‘You are haughty. Perhaps you should consider the safety of your own position—’ Her words ended as Theodora made her appearance from the exclusive modiste’s emporium and approached the two ladies with sharp ears and an air of deep fascination. The Countess promptly turned on her heel to put an end to any further exchange.
‘The Countess of Wexford did not have the good manners to exchange greetings,’ Thea observed with a bright smile. ‘Not a suitable person with whom to be acquainted, I think. I could not help but overhear, Sarah. Now, where do you suppose that rumour of Marianne’s fate began?’ Thea raised her brows as she continued to watch the Countess’s retreating figure.
Sarah too watched Olivia’s departure with thinned lips. ‘I cannot imagine.’
Theodora laughed. ‘I see that we are in agreement, my dear sister.’ She tucked her hand in Sarah’s arm.
‘I think that we are indeed.’
Which left Sarah with the slightest frisson of triumph that Olivia had not shared her bed with Joshua when they had shared a house. It gave Sarah a lighter heart—but did not heal it.
Fate began to take a more malicious hand.
The tranquil pond began to acquire even more ripples of disquiet.
Olivia Wexford’s was not the only face in a crowd destined to draw Sarah’s attention. The incident, trifling in itself, occurred on the following afternoon when strolling in the Tuileries Gardens with Theodora, Lord Joshua having once again cried off from accompanying them. But then, as Thea pointed out with an arch of her brows, so had Nicholas, so there was no cause for any dark suspicion—it was merely that gentlemen could always find better things to do than promenade in gardens! Sarah found herself stepping around a small group of fashionable strollers, deep in conversation, equally there to enjoy the air and the flowers, one of them, a lady in a bonnet much to Theodora’s decided taste with nodding plumes and flowers and an extravagant crown. Sarah managed only a glimpse of dark hair and dark eyes and strikingly dark brows within that remarkable setting, yet she was struck by an instant recognition. But who? And where?
‘Thea—the lady who has just passed us…’
‘The one with the osprey feathers? What a splendid bonnet it is. But I could not wear that colour. Amber does not become me.’
‘Never mind the hat! Do you know her? Your acquaintance is so much wider than mine.’
‘No longer, I fear. Aymestry is not exactly the centre of the universe,’ Thea admitted without discernible regret. ‘I think the lady and I have not met. She has an arresting face.’
So thought Sarah. No, they had never met, yet it tugged at her mind. Perhaps indeed it was a distant acquaintance—someone whom she had seen in London who was also paying a visit to Paris. A familiar suspicion trickled into her mind. Or someone she had seen in Joshua’s company. She closed her mind to that. But the lady was indeed eye-catching…
It was not important.
The face stayed in her memory. Sarah was not at ease.
Joshua also found himself beset.
His conversation with Olivia Wexford at the diplomatic reception had been totally unsatisfactory, much as he had expected. When he had broached the subject head on, with typical candour, she denied any knowledge of the source of the rumours in London. But her eyes had been cold and watchful of his reaction to her. She was not beyond throwing out lures, despite their fraught parting, making it more than evident that she would welcome any overtures from him. Joshua smiled without humour. He had no intention of making overtures of any nature to the Countess. He had never trusted her, trusted her even less now, knowing that she was capable of making any kind of mischief. He would not become involved with her again, whatever plots Wycliffe might devise. She was far too dangerous, driven by resentment at her so-casual dismissal from his life.
But the matter of the Countess of Wexford was quickly put out of his mind. There was beyond question something afoot, as Wycliffe had intimated. He could find no sound evidence beyond an uneasy calm and a variety of enigmatic observations from his many sources. He had definitely discarded the viability of the long-running plot to restore the Emperor Napoleon. It was generally acknowledged that the exiled ruler was near death. Yet it seemed to him that Paris was holding its breath, awaiting some catastrophe. As he worded to Wycliffe in a carefully neutral note, nothing was clear except the extreme vulnerability of the Bourbons. Louis himself widowed and childless, his brother also widowed. Even more a cause for concern was that Louis’s nephew and his lively wife, the Duc and Duchesse de Berri, had yet to produce a living son. A carefully plotted assassination against any or all, particularly if the royal family neglected its security during the Carnival revels, could destroy the Bourbon claim in one vicious coup and open France to God-knew-what influences.
So Joshua worried about the lack of news and the dangers inherent in the street celebrations. It even began to tease at his mind that perhaps he should have left Sarah in London after all. It might be that there were real dangers lurking behind the costumes and masks here in Paris, not to be compared with the minor irritation of having one of Wycliffe’s men dog her steps at home. That thought, growing as the days passed, troubled his sleep and scraped at the edges of his temper. He must take it upon himself to ensure Sarah’s safety—after all, he had insisted that she come to Paris—but his energies were being stretched in too many directions. The one consolation was that since Thea and Nick were here it meant that she need never go out without company, if he were committed. But even so, he must stick close to his wife. It was becoming more and more important to him that he keep her safe. When his sleep was not disturbed by plots and rumours, it was troubled by thoughts of Sarah.
His troubles were multiplied a thousand times when he, too, saw a face he knew. Recognised it immediately, without any difficulty. Dark haired, dark eyed, striking features, it was a face with which he had lived for many years. So familiar that it caused him to rein in his horse with ungentle hands. The lady passed by him in a fashionable carriage, in company with a distinguished gentleman some years older than herself and another fashionably dressed couple. Before he could gather his wits and restrain his horse’s lively reactions, she was too distant, so he was unable to speak with her. Besides, in truth, he had no idea what he should say to her in company, in public. He could imagine some of the repercussions with a bitter twist to his lips. The morass of scandal might deepen yet and sink everyone concerned.
Thus this chance encounter, a succession of sleepless nights and the problem of a wife who was not exactly cool but was more than a little reserved, put him out of all humour, with himself in particular and the world in general. He took himself home with a short temper and a black frown, where Nicholas came across him in the hall, leafing through his correspondence, and quickly gave an excuse to make himself scarce after the briefest of greetings. Sher’s temper was legendary. Slow to burn, but inflammatory when once ignited. With the result that the one to be scorched and feel the full force of the blast was Sarah, unsuspecting and close at hand. Sarah, who was unfortunate to suffer one of her devastating moments of doubt and insecurity.
She was standing in the morning room, its door open into the entrance hall, opening an official letter, which was addressed with her name and had just been delivered. ‘Joshua!’ She looked up as he came into view.
‘What is it?’ A short brusque reply, but which did not immediately catch her attention from the sheet in her hand.
‘It is a draft on your bank for me… Is this your idea of pin money?’
‘What of it?’ She should have realised it, made allowances, she thought in retrospect. Especially when he entered and closed the door with something like a slam. ‘You need it. Particularly if you allow Theodora to encourage your spending habits.’
She should definitely have been warned by this unexpected sniping at Theodora. But was not.
‘Not