Handing Halsey a tall crystal flute with bubbling white wine, his friend rolled his eyes. “No officer of any ilk, my friend. That is the talent of a vice admiral’s lady.”
“Who? I must meet her.” Halsey had a discerning eye for the ladies. At thirty-four, he was a bachelor, single—and happy of it, too. No time did he have for a woman, specifically a wife, in his busy life. He was an adoring son to his widowed mother and doting older brother to his five younger sisters. That was enough for him to handle at the moment. He often found a ladywho caught his eye—and he acted on the attraction if she were a widow or a lady unattached.
But he’d lately discovered few ladies could keep him attracted. One night in bed, perhaps three if she were educated and witty, but that was all he gave. One day, he’d told himself and his inquiring mother and curious sisters, he would find a lady he could adore for years after. So far, he had not found such a prize, and his family had to be happy with that. He had no need to marry on whim or for land or money. Therefore, he would marry because he liked the lady and found her interesting enough to tie her to him for decades to come. And what of love, asked his womenfolk? He told them he believed in it for others. But since he hadn’t felt it in his own life, he did not think it existed. Meanwhile, he did like women. Their humor, their coquettish ways, even their fashions, made him smile. He wondered if he needed a lady who was so serious he had to make her smile.
Here tonight, he had surveyed the few ladies in attendance. Only three women graced the reception. All were senior officers’ wives. He had been at his finest when he met each of them. Women talked, and often of matters that they shouldn’t. In the past hour, he’d learned that one was lively and very good at social conversation. Another was shy and failed to easily navigate any polite conversation. The third was a little bird, flitting about the groups of men with lust in her flashing blue eyes.
Halsey thought a moment. He’d been told that Corsini’s so-called friend, DeMoray, had brought his wife here? He’d not met her yet. “Is she DeMoray’s wife?”
“No.” Corsini leaned near to confide in him. “His special friend.”
Ah. His mistress.Halsey nodded. Mistresses were intriguing ladies who knew how to skirt a topic or give you all the details without the flick of an eyelash. “I’d like to meet her.”
“She only recently graced us with her presence.” Corsini took a sip of his champagne. “It is said neither she nor her lover wish to have her near other men. Vice Admiral Jean Rossard is very careful with her.”
“Ha! Does she have a pox?” Halsey joked.
“Far from it. She is lovely beyond belief. Plays the piano as if she were Beethoven and keeps to her protector alone. For that, the gossips say, her man is very grateful.”
“Now I am interested.” Halsey raised his glass in the direction of the fortepiano. “At the least, let’s go take a look and verify how pretty she is.”
However, the crowd did not give way easily. The push Corsini and he had to make was so vigorous, it was almost rude. Even at that, they were four deep facing the lady. All around them murmured. Some gasped.
Just then, the pianist missed a note.
Someone near to Halsey said the lady never missed.
Suddenly she took up the music again.
But a murmur went through the guests, then dropped to utter silence.
“What’s wrong?” Halsey asked Corsini, because he could see no problem.
His friend inserted himself between two naval captains and craned his neck. Halsey followed.
Corsini turned around, his large black eyes locked on Halsey’s. “Not good.”
“San Remo?” Halsey tried to catch Corsini as he injected himself into another tight knot of curious guests.
Corsini returned to Halsey’s side. “Vaillancourt,” Corsini whispered, and took his arm to position them both with a clearerview of the pianist. There, at the far end of the instruments, stood a man whom Halsey had not yet met here tonight. The fellow stared at the lady.
The man’s name surprised him. The deputy of French security chief Joseph Fouché was here?Halsey’s heart picked up pace. In his previous sojourns to France to gain intelligence, he’d never glimpsed Vaillancourt. Heard of him, certainly. Often. He even knew his description. Handsome. Darkly charming—and a devil. Fouché’s henchman. But here? Not Paris.Why?
Halsey had to see the man more clearly. But he was blocked, so he turned to his friend. “Why has the pianist stopped?”
Corsini froze, his gaze going dead. “Vaillancourt.”
Then the sea of people parted and Halsey could take two steps closer. At the piano, behind the bench, a tall, dark-haired man bent toward the pianist. Vaillancourt looked pleasant enough as he addressed the lady who had played so beautifully.
To Halsey, she was in profile. Her gentle forehead, elegant, straight nose, and plush lips all recommended her. But then, so much more did as well. A lithe creature with glorious, full breasts, she wore a burnt-orange-and-gold gown of silken tissue. The transparent fabric clung to her large, round nipples and tiny waist, then down over her hips and long, lean legs. On her head, she wore a huge gold-and-black turban, beneath which she had swept up her hair. Only a few tendrils of honey-blonde tresses fell about her sharply cleft cheek.
Vaillancourt extended his hand to her. If he were attempting to appear the chivalrous gentleman either for the crowd or for her, he succeeded. Save for his mouth. That was a cruel slash of determination.
“Come,” Vaillancourt commanded the lovely lady. Halsey could read the man’s stern lips. “We will talk now,” he told her.
She stared at him, breathing deeply so that her breasts heaved with the effort. Then, mid-melody, she rose. The air, previously swaying to the effervescence she drew from the keys, turned heavy.
Dread followed in Halsey’s heart as Vaillancourt grabbed the lady’s upper arm, nails biting into her delicate skin. Halsey grimaced as the man led her away. Down the hall toward the private quarters at the end, Vaillancourt escorted her as serenely as if he were her beau or her husband.
