The Paris Affair Read online

  Also by Teresa Grant

  Vienna Waltz

  Imperial Scandal

  His Spanish Bride

  THE PARIS AFFAIR

  TERESA GRANT

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Teresa Grant

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  THE PARIS AFFAIR

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  Copyright Page

  For Mélanie Cordelia,

  who arrived during the writing of

  this book and made life infinitely more fun.

  Welcome to the world and a lifetime of reading.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Fervent thanks to my editor, Audrey LaFehr, and my agent, Nancy Yost, for their wonderful support of Malcolm and Suzanne and of me. From e-mails to lunches your advice, input, and friendship mean the world to me.

  Thanks as well to Sarah Younger of Nancy Yost Literary Agency and Martin Biro of Kensington Books for answering questions, sending out ARCs and coverflats, and generally helping make a writer’s life easier. To Paula Reedy for shepherding the book through copyedits and galleys with exquisite care and good humor. To Barbara Wild for the careful copyediting. To Alexandra Nicolaj-sen for the superlative social media support. To Kristine Mills Noble and Jon Paul for a beautiful cover that evokes the mood of the book and looks like Suzanne. And to Karen Auerbach, Adeola Saul, everyone at Kensington Books, and Adrienne Rosado, Natanya Wheeler, and everyone at the Nancy Yost Literary Agency for their support throughout the publication process.

  Thank you to the readers who share Suzanne’s and Malcolm’s adventures with me on my Web site and Facebook and Twitter. Thank you to Gregory Paris and jim saliba for creating my Web site and updating it so quickly and with such style. To Raphael Coffey for juggling cats and baby to take the best author photos a writer could have. To Jayne Davis for quickly, cheerfully, and brilliantly answering grammar questions. And to the staff at Peet’s Coffee & Tea at The Village in Corte Madera for fabulous lattes and cups of tea and an always warm welcome to Mélanie and me while I wrote and Mélanie took in the world.

  Writers work in isolation, but writer friends make the process infinitely easier and more fun. Thank you to Lauren Willig for series strategizing over lattes in New York. To Penelope Williamson for support and understanding and endless hours analyzing everything from Measure for Measure to Mad Men. To Veronica Wolff for wonderful writing dates during which my word count seemed to magically increase. To Catherine Duthie for sharing her thoughts on Malcolm and Suzanne’s world and introducing them to new readers. To Deborah Crombie for supporting Malcolm and Suzanne from the beginning. To Tasha Alexander and Andrew Grant for their wit and wisdom. To Deanna Raybourn, to whom I totally owe a pony. And to my other writer friends near and far for brainstorming, strategizing, and commiserating—Jami Alden, Bella Andre, Isobel Carr, Catherine Coulter, Cara Elliott, Barbara Freethy, Carol Grace, C. S. Harris, Candice Hern, Anne Mallory, Monica McCarty, and the fabulous History Hoydens.

  Finally, thank you to Raphael Coffey, Bonnie Glaser, David Dickson and Patrick Wilken, and Elaine and Wayne Hamlin for making it possible for me to be a writer and a mother. And to my daughter, Mélanie, who was born during the writing of this book and was wonderfully cooperative about letting me finish it.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  *indicates real historical figures

  British Diplomats and Soldiers and Their Connections

  * Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington

  * Sir Charles Stuart

  * Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh

  * Emily, Viscountess Castlereagh, his wife

  * Lord Stewart, his half-brother

  Malcolm Rannoch, British attaché

  Suzanne Rannoch, his wife

  Colin Rannoch, their son

  Blanca, Suzanne’s companion

  Addison, Malcolm’s valet

  Colonel Harry Davenport

  Lady Cordelia Davenport, his wife

  Livia Davenport, their daughter

  * Lord Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington’s military secretary

