the way a sailor might examine the rigging of a new ship. A Parisian woman in late autumn comes in three wrappings. There’s a simple chemise next to the skin that is frequently washed, a petticoat hanging to the ankles with lace fringe that will be visible when a lady lifts her dress to avoid puddles, and the outer gown of thicker fabric, its waist just below the bust. The colors this season were rose and lilac, and the material of the layers can range from gauzy to opaque. Catherine was donning a day dress, which was less sumptuous and more modest than evening wear. If you’re wondering how I know all this, I am first instructed by marriage, and, second, experienced in reefing or unfurling past damsels. I also had consumed several of the romance novels when the women weren’t around to tease me, not liking them of course, but still being aroused by one passage and shedding a tear at the next. No wonder they sold so well.
“There’s nothing that makes less sense than women’s clothing,” I said. “It’s buttoned, buckled, and lashed where a poor girl can’t reach it. The result drags in the dirt and yet it’s so trimmed on top that it leaves her freezing.”
“Sense has nothing to do with it. Clothing is to decorate, elevate, and inspire. Impracticality is a small price to pay.”
“Maybe women will wear trousers some day.”
“What a silly thing to say!” She glanced back over the marble of her shoulder, eyes mischievous, lips curled saucily. My point is that the girl knew exactly what she was doing, and I did, too.
I fastened her as well as I could. “Silliness is why you don’t like me, I suppose.”
“But I do like you.” She turned and grasped my hands. “I worry about you and your young family. You were gone the entire night recently, little Harry so exhausted that he fell asleep in your arms. Such labors that infant must have endured! He and I have become quite close, you know. I am like a second mother.”
“I wouldn’t call them labors, exactly. He got some candy.”
“But I could have helped.” She stepped close, breathing hard enough to have me following things up and down. “I want to help. We’re allies, no? Spies against the tyrant Bonaparte? A partnership for royalist restoration? And yet you’re slipping away on missions without my knowledge.”
“To protect your pretty neck.”
She cocked her head. “Do you think it is pretty?”
“Our missions are about the coronation, Catherine.”
“Then it’s about me! I’m the coronation! I mean, I’m laboring to help Josephine plan it. She cares more about the dress than the crown, and her sisters-in-law are even shallower, so all have benefitted from my advice. What jealousies I referee! Men have swords for their duels, and women, tongues.”
I hesitated. Did Catherine belong in our plan? And yet, how, exactly, were we to substitute the Crown of Thorns for the one Napoleon intended to be crowned under? Now a comtesse was running her hand up my sleeve and throwing off more warmth than a Franklin stove. How women manage that on demand I don’t know, but it’s the rare man who doesn’t want to cozy to the fire.
“I need to enlist you,” I allowed. “It’s terribly dangerous.”
“I landed in France to embrace danger.”
“We’ve an idea to spoil the entire coronation.”
Her eyes widened.
“To embarrass Napoleon, we’re considering slipping a substitute crown into whatever container the pope plans to use for the real one, meaning that someone has to risk her life by mixing things up.”
“Mon Dieu! So daring. A substitute crown?” She looked intrigued. I hesitated to let her share our scheme—Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, Franklin had said—but she was lovely as the devil. Shouldn’t beauty imply character? She lifted on tiptoes, smelling of perfume, licking the air near my ear. “I love a secret.”
I struggled to remember that I am married, sensible, and reformed. She was a golden-haired angel, half dressed, ripe, and adoring as a doll. Men are so used to women swerving to avoid us that it’s captivating, and startling, to be paid attention by one. I swallowed. “I’ll discuss it with Astiza.”
“Ethan, we were partners before your wife appeared. These past months have only made us more intimate, and frankly I’ve trembled to resist temptation. You don’t realize your virile charm.”
Actually I do, and frequently overestimate it.
“Do you mind frankness?” she went on. “I confess to infatuation. Should we not consummate