by C. S. Quinn
‘I want no titles,’ says Robespierre smoothly. ‘Such things are of no interest to a man such as myself. As you can see, I am a person of humble means.’ He gestures to his plain suit, immaculate but of a common cut. ‘There is only one thing I should desire in payment.’
‘Which is?’ Salvatore lets the paper drop now, as if expecting a price beyond his abilities.
‘A small thing only. A boon. Something that is well within your power to grasp.’ He gives a strange little smile, and Salvatore, who deals daily with murderous smugglers, recoils. ‘It is all a question of killing the right people.’
CHAPTER SIX
JEMMY AND I WALK IN COMPANIONABLE SILENCE FOR THE few minutes it takes to reach our favoured tavern.
The preferred spot is directly in front of Porte Saint-Martin, with tables on the street that allow drinkers to enjoy all the drama of the city gates. A girl with a jug of wine emerges as soon as we sit.
‘We’ve doubled our money these last weeks,’ she tells us, nodding to the gates. ‘Best seats in town to watch the aristos get their just deserts. They even threw one in the lock-up last week.’ Her eyes drift to an expensively clad man and wife, arguing in high outraged voices as a man in a tricolour cockade carelessly searches their carriage, making no effort to keep his muddy boots from the satin interior.
‘About time they got treated like the rest of us, stuck-up pigs,’ she opines. ‘No offence,’ she adds offhandedly, noticing my and Jemmy’s clothing.
‘I am no aristo friend,’ says Jemmy, offended. ‘An Irish boy raised in America is what I am. There are New York gutters that consider themselves too fancy for the likes of me.’ Her eyes drift to me, clearly deciding that whatever the reason for my dress it isn’t nobility.
She bobs a little curtsey and retreats, her eyes lingering a little too long on Jemmy’s face.
As soon as Jemmy and I are certain we are out of earshot and ensconced in the tavern we both speak at once.
‘Tuesday.’
‘We discovered the same, then,’ I confirm. ‘It will be Tuesday. By night.’
Jemmy nods, raking dark hair back behind his ear. ‘You were right about one thing,’ he says. ‘These bored girls will spill all their husbands’ plans without a second thought. But it’s become too dangerous, Attica.’
‘Why do you say so? The plan is working perfectly.’ I frown. ‘They tell us the plantation owners’ plans to sabotage the abolitionists. We protect those who need protecting. It can’t be more than a few weeks before the King gives in and signs the Rights of Man. All equal.’ I raise my cup in toast. ‘Whites and blacks included.’
Jemmy joins the toast uneasily.
‘We’re becoming known for only rescuing English people. It makes us vulnerable. I think we should mix our rescues. There’s a French lieutenant in danger, spoke out about the King …’
‘Atherton will never approve it.’
Jemmy’s face adopts a pained look. ‘Must we always do what Atherton says?’
I pause, glass halfway to my lips. ‘We need Atherton. He grants us inventions and tools we could not be without. We cannot ask him to go against his principles.’
‘You would say that. You’re in love with the fella.’
I chew my fingernail. ‘I have … a great affection for Atherton. But he is a married man.’
‘And the two of you fancy yourselves so high-minded, you won’t act on your feelings for one another. All this simmering unrequited business is bad for the blood. You’ll get overheated. If you want my advice, jump in the sack together and be done with it,’ Jemmy continues, rubbing his chin. ‘You might realise after all this green sickness, you’re not suited at all. A girlish fancy you never grew out of, if you ask me, falling in love with your teacher.’
‘He was never my teacher.’
‘He taught you all the code breaking, did he not? Arranged for you to train as an assassin in Sicily. It’s not just the difference in age.’ Jemmy’s face contorts, with the abrasive rum or something else. ‘He’s your spy-master. It’s … peculiar.’
‘Speaking of peculiar romances,’ I prompt, opting to change the subject. ‘Did our plump young host share anything else with you, besides a full view of her figure in that see-through dress?’
To my surprise, Jemmy hesitates uneasily.
‘She did, as a matter of fact,’ he says, something like an accusation in his tone. ‘Apparently Robespierre has been asking about the Scarlet Pimpernel. He gets everywhere, you know,’ Jemmy adds pointedly. ‘Just like you.’
