by Regina Darcy
The police interrogator led him to the side of the prison, where an empty, rickety cart waited. A raggedy grey mare was tied up nearby. The Earl forced the interrogator to hitch up the cart and sit in the driver’s seat.
“Answer me — has the Marquise De Sange been arrested yet?” The interrogator retained his sullen silence. “Tell me, or I swear to God I will run you through.”
“Curse you!” the man snapped. “She is still free. But not for long. You will be too late if you go try to save her. You are far better off saving your own skin, at this point.”
The Earl hopped into the cart, pointing his sharp blade at the man’s back. “Shut up and drive.”
Joseph Fouche furiously whipped the horse, prompting her to neigh and begin thundering down the road. Once they were far away from the prison, the Earl kicked the swearing, furious police minister out of the carriage and began driving himself. He pushed the horse as fast as it could go.
He had to reach Annabelle before it was too late.
NINE
Wrapped in her navy, fur-lined cloak, Annabelle skirted the piles of slush in the street on the way to the Baroness’s house. It was quite early in the morning, but the noblewoman tended to like to rise early to breakfast, and Annabelle occasionally roused herself from her slumber to acquiesce to her friend’s whims.
Typically, she took a coach while visiting friends. However, the Dumonts lived so close by that she felt foolish hitching up the carriage to travel such a short distance.
She was eager to tell the Baroness Dumont of all that had transpired recently with the Earl of Markingston. She knew that her close friend was rather sceptical of the dashing Earl — largely because she was always trying to set Annabelle up with nice French men. Nonetheless, the Baroness would be delighted to hear about any hint of romance in Annabelle’s frequently rather boring life. She would be a great repository of advice on how to make the relationship work thus forward.
Despite the pale colours in the early morning sky, the air felt heavy. Annabelle thought that the day had a peculiar sort of scent — it smelled as if it might snow.
Suddenly, the rather quiet street was filled with clatter. Annabelle was surprised to see several individuals running toward her. The Baroness’s maids, she realised, all hitching up their skirts to allow them to run faster.
“Marquise! Marquise!” they all cried, swarming around her.
“What on earth has happened?” Annabelle asked, concerned that some terrible tragedy had befallen her close friend.
“You are in danger,” the smallest maid told her, fear brimming in her eyes. “The Baroness has heard word from her friends in the government that agents are being dispatched to find you as we speak.”
“Government? Agents? Surely this is some sort of mistake,” the Marquise said, shocked. “Or perhaps someone’s idea of a silly jest? What could the French government possibly want with me?”
“Oh, my lady, have you not heard?”
“Heard what?”
“A conspiracy was uncovered yesterday. A plot to kill Napoleon himself! François Topino-Lebrun and many of the artists in your salon have been taken into custody.”
Annabelle’s blood froze in her veins.
“François! No… I cannot believe that. He is a Jacobin to be sure, but a plotter?”
The maid shook her head and continued. “Somehow, a provocateur got to him and filled his head with many ideas about revolution and whatnot. My lady, you are in the gravest of danger. Your affiliation and ownership of this salon has made the authorities suspicious. The Baroness told us to come warn you to flee now. Race back to England as fast as you can. If you are arrested, you will be tried.” The maids began to cry, quietly. “And then you will be guillotined. Also, you must not go to the Baroness’s house. She is in no danger of being accused, but her house is being watched due to her friendship with you.”
Long ago, Annabelle might have begun to weep or swoon at this horrific turn of events. Today, she just felt numb.
“Thank you, my dears. Thank you for coming to warn me.”
They said they would pray for her, then tearfully departed.
Annabelle began to walk. She could not go back home, the authorities would likely be there at any moment. Her heart ached for Lord Markingston — he had never returned last night. Was it at all possible that he had been seized? Could her connection with him have put him in danger? She swore she’d never forgive herself if she had gotten him harmed or killed.
Her thoughts swirling, she decided to make a break for the coast. Perhaps she could commission a coachman to take her to a port city, where she could clandestinely book a voyage across the Channel. It was her only hope, it seemed.
So Annabelle hurried along, pulling her hood close to obscure her face, her breath puffing in the air before her. She had been moving for quite some time when she happened to walk past a pair of guards.
She could feel their eyes on her as she ducked around them. They had probably been instructed to look out for her.
The guards called for her to halt in French. “Madame! Stop where you are!”
This was the end, then. She did not want to go down without one final break for freedom. She began to run, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. Fear honed her senses and spurred her to run faster and faster. As she turned the corner around the winding road, she slipped on ice. Annabelle’s blue eyes clouded with tears as she felt her ankle snap.
She lay there, in the puddle of ice, dazed and waiting for the guards to seize her. She closed her eyes and struggled to hold back her tears. Annabelle did not want them to see her cry.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of horse’s hooves and wheels. A cart thundered up to her and a tall man jumped out. She looked up — it was Markingston!
“Annabelle,” he said, scooping her up and placing her in the back of the cart. “I am so sorry about all of this.”
Then, he leapt up to the driver’s seat and urged the lean, grey mare to race off. Shocked by this development, the guards managed to fire a few shots at them with their pistols, but they missed. Annabelle and the Earl clattered through Paris, nearly knocking over many stands of goods and passer-by.
