by Kat Dunn
Camille glanced at the silk confection she had borrowed from Hennie. ‘I am a girl. That doesn’t mean I have to like dresses.’ It was the sort of thing that would look beautiful on Ada and made Camille feel like a potato – only, Ada would have made her feel beautiful in it. The dress squished her breasts over the scooping neckline and Hennie’s maid had curled strands of her hair with a hot poker. Camille thought she looked like an idiot. A potato with delusions of grandeur.
Thinking of Ada brought no comfort; all she could picture was Ada’s face when she found out what Camille had done.
‘No, I suppose you are rather wearing it like a sack.’ They had made it almost two-thirds of the way around the room and were nearing the card players. ‘What do you make of James’s mysterious friend? Quite dishy. Do you think he’s spoken for?’
‘Edward? I don’t know what to make of him, but James doesn’t seem all that comfortable around him, for a friend.’
Al arched an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got a look.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes. A scheming look. Go on, tell me.’
‘Well … we need to find James’s weak spot and we might have stumbled across it already. Keep an eye on him, follow him – I don’t think Lady Harford is going to let me out of her sight.’
‘Yes, milady. As milady commands.’
‘Never mind that,’ she said. ‘How about you tone down that appalling accent before people start thinking you’re making fun of them? I know you speak perfect English.’
‘Ah, non, ma chérie, c’est impossible. The English folk, they think we are the sad little victims of an unspeakable horror that could never possibly visit their lands. The more I play into it, the more they’ll believe anything I say. You’re not the only one who knows how to act a part.’
‘I suppose you have a point.’
‘Don’t I always?’
Her expression changed. ‘Don’t push your luck.’
He patted her hand as they parted. ‘I think the hardest bit of this plan is going to be tolerating each other for so long.’
Camille had a feeling he was right.
Lady Harford beckoned her over. ‘My darling girl, keep me company a little. I have missed you.’
Camille joined her, sitting on an overstuffed stool beside her Bath chair. Lady Harford was flagging as the evening stretched on, and now she sat so quietly she had almost disappeared from the room. It still shocked Camille to see how far her illness had progressed – somehow, she had imagined everything in England standing still while she’d been separated from them. But it hadn’t. The world had changed, and she had become a stranger to it.
‘Oh, blast.’ Hennie threw down her cards. ‘Whist is an awful game. I detest it.’
‘You don’t know how to concentrate, that’s your problem,’ said Phil.
Hennie twisted in her chair to speak to Camille. ‘Will you be married by special licence? I think that would be far more romantic. Nobody gets the banns read any more. Do they, Maman?’
Lady Harford inclined her head. ‘A special licence would be preferable. William, you must arrange it as soon as possible.’
Lord Harford looked up from his paper. ‘Oh, must I?’
‘Don’t argue. I know you will return to town tomorrow. Your son is just like you, he insists on leaving too.’
Lord Harford shot James a look and James seemed to deflate even further. Camille watched the exchange with interest.
‘Oh, Maman, why don’t we all go?’ Hennie beamed. ‘We can get Camille some gowns of her own, and even start a wedding trousseau! She doesn’t want to have come all the way from Paris just to moulder away in this old place.’
‘What a wonderful idea. William, we might as well open the London house.’
‘I am perfectly happy staying at my club. I don’t think the travel is the best thing for your health...’
‘Nonsense, a man needs a home, and my health is my own to worry about. London it is.’
Lord Harford huffed and disappeared behind his paper.
Hennie clapped her hands. ‘We’ll find you some lovely things, Camille. Silk suits you – I heard Robespierre banned silk. Whatever for, I ask you! What have the poor weavers done to him? I thought the Revolution was supposed to be about helping people like them. How can they be better off if no one is buying their wares?’
‘Well, it’s rather complicated,’ said James, speaking for the first time. ‘You see, the Revolutionaries think they’re doing the right thing, that they have some grand master plan to save the world. But really they’re stumbling about like children with no supervision.’
He delivered the lines looking straight at Camille.
She bristled. ‘How true. An inflated sense of righteousness is a terrible thing.’
If he wanted to play, she was ready.
‘Enough talk of unpleasant things.’ Lady Harford interrupted them. ‘I am quite exhausted. Hennie, ring for Molly.’
‘Of course, Maman.’
A servant came to wheel Lady Harford to her bedroom, and with their hostess retired, the party was over. Lord Harford disappeared to his study, and Hennie and Phil followed Al, asking him a litany of questions about Paris.
Camille caught James’s eye as he reached the door. He hesitated on the threshold, then stepped back inside and shut it.
With his back to her, she crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling out the knife that was strapped under her skirts. As he turned, she shoved him against the wall, blade to his throat.
‘Where is she?’
James stared at her, eyes wide, flickering down to the knife just out of his view. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed against the blade’s edge. ‘I’m telling you nothing.’
‘Did you somehow miss the part where I have a knife to your throat?’
‘Go on, then.’
‘What?’
‘Cut my throat. Isn’t that what you’re threatening?’
Camille faltered for a second, and a triumphant look flashed across his face.
She rallied. ‘I don’t have to cut your throat to make you suffer.’
