Chapter Eight
Malcolm sat in thecorner of the Café Montansier in the northwest corner of the Palais-Royal, his cap drawn down, collar turned up, slowly nursing a bottle of wine. He could easily see the entrance and much of the area where the establishment’s shows were produced both when it was solely a theatre and more recently, as a café with sideshows of dubious quality. And he was keeping an eye on a table full of young people, including Christoff, the Cerise vineyard wine manager.
So far, the citizens of Paris, at least those in this restaurant, were decidedly on the side of their triumphant emperor. Some had breached the stage, loudly singingLa Marseillaisewhile other sang along from the tables. Nearly to a man, they were wearing red caps in solidarity, even Malcolm, and the women had on red bonnets.
“The Revolution is coming back to life!” declared a man a few feet away, and the singing started again. The only dissenting voices were those who feared another long war. And any who wondered such were soon shouted down and told to go elsewhere.
Malcolm was sure it wouldn’t be drawn out this time, not over years and decades. Once the Seventh Coalition engaged, they wouldn’t let up until Boney was defeated.
What he wasn’t sure about was how to proceed, and that, in itself, felt unbearably unusual. Moreover, all his uncertainty centered upon one desirable Parisian woman, and not upon his duty to Britain. He wanted to see Mademoiselle Renault again, despite how his attention ought to be singularly focused on the military and political developments. While the emperor was marshalling troops and presenting extravagant parades to show them off, giving any enemies remaining in Paris no doubt as to his strength, Malcolm was wondering what color Serena Renault’s nipples were — dusky pink or peachy. He decided because of her hair color, they were the latter.
The sooner this last assignment ended, the sooner he could go home and start the process of stepping into his role as heir to a viscount.The processwas the least painful way of considering marriage, and he could hardly recall the faces of the two women he’d deemed acceptable when last considering a wife.
Moreover, if Serena, who had increasingly piqued his interest each time they’d met, gave him a sign she was willing, then he might act upon his inclination to bed her.After all, how could it possibly interfere with his assignment?
In the meantime, the Seventh Coalition’s plans were moving slowly, as happened when more than one nation tried to work together and all of them wanted to be in charge. Until the time came to act, he would return to the Tuileries Palace by day to sniff out any plans for upcoming acts of war.Boney would decide the next field of battle. Where that would be, no one yet knew.
And in the evenings, Malcolm would circulate through the cafés, especially the hotbeds of insurrection and revolution like the one tonight, listening to the mood of the people and, more usefully, the loose tongues of drunken officers, cavalry, and foot soldiers. Formerly of the French Royal Army, many were now firmly attached to the Imperial forces.
Randall, lying low after his appearance at Luxembourg Palace, believed Malcolm hadn’t been compromised. Only the emperor and some household staff at the palace could identify him as the mute baker.
Except for Serena.
After their searing kiss, although he wasn’t a profligate gambler, he would wager at White’s she wanted a tryst as badly as he did. A passionate and willing woman was an irresistible temptation. Despite her grandparents insisting on a chaperone, Serena seemed less inhibited than the young ladies of the Londonton. And her independence bespoke of a more experienced woman.
Not that her being less restricted and more worldly gave him leave to take advantage of her. It simply made the possibility of a liaison while he was in Paris a distinct possibility. She was not the type to demand a marriage contract before a kiss, and he wasn’t the type to consider getting serious with a vintner’s granddaughter who would never be accepted as the future Viscountess St. John.
Hell!Until a month ago, he hadn’t been the type to think of getting serious at all. Yet he was at the age when many of his class were securely wedded and beginning to produce heirs, and he couldn’t put it off any longer.
It was frightfully easy to picture babes with Serena’s stunning coppery hair and charming green eyes.
Speak of the devil and there she was!She entered the café by herself, but to his astonishment, she went directly over to the table where the brutish beast who’d turned on him at the Halle aux Vins now sat chatting jovially with two other men and two women.
Any foolish notion of saying hello if he saw her couldn’t possibly come to fruition while she was with that oaf, Christoff. And now, her vague statements regarding the future of an empire or a kingdom came back to worry him. Quite possibly, she was a Bonapartist through and through, as many of the other Parisian merchants were. She might have helped him simply because she liked him. That brought his thoughts right back to stretching out beside her, both of them naked as a needle, and finding mutual satisfaction.
But she might have helped him in order to keep him close, hoping to learn more, before eventually turning him in.
He passed the next hour and a half gaining no more interesting information than how the two men at the next table intended to turn in their butchers’ knives and take up arms for Napoleon should he call upon them to do so.
Malcolm doubted the emperor would stride into either of their butcher shops or this particular café seeking out men with more wine-induced bravado than combat skills. Regardless, the fact they were willing was more evidence this fight must not come to the city itself. Amateur soldiers would make for rich cannon fodder, and the streets would be bathed in blood.
Serena’s laughter caught his ear. She leaned close to one of the other women seated at the table, but both Christoff and another man were giving her their full attention. Malcolm doubted she had any idea how bewitching she was. In another few minutes, all of those at her table stood and left. Just before she slipped out of the café’s entrance, she lifted her cloak’s hood over her head.
Waiting a minute, Malcolm followed them through the same door out into the Galerie du Montpensier. Many people were strolling the Palais-Royal arcades, going in and out of the cellars, most of which had been turned into gambling dens, music rooms, and theatres, and some were even large enough to be ballrooms. Other people were seated in the middle greens on benches smoking or simply chatting. And of course, at that time of the evening, there were harlots in all manner of dress and undress, hanging on men’s arms, lounging in doorways, and sauntering along the colonnades.
In the distance, heading north toward the Galerie de Beaujolais, was the cloaked figure of Mademoiselle Renault walking along the piazza with her arm held securely by the other man from the table, not Christoff. The other two women strolled close behind.