The Earl drove the horse hard until they reached the city limits. Then he slowed the carriage and turned to Annabelle once more.
“This is entirely my fault, my lady.”
“I am afraid I do not understand at all. What has happened, my lord?” she asked, for the first time noticing the manacle still hanging off his left wrist. “What on earth is going on?” She clambered up to the front of the carriage, careful not to put pressure on her broken ankle as she crawled. “Please tell me.”
“Oh, my dear,” he sighed, his green eyes filled with pain.
“My behaviour has been horrendous to you. I have deceived you. You see, I came — was sent, rather — to Paris for a very particular, specific reason. I am working for the English government. I was to be their representative and connect with a group of plotters.”
“You mean François?” she asked.
“Yes, I am afraid.”
“Is there any hope for him and the others?”
The Earl looked at her gentle face, and shook his head miserably. “I am afraid not. They will most likely be executed for their part in the plot. Annabelle, I am so, so sorry.”
Annabelle dabbed her teary eyes with her sleeve. “He was a good friend. I wish… I wish it did not have to end like this. He was a passionate man — given to whims and whatnot — but I do believe that he had the best interests of his country in mind.”
“I think so too,” the Earl admitted, staring at the road ahead.
“So you are a spy?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “And a worthless one, at that. I should have told you everything in the beginning. I was just a coward.”
“Bartholomew, you just stormed back into Paris to save me. I would hardly call that cowardly.”
“But I have been so afraid this whole tim
e.” The Earl grimaced. “I was so scared that if you discovered the truth, you would think less of me. I had once shunned you for so much less.”
“That was different,” she said, quietly. “That would have been a betrayal of the heart.”
“No,” he said. “I was wrong. I thought I could handle the situation on my own and failed. The whole thing had been set up by the French government, to entrap dissenters like our poor friend François. I believe that Napoleon will use it as an excuse to purge the country of anyone who poses a threat to him. I let those men down. Worst of all, I put you in danger.”
“My friend François did that,” Annabelle said. “I do not think he meant to. I forgive him. I tell you, stop blaming yourself for this. You tried your best to fix matters.”
“I just succeeded in making a larger mess,” he said, bitterly.
Suddenly, the cart lurched. Annabelle and the Earl tumbled into one another and the mare reared.
Looking back, Annabelle saw that a wheel had fallen off the back of the carriage. It spun wildly in the road before spiralling to a stop. Try as he might, the Earl of Markingston could not fix it. He tried to test the mare, to see if she would allow him to ride her, but she was exhausted and bucked wildly. In the end, he let her go in the field of a nearby farmer.
“We are so close,” the Earl said, resolutely watching the animal trot away into the distance. “We cannot stop now.”
“But I cannot walk, my lord,” Annabelle said, the feeling of numbness returning. “You must leave me. I will not have you sacrifice your life remaining here with me.”
“I cannot leave you.”
“You must.”
“But, I love you.”
She stared into his green eyes. The look of determination and warmth made her want to cry.
“That does not matter,” she said, turning away. “You must go. Please. If you love me, go. Save yourself.”
“No.” He handed her his cane, scooped her up and began to walk. With his bad leg, it was a staggering, halting journey. At points, they had to stop to rest. At other points, they simply held onto one another and limped along.
As they slowly wandered toward the rendezvous point, Annabelle worried that she could hear shouting and the pounding of hooves in the distance.
“I feel the same, you know,” she said, after some time. They had been walking in silence.
“Pardon me, my lady?”
“Bartholomew, I love you too.”
He smiled at her. “At least some good has come out of this mess.”
TEN
Finally, the Earl and Annabelle staggered onto the rocky beach. They could see two shadowy figures pacing about with a boat in between them. It was Stuart and Williams, faithfully waiting.
“Finally!” the latter barked, as they raced over. The Earl gently placed the Marquise in the boat, and soon they were shoving off, into the freezing water.
With Stuart, Williams, and Markingston taking turns at the oars, they estimated that the journey across the Channel would take about a day. It was a cold, windy journey, with the currents in the channel tossing the small boat this way and that.
Even as the coast of France receded in view, Annabelle worried that she would look back and see a French sloop chasing them down. But none appeared — perhaps they did not think the fugitives so mad as to make a desperate escape attempt in a rickety rowboat? At several points, she feared that the boat would simply capsize or spring a leak and sink straight down into the dark water. She huddled against the Earl, who wrapped her in his strong embrace and whispered assurances in her ear.
“Once we get back to England, will you marry me?” he asked, quietly, so only she could hear.
“Yes,” Annabelle said, smoothing a lock of frozen auburn hair that had curled across his pale forehead. “A thousand times, yes.”
He took her icy hands and kissed the warmth back into them. “You make me very happy.”
Stuart sighed, rolling his eyes. “Ooh, how lovely! When’s the wedding? Can I be the maid of honour?” Annabelle and the Earl laughed aloud at his sarcasm. “Please, though, no disrespect, but can we all save the romance for when we get to shore?” He roughly handed the Earl the oars. “It’s your turn to row.”
