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The Problem with Josephine
Lucy Ashford
Napoleon and Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria, 1810. It’s springtime in Paris and Emperor Napoleon is about to marry Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria. All around the city Napoleon’s courtiers are preparing for the spectacularly lavish wedding. Everything must be just right…Ordered to remove all portraits of Josephine, the Emperor’s first wife, seamstress Sophie has to track down a talented artist called Jacques. He promises to carry out the commission, but only in return for a kiss for every hour he works…



The Problem with Josephine
Lucy Ashford




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Napoleon and Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria, 1810
It’s springtime in Paris and Emperor Napoleon is about to marry Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria. All around the city Napoleon’s courtiers are preparing for the spectacularly lavish wedding. Everything must be just right…
Ordered to remove all portraits of Josephine, the Emperor’s first wife, seamstress Sophie has to track down a talented artist called Jacques. He promises to carry out the commission, but only in return for a kiss for every hour he works…

Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Author Note
About the Author

Chapter One
Paris, March 1810
‘This wedding is going to be…’ The Emperor Napoleon paused. His courtiers froze. ‘This wedding is going to be absolutely perfect,’ Napoleon went on at last. ‘In every way!’
With his strident voice still echoing all around the great hall of the palace, the emperor of half of Europe fussily started pulling on his gloves.
‘The wedding. Perfect. Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Sire…’ Eager bows were being swept by the assembled servants: the stewards and the butler, the housekeeper and the Groom of the Chambers. Napoleon Bonaparte fixed them one last time with his eagle eyes, then strode purposefully out of the Tuileries Palace in a flurry of grooms and footmen to his waiting carriage.
Meanwhile, up in the shadowy gallery, a whispered admonition could be heard.
‘Fleur, do try to stop sniffling,’ pleaded Sophie. ‘It’s a wonder the emperor didn’t hear you!’
Eighteen-year-old Fleur dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Mam’selle Sophie. But it’s just so romantic! To think that our emperor’s riding off to Austria to claim his bride, who’s the same age as me. And in two weeks, she’ll be here for the wedding!’
‘Indeed, and we’ve got plenty to do before then,’ promised Sophie. ‘The new empress’s rooms to be made ready, for one thing.’ Sophie, as the senior seamstress, had told little Fleur they could leave their work for just a few moments, to watch the emperor’s departure. But now she rather wished she hadn’t. For when Napoleon said ‘perfect,’ he meant it.
Fleur chattered all the way back to the bride-to-be’s chambers. ‘As soon as my darling Henri is back from the war, then we will be married too! Not that ours will be a grand affair, Mam’selle Sophie, but, oh, doesn’t everyone love a wedding?’
Sophie was already threading her needle, and picking up a section of the pink silk draperies they were embroidering for the four-poster bed. And she was thinking, with a heavy heart, Love a wedding? Not me. In fact, I’m positively dreading this one!
Only two weeks, and the Emperor Napoleon would be marrying the Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria in celebrations that were to be the envy of the world.
But there was one problem. And it was up to her, Sophie, to solve it, or her beloved papa would be utterly ruined.

Three hours later Sophie was hurrying through the crowded arcades of the Palais-Royal, home to drinkers, gamblers and prostitutes.
A gaudily dressed whore brushed past and cackled, ‘You’ll never get custom dressed like that, love.’
A man grabbed Sophie’s arm, leering. ‘Oh, I don’t know, she’s quite pretty under that drab cloak.…’
‘Get off me,’ Sophie warned. His visage was hideous: his front teeth were missing—not unusual, because quite a few citizens had knocked out their own front teeth so they weren’t forced into the army.
Fleur had explained it to her. ‘They can’t rip open the cartridge without any teeth, you see? But my Henri, he’s brave—he wouldn’t do a thing like that. Oh, I cannot wait to be his wife!’
Sophie shoved the half-drunk man away. Weddings, weddings. She pressed on to the corner where the Paris artists gathered, some of them with their easels set up, others with their pictures spread out for passing trade. Here goes.
‘Can you help me?’ she asked the nearest of them. ‘I’m looking for an artist called Jacques.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Jacques what? There’ll be thousands of artists named Jacques in Paris, love!’
‘If you’ll give me a chance to finish, he’s from a place called Claremont!’ Sophie’s voice by now was rather desperate. ‘I heard he was wonderful at portraits, and I heard he was cheap!’
‘That,’ drawled a masculine voice just behind her, ‘depends on what the commission is. And who is paying.’
She whirled round. A man stood there, looking down at her, and she felt her throat go rather dry. He was in his late twenties, and his dark, overlong hair and clothes were those of a devil-may-care artist. But his bearing, his composure, spoke of something altogether different—of arrogance, even. His features were clean-shaven, and striking; his mouth was sensual, his eyes dark as his hair.
She drew a deep breath. ‘Are you Jacques the painter from Claremont?’
‘My name is Jacques, I come from Claremont, and portraits are my speciality.’
‘Then, Jacques—’ Sophie summoned the hauteur she had learned in the palace ‘—I may have a proposition for you. But first I require proof of your talent!’
He drew out of his pocket a small sketchbook and flicked it open with his strong lean artist’s hands. ‘See for yourself, mam’selle.’
On every page was a watercolour portrait. Each one glowed with life and detail.
‘Oh! They are beautiful,’ she breathed.
He looked amused. ‘So people say. Your proposition?’
She met his eyes steadily. ‘I happen to require some work done. On several portraits that need certain…adjustments.’
‘Adjustments?’ His dark eyebrows arched.
‘Yes!’ she declared. ‘But the work must be done discreetly, and I cannot afford to pay you much.…’
‘It sounds,’ said Jacques of Claremont, ‘as if you’re offering me a commission I could very easily turn down flat.’
He saw the colour rush to her cheeks, and he thought, Why, she is pretty. More than pretty. With those high cheekbones and those thick-lashed blue eyes, she could, if she chose, be a beauty.
But clearly she didn’t choose, with her hair scraped back in a spinster’s cap, and those faded clothes. And now she was nervously clasping her hands. ‘Please, I will do my best to make it worth your while. But if I could just show you what I require? In confidence?’
‘In confidence, of course,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Your name is?’
‘That doesn’t matter! May I show you—now—the work that needs to be done, monsieur?’
‘Of course.’ He saw her face brighten with hope. ‘And then,’ he went on, ‘I can tell you my price.’
Her face had fallen again, so expressive. She was lovely, he thought, quite lovely! She hesitated, then lifted those wide blue eyes almost in defiance. ‘Very well. Monsieur Jacques, we need to go to the Louvre.’
The Louvre Palace? Where the imperial wedding would take place, so very soon? Jacques blinked. He gave a bow. ‘Lead on, mademoiselle.’

