The Paris Affair Part 17

"It meant a lot, having someone take my youthful paint smears seriously." Emile returned the wine bottle to its cooler. "I've started a new painting. The conspirators in the capitol after the a.s.sa.s.sination of Julius Caesar."

Simon stared at him. "Good G.o.d, you madman."

Emile gave a grin that turned him into a mischievous schoolboy. "It's a cla.s.sical subject. Something of a tribute to your father's style."

"My father could be a madman, too, when it came to running risks with the authorities."

"And you're a model of sober caution? I read the reviews of your plays, Simon. You've had the government censor close you down more than once."

"There's a big difference between risking a theatre being closed and risking-"

Emile shot a glance at Louise. She was watching him with a steady concern that reminded Suzanne of the moments she watched Malcolm go into danger. Knowing that to give way to any impulse to stop him would be to deny who he was. Not to mention who she was. Emile settled back in his chair. "People can take from the painting what they will. The a.s.sa.s.sination of a general who aspired to be an emperor could easily be a commentary on Bonaparte. A way of atoning for having painted the Bonaparte family."

"My father would be proud of you," Simon said.

"I hope so."

"The truth is Emile has to do something other than society portraits or he'd go mad," Louise said.

Simon took a sip of wine. "You both seem more at ease than the last time we met."

Emile exchanged a look with his wife again. "We've just learned to laugh in the face of adversity. Forgive me, Madame Rannoch," he added quickly. "These aren't easy times for someone who painted the Bonaparte family."

"I quite understand, Monsieur Sevigny. My husband deplores what's been happening in Paris. As do I."

Emile inclined his head. "It's worse for others. Men like St. Gilles, who were more outspoken."

"Including against Bonaparte." Simon glanced at Suzanne. "Paul St. Gilles is a committed Republican."

"So he was equally disgusted with Bonaparte and Louis?" Suzanne recalled a striking seascape by Paul St. Gilles she'd seen at the Louvre.

"He thought Bonaparte was the lesser of two evils," Emile said. "Which is enough to render him anathema to the Ultra Royalists."

Louise s.h.i.+vered. "I keep thinking about Paul and Juliette and the children. Dreadful." She cast a glance at her own children, whose s.h.i.+ny black shoes and white-stockinged ankles peeped out from beneath the tablecloth fort.

"But I'm far less important than St. Gilles," Emile said.

Louise turned her gaze to him, frowning.

Emile touched her hand. "My wife has an inflated sense of my importance." He leaned back in his chair. "It hasn't stopped the commissions, thankfully."

Simon brushed crumbs of almond cake from his fingers. "I'd like to see what you're working on. Particularly this Julius Caesar piece."

"Of course." Emile turned to the ladies.

"I'd best stay out here." Suzanne glanced at the tablecloth fort from whence high-pitched chatter now emitted. "You wouldn't think it, but ever since Waterloo Colin gets a bit nervous when I'm out of sight."

"It will give us a chance to talk," Louise said with an easy smile.

Emile refilled the ladies' winegla.s.ses before he and Simon went into the house, already deep in a conversation about capturing the quality of light.

"Simon's a dear friend," Louise said, looking after them.

"One of the first of my husband's friends I felt at ease with," Suzanne said. "I often think it's because he knows what it is to be an outsider."

"Yes, that's it precisely." Louise gave her a quick smile. "And that makes him at home anywhere."

"It's quite a knack." Suzanne settled back in her chair in the sort of pose that invited confidences. "I can't say being an outsider has quite done that for me. I certainly didn't feel at home when Malcolm took me to Britain last year."

"I know precisely what you mean. Marriage is supposed to make one belong, but sometimes it just makes one feel hopelessly lost and lonely." Louise glanced round the garden. "Though it doesn't seem to have done that for me." She took a sip of wine. "I was married before Emile."

"To the Comte de Carnot."

"Yes." Louise stared into the pale gold wine, as though looking into a troubled past. She must have been in her midtwenties, but her wide blue eyes and soft-featured face made her appear younger than her years. "A very different life. I'd say it seems like a dream now, save that it's more like a nightmare."

