by Unknown
"Danny, please put on a wrapper," he pleaded through a mouthful of quail. "It isn't that I object to your sitting on my knee, but bits of you keep getting in the way."
Danielle merely smiled and diverted his fork into her own mouth. "You took me like a whore, milord,
up against the wall with my skirts around my waist. I have a mind to continue the play."
"Oh, do you indeed." He pushed her off his knee with a sudden movement that took her quite by surprise, and twitched aside his robe. "Sit down again." His eyes burned their message and with a soft laugh of excitement Danielle lowered herself astride him.
It was the next morning when St. Estephe saw her. She walked into the salon with a chubby laughing baby on her hip. The comte inhaled sharply: the chevalier had omitted to tell him that she had a child.
He was not accustomed to seeing the aristocratic ladies of Versailles and now the Tuileries carrying their babies with all the natural ease of a country woman. In fact babies never appeared in Polite Circles—they remained with their wet nurse until ready to take solid food, and then in the nursery until old enough to make their bows or curtsies in respectful silence.
"Comte, I am delighted to see you." Danielle crossed the room, hand outstretched in welcome. "I am unable to curtsy, sir," she said with a laugh, "encumbered as I am. But we stand on no ceremony in this house. I bid you welcome."
He bowed low over her hand and murmured felicitations that judging by the child's size appeared to be about nine months overdue.
"This petit mediant is Nicholas, Viscount Beresford," she told him, tickling the child's chin. "It seems ridiculous that such a scrap should carry such a burdensome title, do you not think?"
Roland found himself at a loss for an appropriate response. When he had first seen this woman she had appeared a naive flirtatious child and he knew that the French court had considered her to be simply that—an ingenue bride. Then he had seen her move through the streets of revolutionary Paris disguised
as a burgher's wife and she had not made one false move. Now he knew her to be the leader of a group of men who, judging by their conversation last night, held her in considerable respect. He could understand why. A quiet authority radiated from the slim figure, an authority that he suspected had little to do with the fact that she was on her own territory, a gracious hostess greeting her guests.
"A most handsome child, milady." He found his voice at last. Danielle smiled. He had clearly said the
right thing.
"I think he takes after his father, but Linton will have none of it," she informed him cheerfully. The child wriggled imperatively in her arms. "Oh, very well then. You may get down and find your godpapa." She set him on his knees and Nicholas crawled rapidly in the direction of Lord Julian, who was inviting him with a crooked finger.
"So, comte, what brings you to London?" Danielle asked directly. "Let us move to the sofa. I am anxious to hear news of France."
I am certain you are, the comte thought, but he said, "The news is not good, milady, as I am sure you
are aware. I am come to offer my services in whatever manner they can be used."
"You are not come then to wave the sword and spout rhetoric?"
Amazing woman! So, she was not taken in by any of this pointless scheming. She would be a worthy opponent indeed. "I think the time for such displays is past," he remarked carefully and received his reward.
"How good it is to hear such sense, mon ami. The chevalier and I are at our wits' end as to how to persuade our countrymen that they must think pragmatically and eschew emotion. You will help us, I hope."
"In any way you command, milady."
"Oh, I do not command, comte, and you must call me Danny, everyone else does so." The smile was ravishing, not exactly flirtatious but full of warmth. St. Estephe found himself responding as nearly in
kind as he was capable.
"St. Estephe. How delightful." Linton's cool voice brought the comte back to reality. The earl took snuff delicately as he greeted his guest, but his eyes carried none of the voiced message.
Danielle sensed the flash of hostility between the two men and frowned. Why should Justin have taken such a dislike to St. Estephe and why was that dislike returned in full measure?
"Coz, this son of yours is a veritable plague," Jules complained, inadvertently diverting Danielle's thoughts as he attempted to prise his godson's fingers loose from an enameled snuff box lying on an occasional table. Nicholas wailed in loud protest as his prize disappeared.
"Nicky, no." Justin scooped him up. "You may not have that." Nicholas bellowed, an ear-splitting yell
that made St. Estephe shudder.
"If you cannot behave yourself, my son, you must return to the nursery," his father said firmly, pulling the bell rope.
"Oh, let me have him." Danielle moved swiftly but her husband shook his head.
"It's time he had a rest, Danielle. He cannot be allowed to tyrannize the drawing room." When the footman appeared in answer to the summons, he found himself in possession of a red-faced squawling infant. "Take him to Tante Therese, would you?" Justin requested pleasantly.
"Yes, my lord." The footman bore the child away quite cheerfully. It was not an unusual duty in the Linton household these days. The young viscount was quite accustomed to the brawny arms of footmen, coachmen, and even, on occasion, Bedford and the chef. His mother and Tante Therese spoke to him in French, everyone else in English and, except when he was thwarted, Nicky's little world was a land of enchanted discovery.
