Where the Light Falls(36)

Murat drained the last of his champagne. “Perhaps that is because you yourself are of noble birth, Monsieur le Comte.”

“As are you, Nicolai,” Kellermann retorted, his cheeks now flushing a crimson hue.

André’s eyes shot to the dark-haired officer, astounded to hear this fact thrown in his face and eager to see the man’s reply. Murat waved his long fingers as if swatting a fly. “I swore off my title long ago, before it was even fashionable to do so. I spilled blood for the revolution in America.”

Kellermann offered a measured smile. “In a campaign funded by our maligned monarch, might I remind you?”

“The common men of this country know that I am one of them.” Murat’s mustache twitched as he spoke, a barely noticeable quiver, but the hint of some deeper emotion lurking beneath his bitten-back words. What was it, André wondered, that hid in the man’s deep well of feelings? Anger? Envy? Pain? “I am not a…what do they call you? Savior….I am simply a man. No better than they are,” Murat said to Kellermann, ignoring André’s stare.

“You know I did not ask for that nickname, Nicolai. Nor would I ever encourage its use,” Kellermann declared.

So absorbed was André in this exchange that he had barely heard the uproar behind him. But now, all three men turned to look in the direction of an angry holler. “Mon dieu!” Madame Kellermann raised a gloved hand to her lips and gasped. “Christophe, someone must go separate them!”

Just then André saw two men shoving each other, one of them dressed in the dark blue coat of an army uniform. In a flash, he realized the man was Remy. The other was the thick-set companion of the beautiful blond woman.

André cringed as he saw Remy splash a cup of punch in the man’s stunned face. And with that, several men had their arms around Remy and were carrying him toward the door. The other man, his cheeks stained pink with rage and punch, shouted at Remy’s receding figure. “Cochon! Pig!” He tilted his fleshy face toward his date, offering a brief apology before he stomped away.

André felt his face redden, momentarily wishing that he, too, could flee through the door by which Remy had just been expelled.

“Well, it seems your brother has drunk more than his fill.” Murat turned his stare on André. “A soldier drunk in public can receive up to thirty lashes.”

Kellermann shook his head, looking at André with a knowing smile. “A beautiful lady is always worth the trouble. Now, Christianne, Nicolai, how about we go and refill our glasses? All this talk of politics has made me thirsty. Captain Valière, perhaps your brother has need of assistance?”

“Thank you, sir, I will go see what the fool has done.” André, mortified, slipped away from the trio and quickly crossed the room. By the time André had reached the door through which his brother had been escorted, Remy was gone.

Outside, La Place de l’Abbe-Basset was once more empty, showing no sign of his brother or the men who had escorted him from the party. He had clearly been tossed into a carriage and sent home, or worse. André cursed and let out a sigh, kicking the stone step. The last thing he and his brother needed was to attract the attention, and disapproval, of the Jacobins.

Hoping to make apologies for his brother and salvage what had so far been a rather unpleasant night, André turned and reentered the party. There, near the front door, stood the woman who had been at the center of the turmoil. She was alone. Whereas before she had appeared bored, now her features had a taut, agitated quality to them.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle.” André approached her, noticing that she was even more beautiful up close than she had appeared from across the great hall. But his thoughts were still preoccupied with his brother and his own embarrassment at Remy’s disturbance. “I fear that my brother has interfered with you and your husband, and I must offer my most sincere apologies on his behalf.”

She looked at him, her light eyes taking in first his uniform, and then meeting his stare with a blank, unreadable expression. “No, it’s quite all right,” she said, looking past him and back toward the party.

André shifted, preparing to leave, until she added: “I am grateful for the little bit of excitement.”

André paused, looking once more at her, and now he couldn’t help but laugh at this curious response. “Well, I’m relieved to hear that. But I’m certain that your husband does not appreciate the punch in his face. I truly cannot apologize heartily enough for my brother’s—”