, especially after she’d been so helpful.
“Je m’excuse,”he said at once.
That made her smile at last. “We are back to where we started,” she pointed out.
“Let us start over,” he suggested, feeling like a buck in Mayfair. “Will you tell me your first name?”
She narrowed her eyes at him over the personal question.Would she tell him?He hoped so since he’d guessed every possible name when thinking of her, and none of them seemed to suit.
“Serena,” she said softly.
He nearly laughed.
