by C. S. Quinn
‘That must have been very hard,’ I say. ‘I heard the Marquis call you Centime. A cruel jest to a girl sold for a centime a time for millworkers waiting in a line. Branded as a whore, which is why your dress covers your right shoulder.’
Her face moves through a quivering series of expressions, then settles on resignation.
‘Very good. I wish you well of your cleverness. In my experience it never does a woman any good. Even nobles.’ She smiles a little.
‘I was raised enslaved, like you,’ I tell her. ‘And I did the same as you do now. You think to withdraw into yourself, where nothing can touch you.’
Something flickers in her grey eyes. She is taking in my skin colour, not sure whether to believe me.
‘What is your business here?’ she demands finally. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Your master has taken up a new pursuit,’ I say. ‘He is killing women who speak out against slavery. Someone has put him up to it. I am here to discover whom, and I believe they will meet tonight.’
A movement on her features confirms my intelligence is correct. She scrutinises my face.
‘The handsome man you arrived with,’ she says, ‘the one who was buying showy guns.’
I am surprised by her description of Jemmy. With the teardrop burn at his eye and his rugged features, I think of him as charming rather than handsome. I suppose to a certain kind of woman he must be, and the noble women in Madame du Quenoy’s salon certainly enjoy his low-born allure.
‘A friend of yours?’ she suggests.
‘I imagine if you noticed him, Salvatore has placed you to watch the guests, and you already know all about us.’
Centime nods, a certain pleasure in her distant expression.
‘You told me you were enslaved,’ she says. ‘If that is really so, how did you escape? Did the pirate buy you?’
Foolishly, I hadn’t anticipated her asking about my slave past. A familiar pain strikes at my heart, powerful for being unexpected. My hand moves to the Mangbetu blade across my chest.
‘My road to freedom is a long story,’ I tell her. ‘And too sad for a party.’
I can see from her expression she is not fooled. But in this moment, I cannot bear to revisit the awful escape that led to the death of my mother.
Centime takes another quick sip of wine and turns slightly away. It is a dismissal.
‘You are out of your depth, mademoiselle,’ she says. ‘And you cannot rescue me.’
I reach out and grab her wrist. Her eyes flick wide, affronted.
‘And what if I could?’ I demand. ‘What if I could save you?’ I take her small hand and open her fingers. Then I place a flower token in her palm and enclose it in my larger grip.
She stares at it for a long moment.
‘What does it mean?’
‘This is a promise that you will be rescued,’ I tell her. ‘It has never been broken. If you take it, you have my word you will be put safe. But you must help me. I know Salvatore plans something. I must know what.’
She removes her hand from mine and taps her closed fist on her chin.
‘You do not know what you suggest,’ she says. ‘The man you speak of …’ She shakes her head and then lifts her eyes to the ceiling. When they drop back to mine she seems to see something there that makes her decision.
‘Salvatore will meet with his new associate tonight,’ she says, speaking fast. ‘Below. In the secret bedchamber of the Sun King where he entertained his mistresses. You can find it …’
She pauses, choosing her words, and then her eyes widen in fear. Over her shoulder I see the Marquis approaching, face like thunder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE MARQUIS SLIDES TO CENTIME’S SIDE, SMILING THINLY. He raises his hand. She flinches and tries to hide it. A servant arrives with a jewelled chalice. His personal cup, I assume, since it doesn’t match any others here.
‘I see you like to make your own introductions,’ he says, looking between the two of us. ‘There is something very familiar about you,’ he adds, staring fixedly at me. ‘Have we met before?’
‘I am the daughter of an English nobleman,’ I tell him, holding the penetrating gaze. ‘Had you ever business in that part of the world?’
He shakes his head, frowning, as though trying to dislodge some thought. ‘English,’ he mutters, ‘no, that was not it. Have I perhaps seen you at the hunt?’
‘I do not hunt, monsieur.’
‘Really? I have known women be the most bloodthirsty in bringing in the kill. And you have a determined look to you.’ His fingers dance on his lips. ‘Your name, mademoiselle?’
