As Mademoiselle Renault and her chaperone dropped into curtsies, Malcolm bowed low and stayed down, backing up a step and then another. Soon, he was behind a wall of people, crowding forward to see their hero.
Cursing his luck, he could do no more than watch as Mademoiselle Renault chatted with Bonaparte, introduced her chaperone, and then turned to where her escort should be standing beside her.
Smart lady, she barely hesitated, probably realizing why he’d departed. However, to his horror, Madame Fournier, in a loud voice exclaimed, “Where is Monsieur Branley?”
Turning, the older woman was trying to see where he’d gone. Malcolm was forced to disappear farther into the crowd until he was practically trotting, head low, down the corridor toward the Senate chamber. Knocking his shin against a low display table in his haste, he finally found an inconspicuous spot behind a marble pedestal with a tall vase and flowers.
What a debacle!He could hardly fulfill his duty to escort Mademoiselle Renault home if he had to hide behind a plant. He couldn’t even keep an eye on her. For all Malcolm knew, the emperor might request the lady’s presence at his side for the rest of the evening since Napoleon’s wife, Empress Marie-Louise, had declined the invitation to go into exile. Instead, she was living comfortably with her lover in Austria. Whether she would return with Bonaparte’s son and take up her duties beside her husband was as yet unknown.
Seething, Malcolm waited until the noise in the antechamber died down. Either the emperor had left the party to make a showing at one of the other events celebrating his return or he’d gone into the gardens to what remained of the feast.
Cautiously, he made his way toward the entrance. It was conspicuously empty. Beyond the large doors in the ballroom, he could hear the crowd outside, but whether Napoleon was out there along with Mademoiselle Renault, he had no way of knowing.
Dammit!He was an Englishman and a nobleman. Cowering was not his way. Stalking through the all-but vacant ballroom, he had his fingers on the door handle when a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around.
Chapter Seven
“Randall!”
“Branley,” his associate warned. “You cannot risk being seen in those clothes by Boney.”
“How did you know I was here?”
Lord Randall’s face broke out in its usual cheerful smile. “Currently, Paris is half spies and half people being spied upon, and sometimes they are one and the same.”
“I am escorting a young woman tonight,” Malcolm started to explain.
“Who has caught the emperor’s eye,” Randall confirmed. “She is the one who spoke for you at the Tuileries Palace, is she not?”
“Yes.” Malcolm didn’t even want to know how his associate was in possession of such information.
“You must be able to go back into the palace, freely and often,” Randall reminded him.
“I know that,” Malcolm snapped. “Why do you think I was hiding behind a damned vase?”
“Then don’t give the game away now. This woman sounds like someone who can well take care of herself. Boney has an eye for the ladies, but he isn’t Henry VIII. She’ll be in no danger from him.”