I hesitate. ‘Oh? Robespierre doesn’t suspect you, does he?’ I ask.
Jemmy snorts in reply. ‘It is well known that the Scarlet Pimpernel is an educated man, a genius of phenomenal intelligence and singular mind. I only learned to write my name in order to win a bet.’
‘Then what is the problem?’
Jemmy is sat at an awkward halfway angle on his chair, one booted foot splayed out, face creased in consternation.
‘The tokens, Attica,’ he says pointedly. ‘Little cards in the shape of red flowers?’
I sip wine a little too quickly. ‘What about them?’
‘You’ve been using them when I told you not to. And now it seems Robespierre has gotten hold of several. I warned against it. Those things are an arrogance. A foolishness. A robber doesn’t leave a calling card.’
‘We are not robbers,’ I tell him. ‘This is entirely the reason we should be known. It is important the Scarlet Pimpernel is not some highwayman vigilante or plunderer. We are freedom fighters.’
‘Anyone would think you want to be found,’ says Jemmy.
‘Now you are absurd.’
‘Well, whatever you were wanting to gain by your little flourish,’ decides Jemmy, leaning back more easily and crossing one ankle over the other, while considering me over his silver tankard, ‘you succeeded in deeply aggravating Robespierre. And I have the strangest feeling that just might have been your intention.’
‘Since when were you so concerned with my anonymity? I thought you were in this for the gold.’
Jemmy shrugs. ‘Perhaps I am a little converted. All this do-gooding rubs off on a man. I grew up a little gutter rat. I never dreamed I could have any impact on the world besides staying alive and depriving it of as much rum as I could fit in my belly. It’s refreshing to have a cause. Besides, we share an oath, do we not? We are crew now.’
‘Then let’s get back to the plan,’ I suggest, straightening my back and returning my cup to the little barrel that serves as a table. ‘If they go on Tuesday, then the pamphlet writer is in the most danger. We should extract her first.’
‘If you poke at a snake,’ says Jemmy, ignoring my attempt to change the subject and shifting in his seat to pour us both more wine, ‘do not complain when it bites you. You’re playing a dangerous game is what I’m saying.’
‘Who doesn’t love a little danger?’ I wink at him. ‘Surely Robespierre doesn’t frighten you? He’s the same size as my eleven-year-old cousin.’
‘Don’t make the mistake of underestimating him, Attica.’
‘Well, I have no fear of a murdering little lawyer,’ I say sharply, looking up at Jemmy.
He sighs in a world-weary way. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
London
THE AUTUMN AIR BLOWING OFF THE THAMES IS REFRESHING after the stench of Paris. The streets of Westminster are wide and well swept. Women carry baskets of cobnuts and blackberries, a baked-potato man fans the flames of his black barrel oven, and a peddler with a copper canteen sells the last of the elderflower wine.
Since I’m about to see Atherton, Jemmy’s words keep coming back to me. I find myself wondering what would happen if we simply had an affair, as so many other nobles do. But this is out of the question. Even so, I have taken greater care of my dress today than I usually might.
I wear a riding habit – a tailored navy coat, close fitting and detailed to the bust, falling to the tops
of my low-heeled boots. My hat is a jaunty bicorn in the same colour as my dress.
I approach my old friend Peter, the hot pea seller, whose battered cauldron belches contented puffs of steam from its rolling sage-green ooze. He gives me a broad, single-toothed grin when he sees me.
I remove a wrap of tobacco leaves I bought him at Wapping docks and wave the bundle.
‘An apology for my long absence,’ I tell him. He slips it into his coat, beaming.
‘Where was it this time, then, girl?’
‘France.’
‘Lookin’ for a Frenchie husband, was you?’
My smile broadens. ‘Hardly. I’ve yet to find a tavern in Paris that serves beer.’
‘You could do worse, Attica. I heard all them nobles out there got castles a’ gold, on account of takin’ all the taxes off them peasants.’
He wipes the back of his nose with his hand and sniffs loudly.
‘Times are changing,’ I tell him.
