since our parting”—a nice euphemism for knocking her over an altar—“I’d often wondered what became of you. The return of the policeman Pasques confirmed that you lived and were in custody, likely to be condemned. Then Talleyrand informed me that you’d once more been pressed into our own diplomatic service. How able is Bonaparte, to find a use for even the most miserably confused of his empire’s minions!”
I wish people could be more flattering in their assessments.
“I understand you’re once more pressed into being a go-between and will shuttle between the French and British sides. Accordingly, I’m putting this letter in the care of Admiral Pierre Villeneuve on the chance you find yourself in his company. My purpose is to suggest that your real service is returning to me.”
The cheek! But of course she missed me, too, the heart-sore girl. I read on, annoyed but curious.
“I know we have a troubled history. But we always got on well when your wife didn’t insert herself, and you do exhibit a certain pluckish charm. The grand chamberlain confides he entrusted you with a mission to discover a medieval artifact in kingdoms to the east.” Here it was again, the legendary Brazen Head. “Talleyrand suggests, and I concur, that at this juncture we should combine our talents for such a quest. You may have learned something from Astiza’s research you’ve not yet confided, and you must admit that I’ve demonstrated resourcefulness of my own. I stay several steps ahead of you.”
She was as bad at modesty as I am.
“The grand chamberlain’s offer of monetary reward still stands, and even Pasques is curious about continuing what he calls a treasure hunt. I’m not sure what you told the poor man. In any event, should we not forge a new partnership that saves your life, and perhaps consummate it in ways implied by your clumsy attempts to seduce me?”
She also had a tendency to rewrite history.
“I suppose you still have loyalty to your little family, a sentiment I find droll but dear. Unfortunately, hope is shrinking that you will ever be reunited. Word has come that Astiza’s indiscretions have led to her imprisonment for witchcraft in a fortress somewhere in Bohemia. Presumably little Harry has been imprisoned with her, if he is alive at all. Your wife has a sharp tongue, and I think it will be impossible for her to defeat prosecution. Unless you seek my help I’m afraid she’s lost, likely to be burned as a sorceress.
Burned at the stake for witchcraft? What century were we living in?
“The burghers of central Europe are more backward in their superstitions than we people of enlightenment. Astiza sealed her fate when she fled from our care. It’s too late . . . unless, dear Ethan, you return to Paris to join me. Yes, we would have you back as prodigal son! You’ve exhibited cleverness in searching out old secrets, and it’s possible you can still be of service to the emperor and France. But only, dear Ethan, if you are also of service to me. So I’m writing to offer you opportunity. Come to Paris and surrender to my command, and perhaps we can learn something of your foolish wife together. It’s her only chance. It’s your only chance. I’ve enclosed a pass and documents with Vice Admiral Rosily to require you to do just that, under close arrest and armed guard. I’m so anxious to see you! After reunion, we can find or, more likely, avenge your family. Yours in affection and continued conspiracy, the Comtesse Marceau.”
The woman was clearly balmier than Emma Hamilton. Surrender to her command? Still pretending she was a comtesse? Returned under armed guard? I’d be tortured for information I didn’t have, and then disposed of.
The bigger question was whether she was telling the truth about my wife. Catherine had made a fool of me already, and I trusted nothing she said. But she gave my mission new urgency. It was even more imperative that I find and rescue Astiza and Harry on my own. Yet I was trapped in an anchored fleet. I looked wildly about, as if I might find an answer in the admiral’s great cabin.
“It’s distressing news, I know,” Villeneuve said. “This woman Marceau, she’s your lover?”
“Certainly not.”
“A political ally then?”
“An enemy. She wants me at her mercy in Paris.”
“Ah,” he said, as if such machinations occur all the time. Which they do. “My news is just as catastrophic. Word has come that Vice Admiral François de