St. Estephe found himself reformulating his preconceptions yet again. He had established the fact of a love match between these two, however ill-assorted their ages and temperaments. Now they were parents and most unusual ones at that—openly affectionate, both of them totally at ease with that damp bawling creature. He cast a covert glance at the Countess of Linton. She was engaged in an animated, laughing exchange with that idiot Englishman, Viscount Westmore. It was one thing to winkle a wife from the tight shell of her marriage, quite another to pin and withdraw a mother. The challenge grew more exciting. He would have the woman, renegade aristo, loving wife, and devoted mother, and he would break her before returning the pieces to her husband and child.
"What is it between you and St. Estephe, Justin?" It was not until much later that night that Danielle had sufficient time alone with her husband to broach the subject that had been disturbing her thoughts all day.
Justin frowned. "I do not know exactly. He claims that our fathers were close friends, but my father
never mentioned such a thing to me and he took me into his confidence on most matters. However." He shrugged. "It is not impossible that an old friendship slipped his mind. There is just something about the man that I do not trust, and I do not care for the way he looks at you. There is an intensity that makes
me uneasy."
Danny chuckled. "You think he means to seduce me?"
"You will not find me a complacent husband if you succumb, wife," Justin warned, trying to sound playful but failing miserably.
"Oh, pah!" Danielle dismissed the comment with a careless wave. "He has the eyes of a fish and the face of a horse, so long and narrow. But he cannot help either of those misfortunes," she added kindly. "I find him sensible, my lord, and that is a most refreshing change. Also, he shows no indication to flirt with me at all, so I do not think you need worry." Suddenly, her conversation with Madame Cloury at the Tuileries popped into her head—strange how she had forgotten that story of St. Estephe's checkered
past. But then scandalous gossip was the mainstay of the French court and one could not believe more
than a fraction of what was said.
"What is it?" Justin probed, seeing the changed expression that now showed no laughter.
"Rien du tout." She shrugged easily—why bother Justin with tittle-tattle? "I was thinking of how best to impart some sense to those crazy hotheads."
Chapter 20
"What think you, J
ustin?" William Pitt held his wine to the May sunlight, turning the glass so that the
rich claret sparked amethyst lights through the exquisitely chiseled cuts.
"The claret is superb," Linton observed. "Since Danielle took over the running of our cellars, we rarely have a poor vintage."
"I do not think Milord Chatham refers to the quality of the wine." Danielle spoke from the chaise longue where she sat on this sunny afternoon with her son, turning over the pages of a picture book while Nicholas clapped his hands gleefully and struggled to articulate his mother's careful definitions.
"What have you to say to this proposal then, Danny?" Justin regarded her gravely.
"I think that if the prime minister needs you to go to Russia, then you must do so."
The prime minister heaved a sigh of relief. He had come here today in considerable trepidation to enlist Linton's aid. In earlier days he would have asked the earl in private, assuming that he would make his own decision and then inform his wife. But Pitt was now well aware that he was dealing with no conventional marriage and if he asked the husband to undertake a potentially dangerous mission then
he must also ask the wife's permission.
"I would have liked to see Czar Alexander's court for myself," Danielle said wistfully. "But we have Nicholas to consider and the voyage could prove dangerous. I also have much work to do here." She turned to Pitt. "How long do you expect the journey will take, sir?"
"No more than three months, ma'am," he responded. "Hopefully less. Linton should not need to spend more than a month at St. Petersburg and as soon as he has an accurate impression of the czar's views as to the affairs in France and the war between France and Austria, then the sooner he brings them back to me the better."
"At least it is not winter." Danielle stroked her son's head thoughtfully. "The seas are quite calm and St. Petersburg will not be snowbound. How soon will you leave?" She looked directly at her husband.
How could he leave her for three months? Justin wondered. She was but twenty and yet evinced a quiet maturity and wisdom more suited to a woman ten years her senior. But she was still impulsive and inclined to recklessness when the spirit moved her. What would she do when he was not here to apply
the checks and balances? And could he bear to be without her for three long months?
He had no choice, of course. His prime minister needed him and Danielle had given his answer. "Within the week," he said.
"If t'were done when 'tis done, then t'were well t'were done quickly." Danny smiled as she quoted Macbeth, a smile of complete understanding as she heard his thoughts. It would be no easier for her to live without the mainstay of her existence, to worry, sometimes needlessly and sometimes with reason, as he made the treacherous journey. But they were no longer private people who could conduct their lives according to their own whims and fancies. In this year of trouble, 1792, they had a part to play in the greater scenario and were both political animals who shared the same goals.
Justin left England five days later and a week after, on May 30, King Louis XVFs bodyguard was dismissed by the Assembly, who decided that they held an "unpatriotic spirit," being too royalist in their sentiments. Detachments of the National Guard took their place and the path to dethronement turned the hill and began its inexorable drop to the river of blood.
"We cannot work with these imbeciles, so we must work without them," Danielle said forcefully to the small group of Englishmen augmented by D'Evron and the Comte de St. Estephe.
"How do you propose doing that?" St. Estephe asked, hooding his eyes over the spark of excitement. He sensed that his chance for revenge was approaching. He would take her as a flagrant betrayer of the revolution—to exact vengeance but also to perform the work that he had been sent here to do. Once she committed herself to action then he had his excuse, and he knew her well enough now to be sure that such action would no longer be confined to haranguing her despised compatriots.
