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…

      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.’