Monstrous Design

by Kat Dunn

  ‘I thought you and Léon were … exclusive.’

  ‘Don’t talk about Léon.’

  ‘Why not? Does he know you’re in London?’ When Al didn’t reply she raised her eyebrows. ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘He’ll have seen my execution notice in the papers. He’s better off thinking me dead.’

  ‘Really? You think it’s better that he mourn you? Christ, Al, and you call me callous—’

  ‘What’s done is done, okay? You really think I could face him now? Sorry! Whoops, that whole getting my head chopped off thing was a bit of a mix-up, actually I’m fine and dandy and on holiday abroad.’

  ‘Is that the real reason you don’t want to go back to Paris?’

  ‘No. Maybe. Yes.’ Al couldn’t meet her eye. ‘And the other stuff I said too. It can be both.’

  With a sigh, she tucked her flimsy skirt under her and dropped onto the sofa next to him. ‘I know what it’s like to lose your parents in the way you did, but it doesn’t mean your life is over too. You could be happy, you know.’

  ‘Spare me the heartfelt speech,’ he sneered. ‘You’re deluded if you think you and Ada have a future together. She deserves better than you, and when she realises that, you’re done for, Cam.’

  Camille stared at her own knees. ‘If Ada wants to leave me, that’s up to her.’

  She meant it. She wasn’t good enough for Ada; she’d always known it. She’d lied about James, begrudged her a relationship with her father, and used her like another weapon in the arsenal of her battalion. It was only a matter of time before Ada saw it too.

  ‘You really are pathetic. I tell you the so-called love of your life is going to leave you sooner rather than later, and you’re just going to roll over and accept it?’

  Camille shrugged. ‘What else should I do? Lock her up?’

  ‘I don’t know – fight? Be a better person so you actually deserve her? Don’t marry your ex just to make him miserable? It’s basic stuff.’

  There were thoughts she never let herself think, not now, not in the middle of a job, not with so much on the line. When her parents had been killed, the grief had made her weak; she’d been unable to save them because the pain and fear had overwhelmed her, and she’d ended up dragging her friends into danger, making mistake after mistake.

  Loving Ada was so huge it frightened her. The power it had to destroy her. She wouldn’t think about it. It wasn’t safe.

  Before she could reply, Al changed the subject. ‘Anyway, you didn’t tell me about your eavesdropping.’

  ‘All I could hear from the study was an argument – but you’ll never guess what James said when I spoke to him afterwards.’

  ‘He’s tired of being filthy rich and is retiring to the country to raise goats and starve like the peasantry?’

  She ignored him. ‘He said he needs my help.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to ask him what the hell he meant before I was remanded for ‘delicate young lady’ duty and stuffed into this stupid frock. We’re so close to getting Olympe. I swear if James drags us into more trouble…’

  A servant arrived to announce the carriages were ready, and the Harfords assembled for their outing.

  Al patted her arm. ‘Ah, defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. Just like old times. Anyway, it’s not really a Bataillon des Morts plan if it doesn’t go wrong, is it?’

  9

  Palais d’Égalité

  The last time Ada had walked the colonnades of the Palais d’Égalité, it had been in search of Al, missing from the battalion once again, and she had found him somewhere darker, drunker, poisoned by the impending execution of his family.

  This time, it was Guil who moved like a man condemned. The Café Corrazza at numbers 9 to 12 was a smart affair, with a black lacquered frontage with gold lettering and a black-and-white tiled floor. A popular meeting spot for the Jacobin Revolutionaries. Ada kept a nervous eye out for Docteur Comtois, the Revolutionary scientist who had kept Olympe locked in the Conciergerie and who had given the Bataillon des Morts hell trying to get her back.

  Thankfully, it was a quiet evening – only a few tables of men playing chequers, reading the newspapers or leaning together over bottles of pastis and jugs of cold water. But there was an undercurrent of unease – glances exchanged, conversations falling quiet as they passed.

  Ada remembered what Léon had said. Something brewing.

