perfect and pure.
It was hard enough to argue with a goddess, harder when one was mute with love, tongue-tied with infatuation.
It had crept up on him slowly, over the course of months. At first, he had been aware only of admiration, admiration for her calm under pressure, for her endless serenity, for the cool, Grecian good looks that had won her a place in Bonaparte’s court, and the rigorous self-discipline with which she played her chosen role. Augustus had seen so many agents come and goover the years. Some lost their nerve at the first hint of danger; others cracked through boredom, unable to sustain the pretense needed to maintain an alias over an extended period of time.
Not Jane. She made it seem so easy, as effortless and inevitable as the endless washing of waves against the beach. He had to remind himself, sometimes, that she was nearly a decade his junior. She had arrived in France fresh from the seclusion of the English countryside, with no training other than that which she had devised for herself. As far as Augustus could tell, she hadn’t put a foot wrong since.
He had been instructed to liaise with her last summer, over a matter of mutual interest: the capture and containment of the spy known as the Black Tulip. It seemed a reasonable collaboration. The English government had been looking for the Black Tulip for some time; the Black Tulip had vowed to find and eliminate the Pink Carnation.
It wasn’t her professionalism that caught him, or her beauty. It was the humor with which she entered into his ridiculous charades, the glint in her eye as she received his more alarming effusions. Competent, beautiful, and clever.
What man wouldn’t succumb? After years of writing about love, he was finally prey to it, and it hurt like hell. It was the worst of poetic clichés: the poet infatuated, the lady indifferent. It didn’t help that their professional relationship depended upon the endless perpetuation of that particular scenario, exaggerated into farce and played out before the entire audience of Paris society.
“The party at Malmaison is being held in honor of Emma’s cousin, the American envoy,” Jane was saying. “It’s not common knowledge yet, but he’s due to be recalled. This is meant by way of farewell. If anyone has the power to secure your entrée, it will be Emma.”
“Yes, but will she?” Augustus dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. No use in mooning. “Emma Delagardie has no use for me.”
“You mean you have no use for Emma Delagardie. Those are two very different propositions.”
“The woman called my writing an expense of ink in a waste of shame.”
“Clever,” said Jane.
“Shakespeare,” countered Augustus. “Sonnet 129.”
“Is it the sentiment you object to, or the lack of originality?”
“She said my poetry was drivel.”
Jane regarded him with amusement. “It is drivel. You’ve said as much yourself. Credit Emma with taste, at least, if not with tact. I should think you would approve of that. I’m not asking you to marry her—”
“Much obliged,” muttered Augustus.
“—merely to offer her your poetic talents, such as they are, for the purpose of gaining admission into Malmaison.”
“I fail to see how the one translates to the other.”
“Madame Bonaparte has asked Emma to compose a masque for the gathering at Malmaison next month. Emma can turn a neat enough phrase, but she doesn’t claim to be a poet. She’s wary of taking on the task. You might offer to collaborate.”
Augustus bit down on his automatic objection. It wasn’t a bad idea, on the face of it. The theatre-mad Bonapartes weren’t averse to employing professional help for their amateur theatricals. The great actor Talma regularly directed their productions. No one would think twice about Mme. Delagardie delegating the writing of her masque to a poet, nor object to that poet being on hand throughout rehearsals to tinker with the odd line or extend a soliloquy
It was hard enough to argue with a goddess, harder when one was mute with love, tongue-tied with infatuation.
It had crept up on him slowly, over the course of months. At first, he had been aware only of admiration, admiration for her calm under pressure, for her endless serenity, for the cool, Grecian good looks that had won her a place in Bonaparte’s court, and the rigorous self-discipline with which she played her chosen role. Augustus had seen so many agents come and goover the years. Some lost their nerve at the first hint of danger; others cracked through boredom, unable to sustain the pretense needed to maintain an alias over an extended period of time.
Not Jane. She made it seem so easy, as effortless and inevitable as the endless washing of waves against the beach. He had to remind himself, sometimes, that she was nearly a decade his junior. She had arrived in France fresh from the seclusion of the English countryside, with no training other than that which she had devised for herself. As far as Augustus could tell, she hadn’t put a foot wrong since.
He had been instructed to liaise with her last summer, over a matter of mutual interest: the capture and containment of the spy known as the Black Tulip. It seemed a reasonable collaboration. The English government had been looking for the Black Tulip for some time; the Black Tulip had vowed to find and eliminate the Pink Carnation.
It wasn’t her professionalism that caught him, or her beauty. It was the humor with which she entered into his ridiculous charades, the glint in her eye as she received his more alarming effusions. Competent, beautiful, and clever.
What man wouldn’t succumb? After years of writing about love, he was finally prey to it, and it hurt like hell. It was the worst of poetic clichés: the poet infatuated, the lady indifferent. It didn’t help that their professional relationship depended upon the endless perpetuation of that particular scenario, exaggerated into farce and played out before the entire audience of Paris society.
“The party at Malmaison is being held in honor of Emma’s cousin, the American envoy,” Jane was saying. “It’s not common knowledge yet, but he’s due to be recalled. This is meant by way of farewell. If anyone has the power to secure your entrée, it will be Emma.”
“Yes, but will she?” Augustus dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. No use in mooning. “Emma Delagardie has no use for me.”
“You mean you have no use for Emma Delagardie. Those are two very different propositions.”
“The woman called my writing an expense of ink in a waste of shame.”
“Clever,” said Jane.
“Shakespeare,” countered Augustus. “Sonnet 129.”
“Is it the sentiment you object to, or the lack of originality?”
“She said my poetry was drivel.”
Jane regarded him with amusement. “It is drivel. You’ve said as much yourself. Credit Emma with taste, at least, if not with tact. I should think you would approve of that. I’m not asking you to marry her—”
“Much obliged,” muttered Augustus.
“—merely to offer her your poetic talents, such as they are, for the purpose of gaining admission into Malmaison.”
“I fail to see how the one translates to the other.”
“Madame Bonaparte has asked Emma to compose a masque for the gathering at Malmaison next month. Emma can turn a neat enough phrase, but she doesn’t claim to be a poet. She’s wary of taking on the task. You might offer to collaborate.”
Augustus bit down on his automatic objection. It wasn’t a bad idea, on the face of it. The theatre-mad Bonapartes weren’t averse to employing professional help for their amateur theatricals. The great actor Talma regularly directed their productions. No one would think twice about Mme. Delagardie delegating the writing of her masque to a poet, nor object to that poet being on hand throughout rehearsals to tinker with the odd line or extend a soliloquy
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