‘It has not come to you?’ I smile sweetly. ‘My name is Attica Morgan.’ I don’t curtsey.
There is a pause as he assesses me. Another servant arrives with a bottle of wine, and Salvatore nods the servant might pour, but doesn’t extend the courtesy to Centime or me.
‘I only drink bottled wine,’ he says. ‘I have sensibilities above the illiterate farmer who drinks from barrels.’
‘Convenient that your sensibilities do not prevent your taking their money.’
His mouth flashes up in a smile. ‘I recall where I have heard of you, mademoiselle.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘Lord Morgan’s bastard, is that right?’
He throws his head back and laughs, looking between Centime and me.
‘Now I understand why you had the audacity to introduce yourself. My little slave girl must be fascinating to you, hmmm?’ He turns to Centime, hooking his arm around her possessively. ‘Let me warn you: Mademoiselle Morgan is not what she seems.’ He pulls Centime closer, so she cranes back uncomfortably. ‘Your English lady is a half-breed, born to a black slave in Virginia. Continues to be quite the scandal, living unmarried in Paris.’
Assuring himself of Centime’s discomposure, he returns his attention to me.
‘From what I heard, you escaped the slave plantation where you were born. Very clever, by all accounts, and some describe you as beautiful, for all that ungainly height.’ He allows his eyes to roam my figure, suggesting he is not one of them. ‘Not yet married though you are a few years over twenty now. Let me see, what else?’ He fingers his chalice, then meets my eyes challengingly. ‘Ah yes. There are stories you visit the taverns on the Marais.’
‘They are the only places in Paris where a woman might enjoy herself without fear of the pox,’ I tell him.
Centime looks at me in surprise. The Marquis notices and laughs loudly.
‘You are interested, Centime? You have found one of your own in more ways than one.’ He regards me, sneering now. I keep my emotions in check as I have been raised to do.
‘I am afraid you English are gaining bad publicity on account of a certain criminal,’ he adds. ‘You have perhaps heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?’
I bring my wine glass to cover my mouth, just touching my lips.
‘Everyone has,’ I tell him, taking a sip. ‘The Pimpernel is famed.’
‘Infamous, you mean?’
I give him a coquettish smile. ‘You know how us ladies are, starved of adventure. This Pimpernel character seems the very epitome of a dashing hero, does he not? Stealing revolutionaries from under the noses of the authorities.’
‘You should be more careful who you put your faith in, mademoiselle,’ he says. ‘I have heard you can be outspoken on topics unseemly for a woman to hold an opinion on. If you wish to continue in France you must be more prudent with your words. It is only a matter of time before the King reasserts himself.’
‘Thank you for the advice. Though I fear I am a bad student,’ I tell him. ‘My uncle is of a similar mind to you. Women should be seen and not heard. I am rather hopeful times are changing.’
‘Oh, no, mademoiselle. Your hopes are ill-placed. It is a little upheaval, that is all. This happens every few hundred years in France. A bad harvest. A little blood-letting. But the commoners know their place at the end of it all.’
‘They have certainly made their feel
ings known in the Place de la Bastille.’
He studies me carefully, raising his golden cup to his mouth and sipping wine. ‘I confess if you were my daughter, I should have you whipped for your insubordination, and married you to whoever I saw fit. But the English do things differently, don’t they?’
I smile politely. ‘We keep a great many more of our people from starving to death.’
His face flashes anger, then manoeuvres back into his strange smile.
‘Centime’s company is not complimentary,’ he says, running a proprietary finger along her exposed arm. I notice her stiffen, but the painted smile never falters. Her fist is still closed around the scarlet pimpernel token. ‘She will put on a little show for us later,’ he says, looking at me now, with his hand sliding up to her shoulder. It rests on the place where I guess her branded skin is concealed. ‘Such a pity you are not invited.’
Centime swallows.
‘The men who I deal with expect the very best entertainments,’ says Salvatore philosophically. ‘The feeling has to be real.’ His hand closes around the back of Centime’s neck now. ‘That is why Centime is very special. When I left the Bastille she was the first thing I came to collect. She loves her art, isn’t that right?’