  They found their appointment tucked into a shadowed table towards the back, where a servant was lowering the chandeliers to light them. The man was short and stocky and must have once been handsome before a deep weariness had consumed him. He was dressed as a civilian, plain black breeches and tailcoat and a shirt turning yellow from the laundry.

  Guil hung back, so Ada strode forward with a confidence she was struggling to find.

  ‘Citoyen Jean-Baptiste Baudot?’

  The man looked up, then glanced at Guil. ‘Ah. I was warned it would be you.’

  Ada pushed Guil into a seat and took the other chair. ‘Thank you for meeting with us.’

  ‘I’m not doing you a favour. What’s it worth to you?’

  Jean looked fixedly at Guil, who sat as blank and motionless as a theatre prop.

  ‘If you will tell us what you know, a great deal.’

  They ordered coffee for the table and Ada brought out half the money as a show of good faith.

  ‘I’d help you for free if you really are working against the Royalists,’ said Jean, hand hesitating over the money. ‘But I suppose we are all sell-outs now.’

  ‘Jean—’ Guil spoke finally, but Jean cut him off.

  ‘Do you know, I never once wondered what happened to you? I thought about how everything that had come before was a lie. I thought about what a worm I must have been friends with, that he was capable of abandoning us in the field.’

  ‘I never wanted to leave you,’ said Guil. ‘But I could not fight for such men—’

  ‘I never once thought about where you ended up. So, don’t think I’m interested in hearing about you now.’

  Guil clammed up, turned away. Ada wanted to reach out to him but she didn’t think it would be welcome.

  ‘Tell us what you know and we’ll leave you be,’ she said.

  Jean sipped his coffee, considering her. ‘What is it like to work with a man you know you can never trust?’

  ‘Your information, or the rest of the money and I walk away.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it. Always keeping one eye open.’

  ‘I’m not going to play this game.’ She stood, putting the coin purse away. ‘Guil is a good man and has proven that to me – not that I owe you any defence of his character.’

  It had begun to rain outside, and she fixed her hat in place.

  ‘Wait.’ Jean held up a hand. ‘Wait. Sit. I can keep my peace.’

  ‘Can you?’

  He drained his coffee cup and refilled it. ‘Maybe not, but I meant what I said. I would be happy to help anyone stop the Royalists.’

  Stiffly, Ada sat and folded her arms. Guil hadn’t moved the whole time; she thought he was lost in introspection but when she looked closer she saw his tension, the shaking of his limbs. He was barely keeping himself under control.

  ‘We’ve been told someone is looking for soldiers susceptible to a bribe, particularly ones who work in the prisons – and that he approached you. Why?’

  ‘Why else? He’s looking to break someone out.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sounded like an old ally – someone important, someone the Revolutionaries really don’t want getting out. Security was too tight around the cell so I wasn’t interested in the work – not that I’d ever turn traitor and work for someone like him.’

  Ada felt a pang of shame. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much. Whatever’s going down, he wants a real accomplice for it. Not hired muscle; someone he can trust. So that means gathering his oldest allies.’ Jean shrugged. ‘
I think he found a way to get them out in the end.’

  Ada swore loudly and creatively in her head. To Jean, all she said was, ‘I see.’

  But Jean had been thinking about something.

  ‘You know what? I changed my mind. I do want to talk about it.’ He stabbed in Guil’s direction with the end of his pipe.

  He leaned forward. ‘Very well. What is it you would speak about?’

  ‘There you go, pompous as ever. Do you remember what we called you?’

  ‘The Scholar.’

  ‘No, I mean, behind your back. The Gutter Prince. So mannered, so noble. When you’re just another nobody like the rest of us.’

  Guil said nothing, taking the blows with that same solemn expression.

  ‘You’d have to think yourself better to be able to walk away from your friends. The men who fought with you, who saved your life. You thought it was nothing, didn’t you? Not as important as your principles.’

  ‘You are correct. I chose my principles over my loyalty to you.’