‘No, you’re planning to marry me to do that.’
With a growl, she pushed the knife closer. ‘Don’t think that was my idea.’
‘What exactly is your idea, Cam? You lost in Paris and all you’re going to do now is embarrass yourself. There’s still time to leave – unless you actually want to marry me?’
‘I’d rather drown in my own vomit.’
‘Charming. Put the knife down, will you? Why the theatrics?’
‘Maybe I felt you should be on the receiving end of something unpleasant for a change,’ she said. ‘What with threatening to shoot me in the head a few weeks ago.’
‘Mmm. Unconvincing. Try it again but with less of a shaky hand.’
Camille’s eyes darted to her fingers wrapped around the handle. He was right; they were trembling, blade wavering against the faint stubble at his throat. She was exhausted, lungs never quite recovered, shaken by the prospect of the wedding, and god damn this stupid boy for making her feel like an amateur. Like she could still entertain any feelings for him.
A bubble of frustration rose up.
She pressed the knife into flesh, denting his creamy-white skin until a vivid red bead of blood welled over the steel.
James drew in a sharp gasp.
She smiled. ‘I don’t know. A shaky hand seems to get the job done.’
‘You’re forgetting I know you, Cam.’ His breath was warm against her cheek. ‘I know what you’re capable of. And I know when you’re bluffing.’
They were so close she could feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest, smell the mix of linen and stables and eau de toilette. The last time she had been this close to him, they had kissed. ‘You don’t know me at all.’
‘I do. I know you like grand gestures and wild plans, and I know you can never pull them off. You’re all bluster, you always were.’ His lips curled in a smirk, and he
leaned forward, letting the blade cut him more. ‘You’re in my world now. Do you really think you can outsmart me here?’
Before she could reply, there was the sound of footsteps at the door and Camille leaped back, hiding the bloody knife behind her as Molly came into the room.
She took one look at their rumpled appearance and breathlessness and went pink.
‘Excuse me, Miss du Bugue, but Lady Harford says that your room is ready if you want to retire. And there’s a bed made up for you too, Master Harford.’
James straightened his collar to hide the cut at his throat. A tiny starburst of blood on his cravat was all there was to show of it.
‘Goodnight, my love,’ he said, ducking his head to kiss Camille on the cheek. ‘Sleep well.’
He sauntered from the room as though nothing had happened. Molly caught Camille’s eye and winked. ‘I hear the morning room doesn’t get much use in the evenings,’ she said. ‘In case that’s of any interest, miss.’
‘It’s not,’ snapped Camille, then caught herself. ‘Sorry. It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course, miss.’ The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried out.
Camille sank into the nearest chair, heart racing, and dropped the knife onto the table before her. She’d been gripping it so hard her fingers felt numb.
One day down – how many more to go?
She was starting to think saving Olympe’s life would be the death of her.
9
The Faubourg Saint Jacques
Ada stared at the duc in shock. Weeks of searching with nothing to show for it, then, in one short evening – there he was. Maybe Camille had been onto something with her wild plans. The biggest, stupidest risks could reap the greatest rewards.
The duc stepped out of the pool of light spilling from the doorway and into the shadows with the snatchers. Ada felt a thrill of excitement and panic at the same time. It was really him. He was expensively dressed, but his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his rolled-up shirtsleeves exposed muscled forearms. Without the old-fashioned wig, he looked younger than she remembered; his short grey hair made him look hardened, less pampered.
A threat.
‘Ah. Gentlemen. I was expecting you earlier.’
The rattish man hung back, arms crossed. ‘It’s a long journey.’
Didier elbowed him into silence. ‘A little late, but worth it, I assure you.’
‘What have you brought me today?’ The duc neared the cart. The woman they had added last had slipped sideways, and now Guil’s long limbs sprawled across the top of the mound of corpses, exposed to the duc’s hawkish eye. Ada could only imagine how horrible it must be.
Oh god, what if the duc recognised Guil? No – Guil was just another dead peasant. The duc would see what he wanted to.
‘Only the finest resources, monsieur. You know we wouldn’t let you down.’
‘I will be the judge of that.’
He lifted a lantern to inspect the body on the top of the pile – Guil.
A frown crossed his face.
Ada’s heart stopped as the duc reached out. Lifted one of Guil’s eyelids and held the light near his eye. Then he put two fingers against Guil’s neck.
With a sneer of disgust, he stepped back.
‘You fools, this one is still alive.’
The snatchers exchanged a look. The rattish man looked ready to blow. ‘I told you this was a bad idea.’
Didier ignored him. ‘His sister said he was dead.’
‘And you didn’t bother to check?’
‘He was practically gone when we took him – we know you prefer them fresh. Give him a few hours, he won’t pull through.’
The duc gave him a withering look. ‘This man is perfectly healthy and the two of you are idiots.’
Ada pulled the knife from her boot and braced herself. This was it. The moment it could all go wrong.
‘Look, if a dead body is what you want, we can fix that easily enough. No one will miss him.’
‘I have no interest in murder being brought to my doorstep,’ said the duc coolly. ‘You attempted to trick me and have been exposed by your own stupidity. I have made it perfectly clear that this arrangement only survives with your discretion. I’ve half a mind to turn you over to the Commune police.’
