Chapter Ten
R ochambert’s tastes ran to the extravagant, noted Lynsley as he entered the mansion’s foyer. The fluted marble columns and checkered floor tiles still retained their Louis XIV polish. All around was an air of pomp. Of privilege. The gleam of the gilded moldings and ornate furniture seemed to wink in subtle mockery at the Revolution’s ideals of egalitarian principles.
A noble sentiment on paper, but in reality, some people appeared more equal than others. Napoleon clearly believed in rewarding those who served him well.
“An impressive place, non ?” murmured Levalier.
“Quite,” replied the marquess. “Your friend must be a very important man here in Paris.”
“Let us just say he has the complete confidence of the Emperor, who values his services.”
“A trusted advisor is apparently worth his weight in gold to your leader,” observed Lynsley dryly.
Levalier chuckled. “I am glad to see that Americans have a sense of humor, monsieur. You are not at all like les Anglaise , who are insufferably stiff and starchy.”
“They think that they rule the world,” he said with a straight face.
“ Oui , but when Napoleon sits on the throne in Buckingham Palace they will be put in their place.”
“A nation of shopkeepers,” said Lynsley, repeating one of Napoleon’s famous tirades against England.
“Who lack any sense of style or taste.” Levalier plucked two glasses of champagne from a passing footman’s silver tray. “But enough talk of the enemy. Come, I have some friends I want you to meet.”
For the moment, Valencia kept to the company of the other ladies, using the trillings of trivial talk to survey the surrounding company. From across the room, she watched Lynsley move among the Ministry gentlemen, his conservative dark navy coat at odds with the flamboyant colors and exaggerated styling favored by the Frenchmen.
The longish sidewhiskers had altered the shape of his face, making all of his features appear elongated to a sharper edge. The marquess had also assumed a more rigid bearing. He looked taller, broader, and a good deal more arrogant than his usual self. Indeed, everything about his mannerisms appeared more aggressive.
Valencia found herself marveling at his skill to slip into a role. The changes were subtle yet extremely effective. The Marquess of Lynsley took pains to blend into the woodwork. Mr. Thomas Daggett did not.
A clandestine agent must be a chameleon. A master of deception, making it impossible to tell truth from lies . . .
Her attention was suddenly claimed by the approach of M. Mersault and a golden-haired gentleman whose scimitar smile cut a chill down her spine.
“Madame Daggett, allow me to present you to our host, Pierre Rochambert.”
“Thank you for including me and my husband in your soiree, Monsieur,” she murmured as Rochambert lifted her glove to his lips. “Your mansion is quite impressive. The furnishings are exquisite, and what a magnificent collection of art.”
“I consider myself a connoisseur of beauty, madame,” he replied. “So I am delighted to welcome you into my home.”
Forcing her insides to unclench, Valencia acknowledged the compliment with a light laugh.
“What do you do, Monsieur Rochambert?” she asked. “Besides collect exquisite art.”
The two men exchanged glances. “I help the Emperor eliminate niggling little problems of state that arise from time to time,” answered Rochambert.
“Pierre is being much too modest,” said Mersault. “He is an invaluable asset in the fight against tyranny.”
Valencia’s only reaction was a petulant purse of her lips. “La, I shall be very happy when this interminable war is over. You gentlemen seem to talk of nothing else.”
“You are quite right to chastise us, madame,” said Rochambert. “Ladies have no interest in bullets and blades.” His brow waggled. “Tell me, what does interest you?”
“Fashion,” she replied coyly. “And all of the things that adds to life’s pleasure.”
“What about flowers?” asked Mersault. “The former Empress created magnificent rose gardens at Malmaison. They are well worth a visit”
“I love the colors and perfumes of roses, but alas, our harsh New England winters make it hard to keep such plants.”
“Surely a hothouse would keep them safe,” observed Mersault.
She made a face. “My husband considers such things an unnecessary extravagance.”
Rochambert took a sip of his wine. “A husband ought to indulge his wife’s fancies.”
“American men have much to learn from their Continental counterparts. Perhaps a bit of your Gallic gallantry will rub off on this trip.” Valencia exaggerated a pout. “Thomas is terribly serious. And he is quite determined to do well on this trip. You see, this is his first diplomatic mission for President Madison.”
“An honor, to be sure. I am sure that he merited it,” said Rochambert smoothly.
She shrugged. “No doubt. He certainly spends enough of his time on it. When he is not engaged in talks with you and your ministers, Monsieur Mersault, he is studying an endless array of papers.”
Mersault chuckled. “In my experience, ladies are no more fond of documents than they are of weapons. We shall have to see that you are not bored to death, eh, Pierre?”
“ Oui —but of course,” replied Rochambert with a smooth smile. As his gaze slid from the peak of her curling topknot to the plunging décolletage of her new Parisian gown, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Have we met before?’ he asked slowly.
“Have you ever been to Charleston, monsieur? Or Boston?” asked Valencia.
“ Non , I have traveled extensively across Europe but never to the New World.”
“I did not think so.” She let her words hang for a moment in the air before adding, “I would remember it very well had we encountered each other in the past.”
His lips parted, revealing a peek of pearly teeth. “So should I. Strange, there is something familiar about you.”
She batted her lashes. “Perhaps it is my Mediterranean blood.
“Spanish?” he asked.
“La, however did you guess?” she teased.
Rochambert laughed. “Your name, to begin with.”