  Jean’s mouth twisted in a snarl. ‘You have the nerve to admit it? Then let me be the one to tell you what happened to those men you didn’t think important enough to stick around for. You ran when we were redeployed to the Vendée. They told us to target the women, but I suppose you knew that. And the generals, they expected us to act without complaint. To be machines for them. To burn and kill and destroy and when we wouldn’t they shot us too. Thank you, for leaving us to that. If you weren’t there, I suppose you got to pretend it wasn’t happening.’

  Guil was shaking, knuckles showing white. ‘The opposite. Every piece of news convinced me I made the right decision. I would do it again tomorrow. I am sorry to have hurt you. I am. But I did the right thing.’

  ‘You’re a traitor.’

  ‘Enough,’ interrupted Ada.

  Jean pocketed the money and pushed his chair back with a discordant screech against the tiles. ‘Save your fancy words. I’m not the one who needs to hear them. You owe your apologies to the dead.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of the duc getting any more allies,’ said Ada.

  Guil was walking her back to the Marais along Rue Saint Honoré and up Rue Avoye. He was always quiet compared to the rest of the battalion but this complete silence was worrying her.

  ‘You were right, this was an important lead to follow.’ She elbowed him gently. ‘I said you’re right, would you like to crow a little?’

  He stirred, straightened his shoulders. ‘No. I cannot find it in myself to take pleasure in any of this.’

  ‘Well, then, how about agreeing the rest of our plan? It sounds like whoever this ally is, they’re at the Lazare prison. So that should be step one. Back in familiar territory.’

  ‘I have the soldier’s uniform still,’ said Guil. ‘I can reconnoitre the area.’ Ada wondered what it would cost him this time to wear that uniform. ‘You will go back to the duc?’

  She nodded. ‘If I vanish now it will only look suspicious. And there’s value in learning what his experiments mean.’ Rue Barbette and her home were a few more streets away. Ada chewed her lip. ‘You can tell me what happened, if you want to. If you need to. You know I would never judge.’

  They walked the next block in silence before Guil shook his head. ‘I do not think I am ready to speak of it. I never … I did not expect to see Jean-Baptiste or any of my comrades again. I thought that part of my life was dead.’ At the corner of the Rue Barbette, Guil stopped and unlaced their arms. ‘Jean was right. I have too many deaths on my conscience. I—’ He stopped himself sharply.

  Ada’s worry only grew. ‘Guil, you know I trust you with my life. Camille trusts you too. Whatever happened, it doesn’t define you.’

  She reached for his arm but he stepped back into the shadows so his face was hidden. For a moment, she had a sense of him slipping out of time entirely, back to his days as a soldier, scouting battlefields and sharpshooting from concealed vantage points. She saw the ghost of another man, one who had lived with death so closely it had become part of him.

  Perhaps none of the battalion really knew each other; they showed each other one face and kept all their others shut away. Even Ada and Camille picked the sides of themselves they were willing to share, kept secrets that had begun to unravel them.

  Perhaps none of them really knew her either.

  And no one knew what she was truly capable of.

  10

  Bedford Square

  Carriages pulled up outside the townhouse, all gilt and gold with fine chestnut mares pulling them. Camille and James were at the back of the group, Al had manoeuvered to take a blushing Hennie’s arm, while Phil pushed Lady Harford’s Bath chair. They would travel to the river in two groups and take the boat to Vauxhall for an evening at the pleasure gardens. A supper box was booked, and there were to be fireworks. Above the square the sky was tinged dark blue as evening slowly settled on the city.

  James thought of Olympe alone in the stables and wondered again if he should try to stay. But Hennie had already climbed into the first carriage and was hanging out of the window, yelling at them to hurry up. He was being watched; it was no use.

  Camille paused at the top of the steps, turning away as she started coughing. Her face was too pale still, with a vivid flush to her cheeks and sunken eyes. He could feel how thin she had become when he held her arm in his. A thought struck him: the cough, the weight loss, the fever in her cheeks and the glitter of her eyes. He knew what this looked like. He had been so wrapped up in himself, he’d missed something vital.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ he asked gently. Did she know something was wrong?