  * Emily Harriet Somerset, his wife

  Earl Dewhurst, British diplomat

  Rupert, Viscount Caruthers, his son

  Gabrielle, Viscountess Caruthers, his wife

  Stephen, their son

  Gui Laclos, Gabrielle’s brother

  Christian Laclos, Gabrielle’s cousin

  French and Their Connections

  * Prince Talleyrand, prime minister of France

  * Edmond de Talleyrand-Périgord, his nephew

  * Dorothée de Talleyrand-Périgord, Edmond’s wife

  * Wilhelmine, Duchess of Sagan, her sister

  * Count Karl Clam-Martinitz, Dorothée’s lover

  * Joseph Fouché, Duc d’Otrante, minister of police

  Antoine, Comte de Rivère

  Manon Caret, actress at the Comédie-Française

  Roxane, her daughter

  Clarisse, her daughter

  Berthe, her dresser

  Emile Sevigny, painter

  Louise Sevigny, his wife

  Jules Sevigny, their son

  Jean Carnot, Louise’s son

  Paul St. Gilles, painter

  Juliette Dubretton, writer, his wife

  Pierre St. Gilles, their son

  Marguerite St. Gilles, their daughter

  Rose St. Gilles, their daughter

  Christine Leroux, opera singer

  British Expatriates and Visitors to Paris

  David Mallinson, Viscount Worsley

  Simon Tanner, playwright, his lover

  Aline Blackwell, Malcolm’s cousin

  Dr. Geoffrey Blackwell, her husband

  * Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster

  * Captain James Wedderburn-Webster, her husband

  * Granville Leveson-Gower

  * Harriet Granville, his wife

  * Lady Caroline Lamb, her cousin

  * William Lamb, Caroline’s husband

  Doubt thou the stars are fire,

  Doubt that the sun doth move,

  Doubt truth to be a liar,

  But never doubt I love.

  —Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act II, scene ii

  CHAPTER 1

  The hanging oil lamps swayed and gusted at the opening of the door. The wind brought in the stench from the Seine. A man and woman stepped into the Trois Amis tavern and stopped just beyond the door. The man was lean and dark haired and perhaps taller than he looked.
He slouched with a casual ease that took off several inches. A greatcoat was flung carelessly over his shoulders. Beneath, his black coat was unbuttoned to reveal a striped crimson waistcoat. A spotted handkerchief was knotted loosely round his neck in place of a cravat.

  The woman, who leaned within the circle of his arm, wore a scarlet cloak with the hood pushed back to reveal a cascade of bright red curls, brilliant even in the murky light of the tavern. Glittering earrings swung beside her face, though surely they must be paste rather than diamonds. Her rouged lips curved in a smile as her gaze drifted round the common room with indolent unconcern.

  The other occupants of the tavern glanced at the new arrivals. It was an eclectic crowd, a mix of sailors, dockworkers, merchants, women who plied their wares along the docks, a few young aristocrats in sporting dress. And soldiers, in the uniforms of Russia, Prussia, Austria, Bavaria, England. These days, less than two months after Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat at Waterloo, one couldn’t go anywhere in Paris without seeing soldiers.

  After a moment, the crowd returned to their dice, drinks, and flirtation. The accordion player seated in the center of the room, who had paused briefly, launched into another lively air.

  The couple moved to the bar, where the gentleman procured two glasses of red wine. While he was engaged with the barkeep, several men ran appreciative gazes over the lady. One went so far as to put a hand on her back. “How much?” he asked, his head close enough to her own that his brandy-laced breath brushed her skin.

  The lady ran her gaze over him. Her eyes were an unusual color between green and blue. She brushed her fingers against his face and then put a gloved hand on his chest. She gave a dazzling smile. “More than you can possibly afford.”

  The man regarded her for a moment, then shrugged and grinned. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he said, and moved towards a fair-haired girl by the fireplace.

  The gentleman turned from the bar and put one of the glasses of red wine into the lady’s hand. If he had noticed the man making her an offer, he gave no sign of it. He touched his glass to hers, and they threaded their way through the crowd to a table neither too obviously in the center of the room nor too deep in the shadows. Experience had taught them that the easiest way to hide was often to remain in plain sight.

  The lady tugged at the cords on her cloak and let it slither about her to reveal a low-cut gown of spangled white sarcenet. The gentleman shrugged out of his greatcoat, slouched in his chair, and ran an eye round the room.

  “I don’t see anyone matching the description,” the lady said in unaccented French.

  “Nor do I,” the gentleman agreed in French that was almost as flawless.

  “We’re a bit early.”

  “So we are. But I’d give even odds on whether he actually puts in an appearance. He’s never been our most reliable asset.”

  The lady tossed back a sip of wine. “Oh, well. At least we’ve had a night out.”

  The gentleman grinned at her. “I can think of places I’d rather take you.”

  “But this one has a certain piquancy, chéri. An evening without diplomatic small talk. Bliss.”

  The gentleman slid his hand behind her neck, then went still, his fingers taut against her skin.

  The lady had seen it, too.

  The man they had come to meet stood by the door, a short, compact figure enveloped in a dark greatcoat. He removed his hat to reveal hair that was several shades darker than its natural color. A good attempt at disguise, but nervousness still radiated off him.

  “Well,” the gentleman murmured to the lady. “People can surprise you.”

  The lady touched his arm. “I’ll take care of it, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm Rannoch caught his wife’s wrist. “Be careful.”

  Suzanne Rannoch turned to look at her husband. “Really, mon amour, you’d think you didn’t know me.”

  “Sometimes I wonder.” Malcolm pulled her hand to his lips, the gesture flirtatious to anyone watching, but his grip unexpectedly strong. “Remember, we’re in alien territory.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “When are we not?”

  Suzanne moved into the room, her spangled skirts stirring about her, and bent over the accordion player. He gave her a quick smile. A moment later, he launched into a lilting rendition of La ci darem la mano. Suzanne began to sing, her voice slightly huskier than usual. She moved towards the nearest table and brushed her fingers against the face of the portly man who sat there, then bent over a young Russian lieutenant at the next table, her burnished ringlets spilling over his shoulder.