As soon as Jacques had arrived in Paris, he’d quickly realised that the wedding dominated everything. The modistes and tailors were working every hour they could to keep up with the demand for finery from the rich. The mayor of Paris had hired all available artisans to work on the completion of the Arc de Triomphe, through which the imperial procession would pass on the great day. The military were constantly on parade, practising their ceremonial marches. Musicians were being sought from all quarters to fill the Champs-Élysées and the Tuileries gardens with melody during the celebrations. As he followed the well-spoken but rather desperate woman who was his guide along the rue de Rivoli towards the Louvre, Jacques noted with wonder that even Paris’s streets were being swept.
She pulled up before the great public entrance of the Louvre, where crowds of visitors hurried to and fro.
‘We’ll have to pay to get in today,’ he warned her. ‘Can’t your business wait till tomorrow, when the place is open to the public for free?’
She glanced up at him, agitated. ‘We cannot wait. Please, follow me.’ She hurried up to the curator guarding the door, who waved her through with a nod and a smile.
So she was known here, registered Jacques. Intriguing indeed.

Chapter Two
As she led him inside, Sophie’s heart was pounding rather frantically. Not just with the nature of her task—though that was formidable enough—but because she hadn’t imagined, for one minute, that he would be so very—what? So very masculine? Of course you knew he would be a man, you idiot! So very handsome, then. Most irritatingly handsome. And he was laughing at her, which wasn’t surprising in the least. Her heart thumped. He would laugh even more once he knew the tremendous mess she was in.
The Louvre’s interior was crowded, because a huge new mural of Napoleon’s victory at Marengo had just been put on display. Everywhere in here, there were reminders of Napoleon the conqueror, Napoleon the law-giver, Napoleon the emperor. And soon…Napoleon the bridegroom.
She paused momentarily at the entrance to the Long Gallery, a vast, vaulted hall which would hold more than a thousand guests for the wedding ceremony. ‘This is the way we must go,’ she told Jacques rather curtly.
He was still looking around. ‘Isn’t this the route the royal couple will take?’
She nodded tersely. Please. No more questions, not yet. Then, from amongst the crowds, a grey-haired curator came hurrying up to her. ‘Mam’selle Sophie! You’ll have come, of course, to report on the Marengo painting to your father. How is he?’
Jacques saw something tighten in her rather lovely face.
‘He is improving, Thierry, but—’ she glanced quickly at Jacques ‘—he is fretting about the wedding plans. He will not, unfortunately, be better in time for the ceremony.’ She was aware of Jacques watching her steadily. ‘I see the Marengo picture is a great success!’ she went on brightly. ‘Although really I expected it to be in the Salon Carré, with the other paintings of Napoleon’s victories.’
‘So did I, Mam’selle Sophie, but the Salon Carré is locked at present because, of course, it’s being prepared for the wedding ceremony itself.’ He spoke in hushed tones. ‘And the preparations have been thorough. For as you know, if anything were to offend our noble emperor—’ he swallowed nervously ‘—he would express his disapproval rather strongly.’
Napoleon was famous for his rages. Jacques noticed Mam’selle Sophie turning distinctly pale. But then that bright, forced smile was back on her face. ‘I’m sure, Thierry, I can tell my father that everything is exactly as it should be.’
‘You can indeed, Mam’selle Sophie! Pray give him my best wishes!’
She marched onwards and Jacques followed her, along the great gallery, past the throngs clustered round the new painting. Then the crowds thinned, and they were at the Salon Carré, where only a few candles could be seen burning dimly through the ornate wooden latticework of the great door. She looked at him almost in entreaty, he thought, an entreaty for silence; then she glanced round, reached in her pocket…and unlocked the door.
How the devil did she have the key? mused Jacques. Certainly she was in no mood for idle chatter. Instead she led him swiftly into this vaulted inner sanctum, where two gilded bronze thrones stood behind a magnificent carved altar.
All around the room were yet more paintings, of exquisite quality. She beckoned him in further, and hurriedly went to lock the door again.
‘You are rather taking my breath away, I must admit,’ he said. ‘Who exactly are you?’