  ‘I’m fine.’ She straightened, wiping her mouth on a handkerchief – then seemed to notice the red speckles on it.

  Quietly, he took it from her and folded it away in his pocket.

  There was no truce between them, but it didn’t mean he’d stopped caring about her entirely.

  Hennie, Lady Harford and Phil pulled away and the second carriage drew up; Al climbed in first, and between him and James they lifted a fragile Camille into her seat.

  Before James could join them, the traffic cleared for a moment, and he saw through to the newly planted garden in the centre of the square.

  There, as plain as day, stood Wickham, watching him.

  James dropped back from the footplate.

  Time was up. He’d been found out.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Camille.

  ‘I – nothing.’

  Camille cocked her head. ‘Is this about that help you needed?’

  A passing cab obscured his view and his eyes flicked to Camille. ‘Yes. I’ll tell you soon – there’s something I need to do first.’

  Camille didn’t reply, gleaming eyes watching him from the dark interior of the carriage. James shut the door and rapped the side to signal to the driver to leave. It pulled away at a trot to the end of the square, then swung into Great Russell Street.

  He’d known it was a matter of time before Wickham came for him.

  The only option left was to face the consequences head on.

  His tutor’s usually dapper dress was dishevelled, his collar askew and frock coat stained at the cuffs, but his eyes were sharp. James knew Wickham to be obsessive, ruthless – he’d proved that when not even Edward’s death could sway him from his single-minded dedication to his work. James had also known Wickham wouldn’t take his betrayal well. Now, he wondered if he’d underestimated how dangerous an enemy he would be.

  In a heartbeat, James ran through the calculations in his head: was Edward here too? Was Olympe safe? Why had Wickham come to his home? Was it a threat? This must be how Camille felt all the time: so many moving parts to track at once, the knowledge that failure meant disaster, death. But Camille wouldn’t cower. Camille would make her choice and act.

  With a deep breath, he plunged in.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he called across the road. ‘I shouldn’t have run yeste
rday. I was overwhelmed and, I will admit, a little frightened by what we did.’

  ‘What could be so frightening about saving the life of your friend? Unless, perhaps, you are not the friend we once thought. Perhaps it would have made things easier for you if I had failed.’

  James fought to hold his nerve. ‘I would never wish Edward dead.’

  ‘But you would wish us out of your way, hmm?’ Outside the operating theatre, Wickham never quite looked right; tucked into a suit, walking the city streets, something of the dark still hung about him. A smell of blood and turpentine, calloused hands that seemed to reach for a blade.

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘Oh, don’t start lying,’ Wickham snapped. ‘Edward told me everything. What trusting fools you must think us both.’

  ‘I didn’t go to Paris with the intention of betraying you.’

  ‘Lie! Do you want to try again?’ All James could see was Wickham’s silvery scar, threading from ear to eye. The unblinking way he watched him. ‘Drop the act, James. You were working for your father all along, you infiltrated my trust to steal from me. Your father wants this discovery for himself, to make his name in the War Ministry. That’s why he won’t fund my research. He doesn’t want the competition.’

  James felt sick. ‘Wait – that’s not—’

  ‘I will not be bested. This is my discovery. My life’s work. I will not be humiliated by you or your father.’ He had grown fiery. ‘I like you, James. That’s the bitter irony of this, I really thought I could make something of you as a surgeon. Edward likes you too. Did you laugh at us as you wrote those letters, telling us Paris was a bust? Did you pity us for being so gullible?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ But the words sounded hollow to his own ears. Wickham wasn’t wrong; James had betrayed them and been calculated about it. He’d weighed up his loyalty to his mentor and his friend against his need for his father’s approval, and his own craven nature had won. ‘Whatever you think I’ve done, nothing will change my father’s mind about you. He won’t support your work.’

  A spiteful smile split Wickham’s face. ‘You misunderstand me. I don’t want his support. I want him gone. I will show him that I am not to be trivialised. I am not to be dismissed. I have power and knowledge, and his life is at my mercy, not the other way around.’