Page 161 of The Boxing Baroness

Napoleon Bonaparte was expecting them.

* * *

Marianne struggled to conceal her shock at the man before her.

It wasn’t just that he looked ill—he did—or that he appeared frail and old beyond his years—he did—it was that she could look him in the eyes.

At five feet and seven-and-a-half inches she was accustomed to being taller than more than a few men. But she had expected the man who’d shaken the world for almost two decades to be a giant. She had always assumed the British newspapers had depicted him as short to ridicule him. Although the man standing before her wasn’t tiny, he was no taller than Marianne.

It was Sin, the consummate gentleman and aristocrat, who recovered from his shock first.

He bowed low. “General Bonaparte, thank you for receiving us.”

Marianne’s father visibly wrenched his gaze from her face. He inclined his head to Sin and gave him a piercing examination.

Marianne flattered herself that he was looking at her husband the way a father would survey a son-in-law.

But it was more likely that he was just scrutinizing an English lord, a class of men he was well-known to dislike.

He seemed to gather his wits and nodded to the hovering Lowe and the servant who’d shown them in. He smiled and the expression was charismatic, for all that his teeth were off-color, which her mother said came from years of eating black licorice.

“The coffee on Saint Helena is superlative,” her father said in heavily accented English. “Or perhaps you would prefer le thé?” He directed the question to Marianne.

“Coffee sounds lovely,” she answered in French.

His smile grew and she could see that her facility with the language pleased him.

“Thank you for escorting us safely here,” Sin said, giving Lowe a pointed look.

“Er, yes—yes, of course. If you will excuse me, I’ve got a few important matters to see to. I will leave you to have your discussion—and collect you after dinner.”

Sin nodded and the governor left, taking his soldier with him.

“Please, sit,” her father said. He actually appeared less at ease now that Lowe had left, almost as if he found it easier to perform a part before his enemy than face his daughter.

Well, she could hardly blame him. She was so nervous there should be a new word for it.

She sat on a settee, surprised when her father sat beside her. Sin gave her a quick look, as if to see whether she was comfortable, and she smiled slightly.

“You take after me,” Napoleon said, gripping her hands with both of his, which were swollen and strangely cold for such a hot day. “Same mouth—profile—we get that from my own father,” he confided.

He looked so pleased by their resemblance that she couldn’t help but smile.

He reached out and touched the bump on the bridge of her nose, startling her.

“So, what Désirée says is true—you were a fighter, eh?”

Her face heated at the unexpected admiration in his eyes. “Yes, for a little while. Before I married.”

“Like your father!” He laughed, but it quickly turned into a wet, wracking cough, which persisted.

Marianne stood, thinking to summon a servant, but he shook his head and waved her back down to her seat.

This close to him, she could see that his skin was waxy in appearance. His color was poor and he was corpulent, she presumed from a combination of poor health and inactivity.

The official reason for this visit was the allegation his personal physician had sent to London—that Lowe was cruel and inhumane to him.

“My apologies,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. “I find this weather does not agree with me.” He gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “What do you think of my home, Marianne?”