She turns her neck awkwardly in his grip.
‘A noble is always right,’ she says, her eyes glittering fiercely. I notice the hand holding the pimpernel token tighten.
Salvatore throws his head back and laughs. Then his face darkens. He raises two fingers to summon a servant, drains his wine and hands him his empty glass.
‘I do not know how you got in this room,’ he says to me, waving impatiently to dismiss the servant, ‘but it is by invitation only, and you were not invited. I must ask you to leave.’
‘An honest mistake,’ I say, smiling pleasantly. ‘Forgive me. I shall return to the party and leave you poor nobles to imagine you are still in power. God knows, you haven’t much longer to play pretend.’
Salvatore’s expression clouds. He raises a hand and instantly two armed men are either side of me. Instinctively my hand reaches for my knife and though I suppress the urge, Salvatore notices. As I turn to leave, he grabs my arm.
‘Parla Italiano, Mademoiselle Morgan?’
With great effort I act as a startled noblewoman might, glancing at his fingers in surprise.
‘A little,’ I tell him, knitting my eyebrows in pretended confusion. ‘Do you seek a translator?’
Salvatore looks me straight in the eye, fingers gripping me tight.
‘In Italy, the moonlight men tell stories,’ he tells me in thick Naples Italian, without breaking eye contact, ‘of a woman who trained with the Sicilian Assassins. The best any had ever seen with a blade.’
For just a moment, I am back fighting for my life against my fellow trainees; cold, exhausted, ready to die. It’s an effort not to shudder at the memory.
I move my mouth slowly as though trying to make out the words.
‘I fear your Italian is better than mine,’ I tell him, smiling politely. ‘I am missing some of your meaning. My Russian is more accomplished.’
He releases my hand, still searching my face. Then his features switch suddenly into a charming smile.
‘Forgive me.’ He bows. ‘My mother was Italian and I do love to speak the language. I had hoped for a worthy adversary.’ He gives a little laugh. I return his smile.
‘I am sure you shall find that wherever you go.’
His lips compress in rage and he returns his hand to grip Centime’s neck tightly.
‘Neither Centime nor I shall see you again here,’ he says tightly. ‘There would be consequences, if I did.’ Centime flinches and I get the impression his words are for her rather than me.
‘Come along now, Centime,’ he says, turning and steering her away, his hand still locked at the base of her skull. ‘We have business in the bedroom. Good evening to you, Mademoiselle Morgan.’
Centime regards me sadly as she is led away. She moves her closed fist up to my eyeline, then shakes her head sadly at me and lets her hand drop and open. As I watch, the Pimpernel token flutters to the ground, trodden amongst all the silken shoes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG TO LOCATE JEMMY IN THE TANGLE of overdressed people wandering the legitimate side of the arms fayre. He stands alone, examining the most ridiculous pistol I have ever seen. Extending from the butt is not one but four stubby barrels, splayed like four fingers of a hand.
‘Tell me you haven’t bought that thing?’ I sigh.
‘It’s a volley gun,’ he says proudly. ‘Shoots four rounds at once.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ I say wearily. ‘In England they’re called duck’s foot pistols on account of the ridiculous shape. The Sealed Knot has decided categorically against their usefulness. There’s no way to aim.’
‘With this kind of fire power, who minds?’ says Jemmy happily. ‘And I just got a set of ruby-handled guns for less than the street price.’ He twirls his purchases with pleasure and loads them next to his existing set of showy pistols.
‘You’ll run out of dandies to gun down,’ I say, eyeing his bulging waistband.
He notices my dispirited expression. ‘What’s put you in such a long mood?’
‘There is a room selling contraband to brigands,’ I say. ‘Easy enough to get inside using Salvatore’s bullet as my invitation. I was able to discover Salvatore will meet his new associate in the Sun King’s bedchamber. But then the Marquis arrived at just the wrong moment.’
Jemmy considers this. ‘A man like Salvatore wouldn’t lower himself to trading his best weaponry with commoners,’ he agrees. ‘He’ll have something planned for the big players.’