The rat puffed up. ‘Do that and we turn you in as a traitor to the Republic. We know who you really are—’
‘Shut up, Maurice. Ignore him, no one needs to tell anyone anything. We can still do a deal on the others?’ Didier lifted the arm of the middle-aged woman they had collected last. ‘This one is definitely dead.’
The duc snorted and returned to the house. ‘Get off my property before I throw you off.’
With that, he slammed the door shut and Ada sagged in relief.
But the danger wasn’t over.
The body snatchers had descended into argument, Didier shoving Maurice in the shoulder. ‘We can’t just abandon the cart here, you fool.’
‘Why not? What can we do with a live one? I say cut our losses and get the hell away before his sister changes her mind about that story you spun her.’
Didier weighed the rock thoughtfully. ‘Maybe this night doesn’t have to be a total loss. We could try and sell them to the new medical school over near Les Invalides…’
Oh god, this was going south fast. Ada held the knife in a shaking hand, mind racing. She needed to do something – anything – to distract them long enough for Guil to run. They had come this far. Anything was worth a try.
She picked up a rock of her own and lobbed it at the men. ‘Hey! You! I did change my mind. Give me back my brother!’
As they turned towards the direction of the rock, Guil didn’t waste a moment to leap out of the cart and start running. Maurice spotted him – but too late. Guil was halfway to the gate. Ada dived from behind the tree, flinging another rock, this one catching the rat on the shin.
‘Hey – wait! Damn.’ He swung back round to Ada, eyes narrowing. ‘You set us up.’
Didier squinted at her. ‘So she did. You lying little bitch.’
‘Guil! Run!’ Ada yelled – but Guil had already hopped the gate and disappeared into the night.
The men hesitated, uncertain who to follow, and Ada took the opportunity to scramble over the wall out of the duc’s yard. Lungs burning, she ran headlong back towards the city. She ran and ran until she was through the city gates and able to fling herself down an alleyway to watch for any sign of pursuit. Her mouth was filled with the bitter taste of her raw throat. A minute passed, and then a minute more and still no one came. Either the snatchers were smarter than she gave them credit for and were waiting for her to come out – or they’d given up.
Ada could only hope that Guil had made it too. They’d agreed to each make it out however they could; it had seemed a sensible plan at the time, but now, alone in the dark of the city, she wished they had stuck together.
For a moment she felt a flash of unease, a premonition. They had already split the battalion in two for Olympe.
To see this through, how much further would they have to fall apart?
10
The Streets of London
8 Thermidor
26 July
The hackney carriage bounced over the cobbles and potholes, jostling James against the other passengers as it rumbled east along High Holborn. It was scarce a mile and a half from Bedford Square and its wastelands of half-dug foundations to his university digs – but he wasn’t headed there.
The carriage crawled through traffic; brewers’ drays stopped dead in the street to deliver barrels of ale to pubs, drovers herded cattle towards Smithfield, sedan chairs and their runners bobbed and weaved through the traffic. From the first moment James’s family had crossed into London in their large, well-sprung post-chaise that morning, dark clouds had loomed low on the horizon. The sunshine of the week before had vanished, and the sticky heat had built and built as they drove further into the city. A storm threatened, a tension in t
he air ready to break.
And in their London house, the tension had grown worse. As servants folded away dust-sheets, made beds and stowed travelling clothes, James and Camille had continued their awkward dance. Wherever he turned, she or Al seemed to be there, watching him, whispering between themselves. And worse, his mother looking at them both fondly, a light he hadn’t seen in months returned to her eyes.
James’s hand went to his throat, and the scab that had formed where Camille’s knife had cut him. She would be planning something. As sure as night followed day, so trouble followed Camille Laroche.
The carriage lurched to a halt and a flurry of shouts came from the driver and the delivery cart he’d nearly collided with. James and the other passengers settled themselves, wedging into the cracked leather seats. He pulled the window open a fraction, letting in the smell of the city: coal, horse manure, sewage, street food, livestock, perfume.
God damn Camille. He was angry at her for showing up and disrupting his plans – but what did he expect? If there was one thing he knew about Camille, it was that she took delight in being difficult.
He couldn’t work out what she wanted. Olympe – of course – but why? Was it just her hurt pride? Were she and Olympe truly friends? Camille had made it clear she wanted the girl out of the Royalists’ and Revolutionaries’ hands – so why did she care that he’d taken her to England? In Paris, Camille had sat on the fence between both sides. She was naive if she thought she could do that for ever; allying with Olympe would force her to pick a side sooner rather than later. Edward was wrong about him on that count too. James had chosen a side.
The only problem was that they were no longer on the same one. James had chosen his family. His father.
The cab slowed and the driver thumped on the ceiling, bellowing their location. They were far enough from Bedford Square now, so James hopped down and began walking back west. His university digs were east, near St Paul’s Cathedral and St Bart’s Hospital, where he and Edward had trained in surgery under Wickham, and the last place he would want to hide Olympe if he meant to keep her secret from them. The slums of St Giles had proved the answer.