Wild Lily (Those Notorious Americans Book 1)(6)

Chapter Two


“Remy, I say. I cannot go on.” Julian Ash, the Marquess of Chelton, tugged at his linen cuffs as his friend’s town coach sped up the Rue de la Paix. “I must sleep. It’s two in the afternoon! I’m dead as a rat in a trap.”

“If we nap now, we’ll never awaken and miss supper with Vicomtesse du Valerie and opening night of the opera.” Julian’s friend gave him a searing look. With a flourish of a large hand, Andrè Claude Marceau, the Duc de Remy, drew aside the coach’s elaborate damask window hangings. “Regard. The day is young.”

“And bright.” Flinching, Julian jerked away.

“We’re dressed for it,” Remy said as he picked at the lapel of his evening coat, his sky-blue eyes merry.

“Oui?” Julian shook his head in derision. “Might I point out, however, no one would appreciate our attire?”

The big Frenchman laughed as he always did, deep in his throat, enjoying life to the fullest. “At Mimi’s, they don’t care how you look.”

“Perhaps not. But they will care how we smell.” Julian lifted his arm to inhale the aromas wafting up from the sleeve of his own black wool evening coat. The acrid odors of smoke, whiskey and very cheap perfume made his eyes water. “I need a hot bath.”

“Come to my house. I’ll have Pierre draw one for you.”

“Your valet has odd tastes, Remy. Last week when I flopped at your house, the bath he prepared reeked of camellias.” Julian fixed a wary eye on his huge Norman friend. “I went to the Rothschilds’ ball and smelled like a debutante.”

Remy shrugged. “The ladies flocked to you, did they not?”

Julian scowled. “Chickens and hens. A damn silly gaggle.”

“All after your title.”

“And after you for your mystery.”

“That’s called charm, old boy.” Remy winked and smoothed a nonexistent moustache.

Julian burst out laughing. He shrugged into his coat, but a flash of pain in his head cut his haste. “I must go home. I’m up to nothing but sleep.”

The two of them had spent the evening in the card room of the Marquis de Tourelane where every vice was on offer from the finest Sancerre and the purest opium to the prettiest Solange. After such a night, Remy’s tawny hair stood askew and his large blue eyes sagged with the night’s indulgences. Uncharacteristically disheveled, he looked like a horse had run over him. Julian wagered he himself appeared no better. Flexing his shoulders, he winced. Had a herd of beasts trampled him as he had played cards?

Screams and shouts cut the air. The normal sounds of the boulevard filled with the finest carriages and smartest horses carrying their passengers to and from the extravagant shops along the Rue de la Paix were gone. Chaos reigned and in a rising crescendo, too.

“What’s the problem?” Julian asked Remy who had shifted to take up the full of the window. “A riot?”

“A crowd.”

“Someone’s crying.”

Julian pulled back the window shade. The throng along the pavement, mostly well-dressed ladies in walking suits and lavish hats, buzzed among themselves and craned their necks to see above those in front of them. One woman grabbed another’s arm and urged her inside a shop. “I don’t see any gendarmes.”

Remy opened the overhead hatch to his coachman’s box. In rapid French, he asked if the man could see the problem.

He responded but both Remy and Julian looked at each other and shrugged, unable to discern his words in the rising din.

“Stop, Valmont. Stop!” Remy rapped on the coachman’s box. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.” Julian was out his side and Remy out his in the same moment.

The two of them ran up the middle of the broad avenue, darting hither and yon among the melee.

“A cab.” Julian spied a black hackney and pointed.

He and Remy swung around a cluster of ladies, one wringing her hands, another standing still, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Overturned?” Remy craned his neck above the melee.

“Not yet. But the horse is out of control. Come on.”

The two broke into a run at the same time, weaving and darting among the shocked pedestrians.

“Let us through,” Julian shouted, skirting bystanders.

“Pardon. Pardon.” Remy grabbed one lady’s shoulders, picked her up and put her aside.

Confronted by chaos, Julian and Remy halted in their tracks. The small black hackney swished back and forth along the cobbled street as the horse charged this way and that among the throng. Atop the swaying perch sat the driver, wide-eyed and yelling at the animal. He struggled to keep the reins from slipping from his hands.

A doleful cry came from inside.

“A woman’s in there!” Remy shouted.

“The horse,” Julian yelled, as he ripped off his coat and ran toward the animal. He was a sturdy Breton, his chestnut coat dull, his flaxen mane gray, his long teeth bared in abject fright.

Julian understood spooked horses. He’d calmed many who’d been scared by lightning, an errant cat or the sudden snap of a broken harness.

“All of you, get back. Go in the shops,” he said in English and began in French when Remy barked at them to do as he said.