Sometimes honesty was the best way to discover information. Which was rather a relief. Suzanne took a fortifying sip of wine and set down her gla.s.s. "Madame Sevigny. I confess I've been hoping for a word with you."

"With me?" Louise's brows-which looked as though they had once been carefully plucked but now received less attention-rose, but her voice betrayed no alarm.

"My husband's latest unofficial exploit is looking into the death of Antoine Rivere."

"Good heavens." Louise Sevigny adjusted the brim of her hat. "I thought he died in a tavern brawl."

"It may have been a bit more complicated. And in looking into the Comte de Rivere's past, Malcolm has come across the name of a friend of yours."

Louise's frown deepened. "A friend of mine? Who?"

"Bertrand Laclos."

Louise Sevigny drew a breath and then sighed. "I might have known the gossip would still be in circulation." Her voice held no denial or outrage, merely weary acceptance. Years of experience showed beneath her ingenue features. She leaned back in her chair. "What have you heard?"

"Merely that you and Monsieur Laclos were close when he was in Paris."

"Yes. You could say that." Louise gave a bleak smile. "I miss him." She drew a sharp breath. "Madame Rannoch, you said Rivere's death had led you to Bertrand's. Do you have reason to suspect Bertrand's death was also not what it appeared?"

"Do you?" Suzanne asked.

Louise stared at the bits of almond cake on the plate before her. "There was always something odd about it. Bertrand was a careful man. Not one to get caught in a tavern brawl. He didn't fight-at least not for sport-and he didn't drink to excess. I've often wondered-" A shadow crossed her face.

"I understand your first husband was jealous," Suzanne said.

"Odiously so, though he didn't seem the least bit burdened by the marriage vow himself." Louise crumbled a piece of almond cake between her fingers. "I grew up in the country, in Normandy. Our family name is old, but our fortune negligible. I was only sixteen when my parents married me off to Carnot. He looked quite das.h.i.+ng in his military uniform. But the glamour was gone before dawn broke on our wedding night."

"From what I've heard of Bertrand Laclos, I can see how he'd have been a refuge."

"Yes, but not in the way you think." Louise Sevigny cast a glance at the children. Colin and her younger son lurked behind the fort, a fringe of hair showing above the sheet, while her elder son appeared to be standing guard. "I used to worry that Jean would be like his father, but he's far too sensitive to take after Carnot. Jules, on the other hand, is very like my Emile." She turned her gaze back to Suzanne, open and direct. "I've loved Emile for a long time. I first met him when he painted my portrait, the autumn after my son was born. Emile was making a name for himself as a society portraitist and names mattered to Carnot. I went to Emile's studio every day for a month. With my maid, of course, but during the sittings we could talk. Such a novelty to have a gentleman listen to one."

"How very true," Suzanne said. "My husband's ability to listen is one of the reasons I fell in love with him."

Louise Sevigny shot her a quick smile. "You understand then. It was so lovely. The hopes, the foolish fears that keep one awake at night, the relief when those fears dissolve, the unexpected discoveries. The brush of fingers that affects one more than a kiss. Everything one thinks a first love ought to be. Except that I was already married."

"An uncomfortable situation."

"Beastly." Louise smoothed her hands over the primrose-sprigged muslin of her skirt. "Eventually the painting was done. For a time I thought that would be the end of it. I can't tell you how desolate I felt. Then I encountered Emile at an exhibition. We talked. And the next thing I knew, I sent him a note, and we arranged to meet." She flushed, though the wonder of it still showed in her eyes.

"I'm glad you were able to s.n.a.t.c.h some happiness," Suzanne said. That sort of wonder had never been part of her life. She'd been long past it by the time she met Malcolm. Even by the time she met Raoul.