  The buzz of conversation stilled. The dice ceased to rattle.

  Malcolm allowed himself a moment to appreciate his wife’s skill, then picked up his greatcoat and glass of wine and strolled across the room to the corner deep in the shadows of the oak-beamed ceiling where the man he was to meet had taken up his position.

  “My compliments, Rivère.” Malcolm dropped into a chair across from him. “I gave even odds on whether or not you’d actually put in an appearance.”

  Antoine, Comte de Rivère, cast a quick glance about. “For God’s sake, Rannoch, what do you mean coming up to me openly?”

  “You were thinking we’d pass coded messages back and forth instead of having a conversation?”

  “If we’re noticed—”

  “My wife has things in hand.”

  “Your—” Rivère stared at Suzanne, who was now perched on the edge of a table, leaning back, her weight resting on her hands, her skirt pulled up to reveal the pink clocks embroidered on her silk stockings. “Good God.”

  “I don’t think you’ve seen Suzanne in action before. We’re both more accustomed to disguise than you are.”

  Rivère looked from Suzanne to Malcolm. “The way you’re dressed you can’t help but attract attention.”

  “But the man and woman people will remember seeing tonight will seem nothing like Malcolm Rannoch, attaché at the British embassy, and his charming wife.” Malcolm pushed his glass of wine across the table to Rivère. “You look as though you need it more than I do.”

  Rivère took a sip of wine. His fingers tightened round the stem of the glass. “I pass messages. I don’t—”

  “Indulge in this cloak-and-dagger business. Quite.”

  “It’s all very well for you British.” Rivère twisted the glass on the scarred wood of the table. The yellow light from the oil lamps glowed in the red wine. “You’re protected by embassy walls and diplomatic passports. It’s getting more and more dangerous for the rest of us. The Ultra Royalists have been out for blood ever since the news from Waterloo. I sometimes think they won’t rest until they’ve rid the country of every last taint of Bonapartism. I’m not sure even Talleyrand and Fouché can hold them in check.” He grimaced. “Mon Dieu. That I’d ever be calling Fouché the voice of moderation.”

  “If nothing else he’s a survivor,” Malcolm said. “As is Talleyrand.” Prince Talleyrand, who had once been Napoleon Bonaparte’s foreign minister, and Fouché, who had been his minister of police, had both managed to survive in the restored Royalist government.

  “Even they can’t hold back the tide,” Rivère said. “Look how Ultra Royalists are going after men like la Bédoyère—”

  “La Bédoyère was the first officer to go over to Bonaparte when he escaped from Elba. You aren’t on the proscribed list.”

  “Yet.” Rivère cast a glance about and leaned forwards, shoulders hunched, voice lowered. “Fouché receives more denunciations every day. You’ve heard Royalists in the Chamber of Deputies clamoring for blood. Cleansing, they call it. It’s the Terror all over again.”

  Malcolm cast an involuntary protective glance towards Suzanne, who was tugging playfully at the cravat of a Prussian major. He looked harmless enough, but these days Malcolm’s every sense was keyed to danger. There was no denying France in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat was a dangerous place. Frenchmen clashed in the street daily with soldiers from the occupying armies of P
russia, Russia, Austria, Bavaria. And, Malcolm could not deny, England as well. Royalist gangs had ravaged Marseilles and Toulon and other cities. “It’s dangerous,” Malcolm conceded. “But that doesn’t mean you—”

  “My cousin’s in the Chamber, and he wants me dead. My father got the title when his father was guillotined in the Terror. He wants it back.”

  “There are legal avenues he could pursue.”

  “But getting rid of me would be quicker. And it would be vengeance for his father. He’s worked his way into the Comte d’Artois’s set. It’s only a matter of time before I’m arrested.”

  The Comte d’Artois, younger brother of the restored Bourbon king, Louis XVIII, was known for his zeal in exacting retribution on those who had supported Napoleon Bonaparte. It had been easier when Napoleon was exiled the first time. After his escape from Elba and his second defeat, at Waterloo, the Ultra Royalists wanted blood.

  Malcolm studied Rivère’s usually cool blue eyes. “The irony being that while you served Bonaparte you passed messages to the British.”

  “But there’s no way I can prove it, damn it.”

  “We could help. But being a British spy isn’t likely to gain you favor with the French, even the Royalists.”

  “Precisely. I’m damned either way.”

  “You’re not generally one to talk in such melodramatic terms.”

  “I don’t generally fear for my life.” Rivère cast another glance round the tavern. Suzanne was now standing on one of the tables, arms stretched in a way that pulled the bodice of her gown taut across her breasts. A whistle cut the air.

  Malcolm reclaimed his glass and took another sip of wine. “What do you want, Rivère?”