‘Well, maybe’s for the best,’ he decides after a moment of thought. ‘You might have a care, mind.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Them high-ups are always talking of who you’ll marry. I hear things.’ He taps his nose knowingly.
‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely. ‘I’ll be careful.’
Peter scans the middle distance with practised caution, then stands neatly aside to allow me through. Behind his stall is a secret entrance to Westminster. The underground headquarters of the Sealed Knot. A partially legal hinterland of spies, crooks and thieves that allow our honest government to win wars.
I slip through, always glad to be back. I descend to a lowceilinged undercroft, where a long run of ancient battered tables are laid out for plans and plotting. Men pore over large maps of land or shipping routes. The merits of various new pieces of weaponry are being enthusiastically debated. At one table, dice are thrown to decide who will undertake the least prestigious missions for King and country.
I pass a table stacked with glittering gold coins, and lift one. I bite into it, then examine it wonderingly.
‘Fine forgeries, Emile,’ I tell the man arranging the money. ‘I could not tell them apart.’
I speak in Romany, since it is a language we share. Emile, one of the many misfits who populate the Sealed Knot, is a fencing champion who is half gypsy. He glances up, then grins.
‘What brings you back?’ he says. ‘We thought we’d lost you to the French.’
‘You had,’ I say truthfully. ‘I came back for him.’ I nod my head towards Atherton’s door. ‘There is something they want me to do in Paris. No doubt it will be some bloodless plot of Lord Pole’s.’
The truth is, I can’t wait to see Atherton. There’s a fizzing feeling in my stomach at the prospect. We write to one another often, but it isn’t the same. Sometimes I wonder how it would be if he wasn’t married, but France is good for forgetting.
‘I’ll meet you at the King’s Head later,’ I tell Emile, heading for the thick door at the back of the room. ‘Tell you all about the fall of the Bastille before I sail back.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
ATHERTON’S ROOM FEELS WRONG AS SOON AS I ENTER. So much so, my hand slips automatically for my knife. The airy office, usually scattered with inventions and experiments, has been cleared of surface clutter. Several of Atherton’s colourful chinoiserie furnishings have been transplanted by dark carved wood replacements. The desk is the same, but the man sitting at it isn’t.
It takes me a full few seconds to identify the newcomer.
Lord Pole. He is hunched over his papers, in the black parliamentary robes he insists on wearing. As always he reminds me of a predatory, carrion-eating bird, the stench of death never quite shaken free from his bear-fur collar. His little scribe-like hat serves only to emphasise the beak-like nose.
There is a resemblance between him and my father, Lord Morgan, but to my mind it is fleeting. They share black hair and brown eyes. But Lord Pole’s illegitimacy has bequeathed him the hawk-like features of his Bavarian count father, and a perpetual expression of ruthless calculation. A childhood on the peripheries of nobility does strange things to a person. I should know.
He looks up from where he has been populating a page with tiny numbers, and gives a tight nod for me to sit. I walk uncertainly to a chair in front of the familiar desk, as he finalises whatever calculation he is making with a frowning flourish.
‘Where is Atherton?’ I ask, as he lays down his pen.
He takes an exaggerated breath to express his displeasure at the question.
‘No kind greeting for your uncle?’ he observes drily. ‘Atherton was called away on urgent family business.’
Since Atherton’s only family is his wife, painful possibilities loom.
A birth? A son and heir? It was bound to happen at some point, I suppose. Atherton and his wife are politely estranged, but that doesn’t stop most nobles from doing their duty.
Lord Pole looks as though he might say more and then prevents himself, staring intently into my face. ‘So it has fallen to me to temporarily manage his duties,’ he concludes.
I’m still fighting away the disappointment both of not seeing Atherton and at the reason for his absence.
‘Aren’t you very busy sacrificing good men to your perfect run of victories?’ I say, noticing Lord Pole has populated Atherton’s chaotic room with precisely arranged military maps and plans. On his desk lies a board set with little figurines and guns depicting the current American crisis. The layout suggests a heavy retreat. I imagine Lord Pole sweeping away swathes of young lives with the briefest of frowns.