"It was dangerous." Louise pushed aside the plate, her eyes darkening. "I didn't know how to navigate Parisian society as a bride. How to dress, what to say, what not to say. Carnot found me embarra.s.singly naive. Worldly gentlemen may be entranced by innocent young girls from the country in novels, but in my experience it isn't that way at all in real life. They far prefer their women as sophisticated as they are themselves." She jabbed a curl beneath the brim of her hat. "I knew about my husband's mistresses. He was scarcely discreet. And I knew other ladies with lovers-well, my husband's mistresses were all married to other men. But one night Carnot caught me flirting-just flirting, laughing over a gla.s.s of champagne-with a young officer at a party, and he dealt the young man a blow that sent him cras.h.i.+ng into a vase of roses. That was when I learned a man can feel no desire for a woman and yet still think he owns her."

"So you knew you had to be discreet," Suzanne said, wondering where Louise's affair with Bertrand Laclos fit in with her early love affair with Emile Sevigny and her later marriage to him.

Louise nodded. "Some men are more complacent after their wives have given them an heir. But Jean's birth didn't change Carnot. Emile was dependent on commissions from the Bonaparte family and officials like Prince Talleyrand for his livelihood. Carnot could have ruined him. I lived with the dread of that, even when Carnot was away with the army."

"Is that why you ended it?"

"Ended it?" Louise said on a note of surprise. "Oh, I never ended it. I tried once, but I couldn't bear it. That was where Bertrand was so helpful."

Suzanne frowned, looking into the artless face of the woman before her. "Are you saying Monsieur Laclos-"

"He found me crying in the garden at Madame Remusant's one night," Louise said. "He said it couldn't possibly be that bad. And I said what did he know about being trapped in a horrid marriage and in love with someone else-I do have a shockingly indiscreet tongue, I always have, it's a wonder I don't get myself into more trouble. But in any case, I found myself spilling the whole story out to him. Which only made me cry more. Bertrand put his arm round me. And just then-isn't that the way it always happens-Madame Decazes walked by. Of course she's the worst sort of gossip. I told Bertrand how sorry I was, and that now there'd be all sorts of talk about us. Bertrand smiled and said it would only enhance his credit to be thought to have such a mistress." Louise flushed again. "Well, he said 'a beautiful mistress,' he was always so kind. And I said for that matter, if people thought he was my lover, there'd be less likely to be talk about me and Emile. Bertrand looked at me for a moment and said, 'Why not?' "

"How very gallant of him," Suzanne said.

"Yes, wasn't it? At first I said I couldn't let him risk himself, but he said there was precious little Carnot could do against a fellow officer, and if he challenged him to a duel-which would be dangerous, given that the emperor had forbidden them-he would quite enjoy the chance to cross swords with him. Though, truthfully, I don't think Carnot would have risked a duel. He was a dreadful coward."

Suzanne studied Louise Sevigny beneath the brim of the gypsy hat. Amazing how the most seemingly guileless person could prove a master of deception. "So you and Monsieur Laclos encouraged comment about your supposed liaison."

"It's not that we flaunted it. It's just that we let there be just enough talk that no one would ever suspect about Emile and me."

"And Monsieur Laclos?" Suzanne asked. "What did he gain from it?"

Louise frowned as though this was something she was still puzzling over years later. "He said he was tired of being dragged to brothels or having beautiful women thrust at him. He never said so in so many words, but I thought he'd left someone behind in England whom he loved. He was very loyal."

"Did he ever refer to this person?"

Louise shook her head. "No. Except that once he said something about his heart already being given." She met Suzanne's gaze. "I know infidelity is the way of the world, but some men are constant. Bertrand was. Emile is."

As was Malcolm. Suzanne took a sip of wine, the tang of guilt sharp in her mouth. "Your relations.h.i.+p with Monsieur Sevigny must have been more difficult after Monsieur Laclos died."

Louise nodded, the memories stark in her gaze. "We had to be doubly careful. I tried to end things again. Bertrand's death was so dreadful. But then Carnot fell at Salamanca." She drew a sharp breath. Her cheeks were flushed with color, her gaze at once dark with guilt and bright with defiance. "I sound the horridest person on the planet to say I was glad. And I wasn't precisely. But for the first time in my life I felt free."

"Given your circ.u.mstances, I don't see how you could but feel a bit relieved."

"Do you?" Louise cast a quick glance at her children. "He's my son's father."