She pushed back the hood of her cloak. That hideous spinster’s cap fell back also, and he saw that some of her tightly pinned dark hair had come loose and was twining round the slender column of her throat. He could also see that her waist was of hand-span slenderness, and her breasts were heaving rather agitatedly, indeed quite delightfully, beneath her tight, high-necked bodice.
‘I will be honest with you, Jacques.’
‘You are taking a risk,’ he said, ‘trusting a stranger.’
Her small chin jutted. ‘If you choose in any way to take advantage of my trust, I will call out, and say that I found you in here, intent on theft. Your punishment would not be light.’
His eyes glinted. ‘Please continue to trust me, Mam’selle Sophie.’
She flinched at his use of her name, but went on. ‘Very well. I am a servant—chief seamstress, in fact—at the Tuileries Palace. And my father is a deputy curator here.’ Her musical voice, he noted, was steady, but he could see the anxiety, the fear almost, that shadowed her lovely blue eyes.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And both you and Thierry seem rather afraid of the emperor finding anything in here to provoke him on the day of his wedding. Is there any chance of that, mam’selle?’
She drew in a deep breath. ‘At this point, Monsieur Jacques, I must take you yet further into my confidence.’
‘Let me guess.’ The artist—Jacques—had been looking around calmly at all the treasures in here, but now he turned to her, his dark eyes steady. ‘You’re planning a daredevil robbery, aren’t you?’
‘Please do not be ridiculous!’ Sophie clasped her hands together tightly. Ever since she’d set eyes on this man, she’d felt awkward, self-conscious. And it was absurd! She was a twenty-three-year-old woman, and used to dealing with the haughty staff of the Tuileries, sometimes even the emperor himself! ‘There is no question of any wrongdoing whatsoever,’ she went on emphatically. ‘But the problem, such as it is, means that some work has to be done in here in utter secrecy. As I’ve said, if word of this gets out, then I am in trouble. But so are you, and I take it that you are probably in various sorts of trouble and penniless anyway, living as you do!’
She saw an answering flash of something else in his eyes then. Humour? Was he still finding all this amusing?
‘So,’ Sophie went on, fighting down the fresh thudding at her heart, ‘so, I will pay you what I can, which is not much. But my father, as deputy curator, has a certain amount of influence, and he will see, once our transaction is completed, that you get commissions in plenty. Do you agree, before I tell you what I require?’
His eyes flickered over her, lazily, yet in a way that somehow made her pulse race. What was he doing, looking at her like that? She tried to stubbornly outstare him, yet found herself utterly distracted by his implacably male figure, his hands, his mouth—oh, Lord, that impossibly wicked mouth, that surely was curling even now, in a smile of derision.…
She fixed her eyes rather desperately on the rakish stripes of his waistcoat. He drawled, ‘Promises are empty things. You said you will pay me what you can. I’d like to know how much.’
Her voice was a little unsteady now. ‘I cannot afford more than two hundred francs.’
He folded his arms. ‘That,’ he said with faintly concealed contempt, ‘is pitiable.’
‘It’s not much, I know!’ Her distress was open. ‘But the commissions—my father will make sure you become known, in circles you can only dream of, aristocratic circles!’
He folded his arms, and leaned his wide shoulders back against a gilded pillar that was crowned by a marble bust of Napoleon. Bother Napoleon, Sophie thought in a sudden outburst of fury, bother him!
‘An offer I can resist, believe me.’
‘Oh.’ Her disappointment made her almost crumple.
Then he shrugged, an easy, lithe movement that somehow made her heart do a strange little flutter. ‘But I’ll make a suggestion, shall I? I’ll tell you what my fee will be. But only when you’ve told me exactly what you require me to do.’
She bit her lip. ‘I’ve told you. I have so little money, I cannot pay you more!’
‘Who said it would be money, mam’selle?’ he drawled. ‘Indeed, all it will cost you is a few minutes of your time, believe me.’
Her mind reeled. Whatever it was, she had to accept. She was desperate.
‘My task?’ he prompted gently.
She moistened her dry lips and met his eyes directly, almost proudly. He liked that.

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