He leans back, knitting his hands together. ‘Ah, for the privilege of youth,’ he says, with something bordering on a smile. ‘I miss that time, of being so very certain wars could be won honourably.’ He sits up again, waving a hand dismissively. ‘But I cannot un-know what I know.’ He leans forward, draws a crystal decanter of port towards him and fills two dainty glasses. ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown.’ He pushes a glass towards me.
‘Thank you.’ I pick it up. ‘A little modern for you?’ I suggest with a raised eyebrow, nodding to the little vessel.
‘My,’ says Lord Pole, sounding annoyed. ‘Larger vessels are out of fashion.’ He drains his port in a single swig.
‘Shall we speak now of the mission? We’ve work for you in France,’ he says, dark eyes on mine. I have a sudden image of a whirring clocklike interior behind the predatory expression, an array of possibilities and solutions ready to be clicked into place.
‘I am occupied,’ I tell him. ‘I already told Atherton—’
‘Yes, yes, I have heard all about it.’ He waves a hand curtly. ‘You have made a little sport for yourself in Paris, freeing aristocrats from the hands of the mob.’
‘It is slave abolitionists we rescue …’
‘Aristocrats make a better story,’ says Lord Pole. ‘Weeping ladies with pretty hats. Apple-cheeked children in silken breeches.’ I can see his mind ticking, laying elaborate plans to waylay French nobles with mobs and rescue them just in time. Lord Pole’s favourite currency is gratitude. And the debt that comes with it.
‘We protect commoners and aristocrats alike,’ I say, gritting my teeth in annoyance. ‘On merit not birth.’
‘Pity,’ he says. ‘Still, I imagine you need a reason to stay in Paris. I’m sure you have been enjoying the French lifestyle.’ Knowing Lord Pole, he has information as to my every movement, and knows exactly which taverns and salons I favour. ‘In any case,’ his brows lower even further, ‘it is a little business, is it not, these rescues? One or two people. Five at best. All very entertaining. But your life is devoted to ending slavery, Attica. Lord knows, you have told me enough times. And I’m afraid France will not abolish the practice any time soon.’
I press my lips together, working through his possible motives for summoning me.
‘If the King signs the Rights of Man—’ I say.
‘The plantation owners will never allow it,’ says Lord P
ole. ‘However, you might say we would be working for the same cause in this particular case.’
I find this so unlikely I make a snorting sound into my port.
He raises a long-fingered hand. ‘Hear me out. I do have some understanding of you, Attica, despite what you may think.’
I give a small nod that he should continue speaking.
‘Someone has been found dead outside Versailles,’ he says flatly. ‘Executed in the manner of the ancien régime.’
My stomach tightens. France is infamous for the gruesome torturous deaths it still inflicts on criminals; a legacy of their bloated aristocracy ruling by terror, to keep their toiling peasants from demanding a fairer taxation system.
‘We covered it up as best we could,’ adds Lord Pole. ‘The murder of a British subject in Paris has all kinds of political ramifications. Particularly the manner in which it was carried out.’ He winces.
‘Who was the victim?’ I ask him.
‘She was an anti-slaving reformer, come to Paris to sway the National Assembly.’
‘She?’ My stomach lurches. The idea of a woman being tortured to death is a hideous image.
Lord Pole leans back, considering my expression.
‘What have you done?’ I demand.
‘It’s more a case of what she has done,’ frowns Lord Pole. ‘The lady in question was part of a group of rather silly abolitionists.’ He holds up a hand at my furious expression. ‘No disrespect to your cause,’ he says in a tired voice. ‘A woman by the name of Jenny Gunnel.’
I’m silent, recognising the name.
‘You knew her?’ suggests Lord Pole.
‘We never met,’ I say. ‘But her essays were getting her on the wrong side of the French nobles. We had a plan to extract her if things turned sour.’
‘No need for that now,’ offers Lord Pole unnecessarily.
‘We didn’t think she was in immediate danger,’ I say quietly, guilt washing through me.
‘You were precisely right,’ says Lord Pole, an unexpected shade of kindness to his tone. ‘Her revolutionary views could have had her imprisoned, no worse. Why anyone would want her dead at this point in time is a mystery. It’s possible one of the plantation owners thought she had more influence than she did. Or just maybe she found out something she shouldn’t.’