"You weren't responsible for his death. And it got you out of an intolerable situation."

Louise rubbed her arms. "I can scarcely believe how it's all turned out. How hopeless everything seemed when I used to cry on Bertrand's shoulder. Now he's dead, and I have everything I wanted. Do be careful, cheri," she added, as a shriek of delight carried across the garden. Colin and Jules were dueling with sticks.

"Monsieur Laclos must have been a good friend to you," Suzanne said.

"It was so splendid. I could talk to Bertrand about Emile, which was heaven. And about other things." Louise paused a moment. "I think he was the best friend I've ever had."

"And in many ways a friend is a rarer thing than a lover. I'm sure you were a good friend to him."

"I hope so." Louise's brows drew together. "After I heard he'd been killed, I couldn't help but wonder-" She turned to Suzanne, her gaze haunted with a guilt Suzanne understood all too well. "I couldn't help but wonder if perhaps Carnot did find out and was more willing to take revenge on a fellow officer than I'd thought."

"Did he ever say anything to you about Monsieur Laclos?"

Louise shook her head. "No. Well, once after Bertrand's death he made a comment about my not having a new cavalier."

"Could you read anything behind it?"

"I couldn't be sure. I went petrified and changed the subject." Louise leaned forwards across the table. "Madame Rannoch, that's why I told you all this. Because I have to know. If Carnot had anything to do with Bertrand's death-"

"We don't know that. And even if by any chance he did, Monsieur Laclos was a grown man who made his own choices." Suzanne hesitated. A gust of wind ripped through the garden, bringing the scent of lavender. "Madame Sevigny, guilt has a way of lingering. And corroding. But it's a poor foundation for a life. And it will do no good to your husband and children. You need to let go of it. For their sake if not your own."

Louise Sevigny met her gaze, her own wide with surprise and understanding. "You sound as though you understand so well."

"Personal experience," Suzanne said. It was a far greater admission than she normally made about her life.

Louise gave a faint but heartfelt smile. "Thank you."

Suzanne took a sip of wine. "Madame Sevigny, was there anyone Bertrand ever indicated he was afraid of?"

Louise's gaze darted over her face. "So you do think someone was behind his death?"

"It seems likely. But by no means does that mean it was your husband."

Louise reached for her own wine. "Bertrand would never have admitted it to me if he had been afraid. He had a ridiculous protective streak. And yet-" She took a sip of wine. "I never connected it with his death-perhaps because I was so preoccupied worrying about Carnot. But he wrote me an odd letter just before he was killed. He said he'd discovered something unexpected. That he hoped to be back in Paris soon so he could learn more."

"Did he give any indication what this was about?"

"No." Louise set down her gla.s.s and stared at the shadow it cast on the table. "But he said if he was right it could change everything."

"etienne Laclos was a very gallant man," Suzanne said, when she'd finished telling Malcolm about etienne's arrangement with Louise de Carnot.

"Rupert told me about a girl in Spain but not about Louise." Malcolm glanced out across the stream. "I wonder if Rupert was protecting Louise's reputation or if he knew the truth of the relations.h.i.+p or if he didn't know about it at all."

"What he'd discovered that he told Louise changed everything-do you think that's the same reason he wrote to Stewart he was going to return to England?"

"It's certainly suggestive." Malcolm's brows drew together. "Stewart may be slow, but when he got that letter even he had to have wondered why a traitor would have been thinking about returning to the country he was betraying. And yet he said nothing."

"He didn't want to be the man who'd ordered the death of a man who might be innocent."

"Quite." Malcolm's fingers curved inwards as though he'd like to smash them into Stewart's face. "Precisely what Bertrand had discovered remains open to question."

"Malcolm-" Suzanne glanced down the gravel walk in the Jardin des Tuileries where Simon and David were walking with Colin between them. With the clarity of an image on the stage, she saw Simon's expression when she'd talked to him and David about Rupert Caruthers. How could she be so blind to a truth that was staring her in the face? "I never asked you-With David and Simon, did you know immediately? What they meant to each other, that is?" she concluded, feeling unwontedly awkward.