‘Nobles only, we assume,’ I say. ‘Highly secretive and unlikely to be accessed with nothing but a bullet. There are stories about the old King having a hidden room somewhere in the Louvre, away from his state bedchamber. A few more moments and I might have found out how to find it.’
‘Ah.’ He pauses to work it through. ‘The girl in the carriage couldn’t be turned? You win some, you lose some, eh? And,’ he takes out a coin and flips it, ‘as luck would have it, I just won some. These pistols you’re so disapproving of—’
‘I never said I disapproved.’
‘It’s written on every part of your face, Attica. In any case, they have bought me a little information.’ He taps his nose. ‘You high-ups might have your secret societies and passwords, but someone has to pour the wine. And the kindly fella who sold me these guns just told me something invaluable.’
‘Which is?’ The hope sounds in my voice.
Jemmy spins the gun and assesses the aim. ‘Only that a room on the ground floor has been readied for some party or other. What are the odds that that is where Salvatore will hold his little private view?’ He lowers the gun triumphantly.
I grin at him. ‘I take it back,’ I say, ‘those pistols suit you very well.’ I think some more. ‘A secret apartment on the ground floor,’ I say. ‘Kept for the Sun King’s mistress. There were rumours that no servants were allowed to enter.’
‘Not like you to pay attention to court gossip,’ observes Jemmy.
‘There was talk of tables engineered to supply food anonymously,’ I explain. ‘I always wondered how such a thing could be done.’
I’m aware of a sudden musky-smelling presence immediately at my shoulder.
‘Very true,’ says a loud voice at my ear. ‘Though it’s not fitting for a lady to know of.’ The volume and brash confidence of the speaker startle me, and I turn, half in surprise, half in annoyance.
The man is dressed as a French general, in a ludicrously tight navy coat, nipped in around the waist with several inches of gold embroidery and flaring to long tails down his close-fitting white breeches. He has a handsome face, with fine bone structure and an expression of indefatigable self-assurance.
‘The Marquis de Lafayette,’ he announces loudly, bowing low, ‘at your s
ervice.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Marquis de Lafayette.
I recognise the name instantly. As a girl, I decoded some of Lafayette’s letters and found the practice immeasurably dull in its simplicity.
I eye the Marquis distrustfully, having taken instant exception to the bold manner of his approach. I’m fully expecting him to try to corral me into a dance, and am ready with a refusal. Instead, he turns to Jemmy.
‘Well, well, well. Do my eyes deceive me?’ he continues in the same commanding voice. ‘Little Jemmy Avery.’ He slaps Jemmy on the back. To my great shock, they embrace fondly, staring into one another’s faces in the manner of those who have not met in many years.
‘You’re all grown up,’ says Lafayette, delighted.
‘Thanks to you,’ says Jemmy bashfully.
‘You would have swum to shore without my help, I only hastened the conclusion.’ Lafayette shakes his head. ‘Those were the days. Now the King has named me Commander of the Royal Guard.’
‘The Queen never did like you,’ says Jemmy sympathetically. ‘You should have dressed smarter for court.’ He winks.
‘It wasn’t just the fashions,’ says Lafayette. ‘She always hated me. Never trusted I was popular with the common people. And then, of course, I wrote the Rights of Man and I dared suggest all men are equal. Can you imagine her wrath?’ He gives a wry smile. ‘Well, she’s had her revenge now. Commander of the Royal Guard!’ He shakes his head with a derisory expression. ‘They might as well have pinned a target to my back for peasants to spit at.’
Jemmy laughs then turns to me, the smile still glowing on his face. ‘This is Attica Morgan. You’ve heard of her, surely?’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ I interrupt, making the briefest of curtseys. ‘Your military campaigns are the stuff of legend,’ I continue. ‘For the wrong side, of course. You tried to invade England with the Spanish. Hard luck.’
Jemmy winces, but the Marquis doesn’t rise to the jibe.
‘I’ve grown more measured since my youthful impetuosity,’ he replies good-naturedly. ‘Surely an Englishwoman doesn’t hold a grudge? And if I’m right in thinking your father is Lord Morgan, he would have been on the side of the French in that affair.’