“Yes, my grandmother was from the city of Valencia. My mother thought it pretty enough to use as my middle name. I’ve always disliked Elizabeth—it sounds so stiff and formal.” She took a sip of her champagne. “Actually, Thomas prefers it as well. He thinks it has an exotic ring.”
“Ah.” Rochambert eyed her from over the rim of his wineglass.” So your husband likes exotic things?”
Valencia made a coy face and fluttered her lashes. “Really now, monsieur, you cannot expect me to reveal my husband’s deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger, can you?”
His nostrils flared slightly as he drew in a breath. Did he scent a challenge? Men like Rochambert were predators at heart. They couldn’t resist the thrill of the hunt.
“Then I shall have to make sure we become better acquainted,” he replied softly.
Valencia didn’t reply, leaving it to his imagination to interpret the arch of her brow.
Time to disengage from the enemy.
Lynsley was right. A frontal assault against a man of Rochambert’s cunning and guile would never work. To have any chance at victory, they must keep him off guard. She would give the marquess no reason to accuse her of disobeying orders.
Snapping her fan open, she turned and tapped one of the passing Hussar officers on the sleeve. “Ah, there you are, Capitain Parquand. You simply must finish telling me about the exhibit of Spanish paintings at the Palais de Luxumburg.”
Rochambert was forced to make room for the young man to bow over her hand.
“Pray, excuse me, monsieur,” she said, taking care that their eyes did not quite meet.
“Until later, Madame Daggett,” he murmured.
She didn’t look back, but sensed his gaze following her for several moments.
Yes, until later, Monsieur Rochambert.
“Your wife is a most charming creature, Monsieur Daggett,” observed Levalier, tipping his glass in salute.
“Indeed, she is a lady of rare beauty,” agreed Noilly. “And you, sir, are a gentleman of rare courage to bring her with you to Paris,” he added with a sly wink.
“Hmmph.” Lynsley reached for another glass of champagne. The first two had been discreetly dumped into the potted arrangement of Oriental lilies. “Sea voyages are nothing to fear these days. Not when sailing on a sturdy Yankee schooner from my own fleet,” he growled.
“The sea is not half so dangerous as French soil.” The voice behind him was cool and mellifluous, like glacier water flowing over smooth stone. “What Monsieur Noilly means is that our city is said to have a seductive effect on women. There is something about the ethereal light, and the spirit of l’amour that makes them take bloom and spread their petals, so to speak.”
“Hmmph. You must be one of those poxy new poets, who revels in writing romantic rubbish,” replied the marquess with a slight sneer. Intuition had already told him who was speaking. But any doubts vanished as he turned and confronted Pierre Rochambert for the first time in the flesh.
Those golden eyes, that daggered smile . He had seen them far too many times in his mind’s eye to be mistaken.
Noilly smothered a laugh with a cough.
“Allow me to introduce our host, Monsieur Daggett,” said Levalier. “Pierre, this is the American consul, who has just arrived here in France for talks on our Caribbean trade.”
“Thomas Daggett,” said Lynsley, with a small nod.
“Pierre Rochambert.” The Frenchman responded with a more courtly bow.
Lynsley made a quick, dispassionate study of the figure before him. The picture he had in his head, assembled from a number of informants, proved to be highly accurate. A thin, almost effeminate face, framed by fair hair that fell in soft ringlets around his starched shirtpoints. A slender build, narrow-waisted, long-legged. A full, sensual mouth. A peek of perfect white teeth. A taste for expensive clothes.
The celestial blue color of his coat accentuated the man’s cherubic looks, creating the illusion of a gilded face floating in a heavenly sky.
The Angel of Death.
So Rochambert had been dubbed by Allied intelligence services on account of his ruthless methods. The man was a cold-blooded killer, utterly lacking in conscience or compassion.
“Seeing as I have already had the pleasure of encountering your wife, Monsieur Daggett, I must agree with mon ami Guillaume that you are indeed a brave man,” continued Rochambert. “Most men would consider Paris . . . too dangerous.”
“My wife is not some flighty schoolgirl,” said Lynsley gruffly. “She is experienced in the ways of society, and I trust that she possesses the necessary poise and polish to conduct herself with the utmost propriety, whether at home or abroad.”
The pompous speech brought a twitch of amusement to Lavalier’s mouth.
“Then it appears you have nothing to worry about, Monsieur Daggett.” Rochambert’s voice held an edge of mockery.
Lynsley knew Napoleon’s top assassin to be a man who enjoyed cutting up an opponent with his tongue as well as his blade. Forewarned was forearmed , he thought with an inward smile. For now, he would set himself up as a stiff-rumped target. Contempt bred carelessness. Rochambert must be tempted to think it would be easy to move in and seduce Valencia. In his conceit, the Frenchman was likely to make a small slip, an errant stumble.
And then Lucifer would fall back to the hell where he belonged.
“I should think not,” he said with a sniff. “Firm discipline, strict rules—a female is grateful for a husband’s guidance . . .”
Noilly started to smirk.
“Bonaparte should have applied his military genius a bit closer to home,” finished Lynsley.
The attaché no longer looked so smug. “I daresay the Emperor needs no advice on marital tactics?—”
A clink of crystal cut off the retort. “More champagne, Monsieur Daggett?” offered Levalier.
“Thank you,” said Lynsley. “Damn difficult to get decent stuff at home, seeing as the British navy has your ports bottled up right and tight.”
“If your American admirals had put up any fight,” muttered Noilly. “The British might?—”
“A toast, gentlemen.” Levalier raised his glass. “To a quick defeat of our enemies.”
“Aye, I’ll drink to that,” murmured the marquess.