“The fun?” exclaimed Versanne. “You English are all mad, if you ask me. There is no fun in any of this.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes. The Gallic nature of his associate was both too serious and too passionate as far as he was concerned. But Versanne was a solid gatherer of intelligence and absolutely indispensable.
“Luckily, we still have Mr. Cruikshank. Undoubtedly, his scornful wit shall be directed against all those who let Bonaparte return.” Malcolm imagined neither the British nor the Russians nor the Prussians nor even the Bourbon royals would escape the pen of the popular caricaturist.
“Rightly so,” Randall said. “This is a colossal debacle, and precisely when I was heading home, too. I’ve got responsibilities awaiting me in London. In any case, gentlemen, we need to wrap it up before the autumn. Prinny and Parliament refuse to sink a second fortune into fighting Boney. Thus, let us get to work. We no longer have our great Admiral Nelson, but we have Wellington, by God, and he’s going to kick some arse.”
“And we have Scovell,” Malcolm gestured his head toward the stairs, by which the clever English general had descended. He’d broken two of the codes used by Napoleon to communicate operations with his troops. “Smart to task him with protecting King Louis and taking him to safety if need be.”
“Oh, there will be a need,Anglais,” Versanne said quietly. “I have no doubt of that.”
Randall stood up abruptly. “I’ll go get more wine. Are you hungry, Branley? We’re in the best restaurant in Paris, you might as well get a good meal.”
And then the real work would begin. They would create a list — memorized but not written down — of all those who could be moved into position to gather intelligence, including those who might even still be embedded in the armed forces. With any luck, they’d switched sides in support of Boney for appearance’s sake only.
After two hours, Malcolm was ready to go to his nearby lodging.
***
SERENA COULD FEEL THEheightened emotions of her fellow citizens. The anxiety in Paris was palpable. There were those who’d spent the past nine months during the emperor’s exile convincing the royalists in power that they had never supported him despite all he’d done for the capital. Not only bureaucrats and government officials, but also shopkeepers and café owners now wondered if they would be able to convince Bonaparte of their joy at his return and of their loyalty. Switching sides successfully was a dangerous attempt, like tiptoeing along the edge of a sword.
Fortunately, Serena didn’t have that worry. Her grandparents sold their wine from the large storehouses at La Halle aux Vins, which in turn distributed it all over Paris. Napoleon had been their champion, as wine provided stability to the economy, as well as a soothing balm to the masses and the aristocrats alike. It was considered the third staple of any Parisian’s life, along with bread and meat. Thus, Bonaparte had ordered the wine hall enlarged and improved, securing the wine-producers loyalty during the past decade.
Having concluded her business with the owner of the Café de Chartres, making sure she had the wine order to give her grand-père, Serena was seated at a table, enjoying a free plate of the chef’sspécialitéof the night, sole with truffle coulis. Friends had arrived, and she was in no hurry to return to the modest-sized apartment she shared with her grandparents, preferring their manor house in the Loire Valley, where their well-run vineyard and winery were located. In Saint-George-sur-Loire, it was easier to breathe, to feel the sun, to hear oneself think — and it simply smelled better. Nevertheless, it didn’t have the energy and excitement of Paris!
Listening to Guillaume, Suzanne, Felicity, and Jean-Paul chatter on about Napoleon’s impending triumphant return, Serena remained quiet with nothing to add or at least, nothing she could tell them nor say to anyone outside of her family, for that matter.
Her family.She frowned at the thought. Her parents had sent her into exile as surely as the heads of Europe had banished Bonaparte to Elba. She’d swiftly fit into her new life with the citizens of Paris and with her doting grandparents, who took a more lenient approach with their granddaughter. And while Serena had spent a quiet twentieth birthday at the family winery, it was Paris that she loved. Her freedom to come and go as she pleased, to sit with her friends both female and male, and to handle the wine orders for many of the restaurant and café owners was something she knew her father would be appalled to learn.
Naturally, she missed her parents, her brothers, and her London friends, not to mention the life she’d had before the final misstep at Vauxhall. She’d been on the path to triumph for the Season. Her presentation to the queen had gone well, and she’d even secured a ticket to Almack’s to enjoy dancing with some of Britain’s coveted young bucks. Moreover, she had a good number of invitations to private balls with the shiniest of thebon ton.
Yet here she sat, having traded her stifling, privileged life as a nobleman’s daughter for the liberty that came with the less stratified society of post-Revolutionary Paris. Her clothing was indistinguishable from any female of the bourgeoisie. Moreover, she could bargain and barter with the best.
“You’re very quiet, Mademoiselle Serena,” Jean-Paul said in the fast, clipped Parisian tongue that she’d picked up as easily as breathing, having spoken French with her mother all her life. “Aren’t you excited to see what will happen when Bonaparte returns? And what of our fat king?”
She sipped her wine. “Some say Bonaparte himself has grown a little soft while on Elba. His health might not be as it was a year ago.”
Her friends looked shocked.
“Where did you learn such a thing?” Guillaume demanded, and his sister, Felicity, gave Serena a curious stare. Guillaume, who was a devoted newspaper reader, insisted, “I didn’t read it anywhere.”
Serena shrugged, wishing she’d kept her mouth closed. Her grandparents knew too much, and thus, so did she. She needed to be more careful. Her grand-père had told her how the wrong word in the wrong ear could spell disaster. Fingers might point, people could die.
And now she’d gone and disclosed something only those who traveled with the emperor and reported back to intelligence gatherers in the city could know.
“I didn’t read it,” she said, scraping her fork across her nearly empty plate to gather the last bit of mushroom and sauce. “I heard people talking in themarché, that’s all. No one speaks of anything except Napoleon these days.”
“She is right,” Jean-Paul said. “His name is mentioned throughout the streets and even on the river, whether one is having one’s clothes washed or washing one’s body.”
They all chuckled, thinking of the laundress’s boats lined up near the floating baths. Both of these structures were as rife with gossip as any café. And the news was all the same — Bonaparte was coming!
Suddenly, Serena sawhim, the handsome man from the street. Clearly English by his accent although he’d spoken to her in fluent French, he descended the back stairs, and she could easily see him in one of the large mirrors on the wall. His light-brown hair caught the candlelight as he scanned the restaurant, and she couldn’t help turning. His eyes met hers, and Serena would swear recognition passed between them.
Perhaps he merely recalled how he’d knocked her over, but it seemed like something more. Something that made her insides quiver.
“Someone you know?” Guillaume asked, following her gaze. By then, the tall Englishman had turned away, moving swiftly through the dining room so his overcoat swung out behind him, and then he was gone.
“No,” she replied. “Not at all.”