"We must achieve a list of those in danger and go into France and issue the warning," Danielle said simply. "It will mean working in Paris but also in the countryside. There are many who still keep to their estates, but the villagers will move against them sooner or later. D'Evron, you will go?"
"D'accord." The chevalier inclined his head.
"And you also, comte? It is best if those of us who are native Frenchmen go amongst our people. We
will be more convincing." She smiled an apology to the young Englishmen.
"Danny, you are not intending . . .?"
"No, Jules." She interrupted him swiftly. "Not unless it is necessary. Whilst Justin is away, I must keep myself safe for Nicky for as long as I am able." She rose to her feet. "That reminds me of my promise
to take him for a drive this afternoon. Comte, you will discuss plans with the chevalier, n'est-ce pas?"
"Certainement." He stood up with the rest of the men and bowed to his hostess. "We will gather together the names and then formulate a plan. At this stage, it is necessary simply to warn."
"Yes." She agreed. "It may be necessary to facilitate their escape later. But if they are sensible now ..." Her light shrug spoke all her lack of conviction in such an idea. "We shall see, messieurs. Au revoir."
* * *
St. Estephe and the chevalier went to France within a few days. While the chevalier sedulously performed his mission, the comte reported to his masters in minute detail, handing over the lists of names, urging their immediate proscription and imprisonment.
The chevalier was in the house of the Levandou when a detachment of National Guard burst through the front door, muskets at the ready. The family were taking tea with their guest in the salon. The due spoke in dignified protest at this assault on his household as D'Evron was seized roughly, his hands bound behind his back and the accusation of treason proclaimed in ringing accents. He made no attempt to resist his captors although he pleaded energetically the innocence of his friends. To no purpose, however; the entire family from the youngest child to the elderly grandmother were bundled into the unmarked coaches waiting outside and hauled before the tribunal where their guilt as conspirators against the constitution was declared and proven.
D'Evron was taken to the Chatelet where, for a while, he had money enough to pay for a mattress beneath him as he slept. But when his resources dwindled to nothing, he joined the majority of the five hundred inmates and slept on filthy straw. The Levandoux fared better during their imprisonment in the aristocratic Abbaye where all had mattresses, there were only six prisoners to a room, and with their one meal came a bottle of wine a day. But on Sunday, September 2, 1792, they all shared the same fate. Carters, carpenters, cabinetmakers; hat makers and jewelers; cobblers and watchmakers with clubs, swords, and pikes massacred the inmates of the nine main prisons in Paris. Some thirteen hundred prisoners died in the violence inspired by the fear that the political prisoners would break free and join
the counter-revolutionary armies threatening the borders of France. But the original motive for the mass murder was soon forgotten, and children, prostitutes, thieves, and debtors fell beneath the swords of the mob.
D'Evron died in the courtyard of the Chatelet where he had been dragged, a filthy, emaciated figure that Danielle would have had difficulty recognizing. His last conscious thought was of her and of his failure to warn her of the traitor who had given evidence with such complacence before the tribunal. The heavy club fell again and the chevalier found release in unconsciousness and mercifully felt not the ripping stab of the pike that ended his life.
But that blood-soaked weekend was some months ahead. In the meantime, St. Estephe decided not to return to England once his reports were made and his standing as a faithful adherent of the revolution confirmed. He had two reasons for this. There was much politicking to be done with the fall of the Brissotin ministry and he could not afford to be absent as the wind changed. He also hoped that Danielle, in the absence of news from D'Evron and himself, would decide to take matters into her own
charge. Once she made a definitive move on French soil, she would have played into his hands and he could
have his revenge on the house of Unton while removing a traitor from active duty.
Danielle waited until the end of June, until news came of the mob's attack on the Tuileries. While D'Evron languished in the Chatelet and St. Estephe insinuated himself among the power-holders, a crowd of demonstrators, now proudly bearing the name of sans-culottes, broke through the iron gates of the Tuileries intent on confronting their king. They flourished their banners, an old pair of gentlemen's britches, and the bleeding heart of a calf—le coeur d'aristocrat—as they poured into the courts at the rear of the palace. The royal family cowered in their apartments as they heard again the terrifying sounds of a mob attack—the wild shouts, the smash of doors, the pounding of feet coming ever closer. The Tuileries was under attack as Versailles had been three years previously. Louis, behind a phalanx of a few faithful guardsmen, took what protection was offered in the deep embrasure of a window. The red bonnet of the revolution was placed upon his head and he listened to the diatribe of a butcher and drank to the health of the nation as the mob gaped at this man who was their king, who, from the moment of their births had been deified, all powerful, a power given directly from God. But he was just a man, just like the rest of them—legs, arms, blood, and water, and capable of fear in spite of his apparent patient calm. In another room they found the queen—the hated Austrian— with her children and the king's sister. They stood behind a table and a group of guards, while the mob peered, would have poked and prodded had they been able to get close enough, and wondered again at the simple flesh and blood of this family who had known only riches beyond the dreams of avarice and the privilege of the supremely powerful.