The Earl took the paddles and began to power the craft forward. Despite the ache in his arms from carrying Annabelle for so long, he moved with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. She had said yes. He would do anything in his power to steer them through the treacherous water.
Thanks to the Earl’s burst in strength, the tiny boat began to drift closer and closer to the English shores, despite the swirling currents and white-crested waves.
“We’re so close,” Williams whispered, saying a silent prayer. Even Stuart grew quiet as they entered the shallows. This was the most dangerous part of the trip. They had been swept into a place studded with razor-sharp rocks and hidden sandbars. It would be so easy for the boat to run aground and become stuck — or worse, for the hidden, sharp stones to simply rip out the bottom of the boat and cast them all into the icy, dark water.
The Earl maintained his focus by keeping his eyes on the horizon, only occasionally breaking his gaze to stare at Annabelle. He felt like she was giving him strength to keep going, despite his exhaustion.
Finally, the tiny boat reached the shore. Everyone on board took a deep breath.
“Praise God,” Stuart groaned, leaping out of the boat.
“Never in all my years did I think we would make that.”
“I knew we would,” Annabelle said quietly, embracing the Earl.
Stuart and Williams disembarked the small craft to stretch their weary limbs. There was a shore-side inn only a few feet away from the beach. Already, worried patrons and employees were spilling through its cheery red doors to check on and help the apparent castaways. As the two other English agents went to meet with them and give some sort of cover story, the Earl and Annabelle remained in the boat, practically frozen together. He had her snugly wrapped in his aching arms.
“We rowed all night! I had lost track of the time, I suppose. It is Christmas Day now,” Annabelle realised. Smiling she looked up at the man who had always owned her heart.
“Merry Christmas, Bartholomew.”
“Merry Christmas, Annabelle.” He held her tighter. She felt so warm and soft against his sea-soaked, sore body. “Can you ever forgive me for endangering you like that?”
“Bartholomew, you saved me.” She let her gaze settle on him, her blue eyes brimming. “You saved me from more than death. You saved me from loneliness. You saved me from despair. You saved me from a life without love.” She stroked his cheek. “I love you, Bartholomew. I love you more than anything. I have for years, but I was too blind to see it.”
“My dearest heart.” He chuckled. “I only hope that the Duke of Sherringham will forgive us for embroiling him in our mess.”
Annabelle smiled. “I am sure he will be the first one to RSVP to the wedding, darling.”
“I love you too, Annabelle.”
They shared a tender kiss as snow started to fall from the night sky.
The End
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
THE DUKE’S SECRET DESIRE
ONE
The heat in the room was stifling. The windows were closed to prevent the air, and whatever contagions were borne upon it, into the sickroom. But the patient enclosed within the bed sheets seemed entirely unaware of the temperature; he was buried in a mount of blankets and still he shivered.
“Bart!” he called out in a weak voice.
“I’m here, old chap.”
Lord Bartholomew Granger, the Duke of Middleton, Baron Danver’s commanding officer and lifelong friend, came closer to his bed.
“This is on fine pickle you’ve landed yourself in,” he told his friend with a forced smile. “You are not going to let such a small thing as an infection stop you from returning to England are you?”
“We both know, I won’t survive
this darn fever,” Jason Danver responded. He started coughing violently. The Duke reached for the cup of water next to the bed and helped his friend take a sip.
“Not if you don’t take better care of yourself.”
“Old chap, I need you to take care of Arya,” Danver said faintly.
“You’re the only one whom I can trust to put her safety first.”
When Middleton said nothing, the Baron repeated his request.
“I will no longer be here to offer her my protection. A protection she sorely needs.” Once again Baron Danver was racked with a persistent cough.
He took a couple of deep breaths and continued his plea, “She’s an innocent in this nest of vipers. Her family . . . they see her as a pawn and they’ve used her as such. Her mother, while she was alive, never had any influence on the decisions that the Maharajah Sangvitani Singh made, and as for that brother of hers, he’s as duplicitous as the devil himself.”
His eyes, feverish but intent locked with Bartholomew’s. He gripped the Duke’s arm and held on firmly as he whispered, “Promise me that you’ll look after Arya when I’m gone. I ask you this on the memory and strength of our friendship.”
The Duke’s heart constricted, his mind still refusing to accept the inevitable. Nevertheless, as his friend continued to stare at him, he finally gave him the answer he was after.
“Yes. Yes, of course I will, but you mustn’t give up.”
“No need to pretend. I’m dying and everyone knows it… Arya knows it too.”
“Where is she?”
“She can’t be allowed in the sickroom. You see . . . ” a frail smile touched the wan lips of the wasting Baron. “We’re . . . she’s going to have our child. It’s very early yet, but nothing must be done to put the unborn baby in harm’s way. He’ll be the heir to my estate; he must be kept safe. I have nowhere else to turn; no one else but you understands the delicacy of our role in India.” He began to cough in earnest now, his body racked by the spasms.
Bartholomew bent down to support his friend, bracing his back so that he could sustain the cough without collapsing. “Arya . . . I have tried to be a good husband, and she has tried to be a good wife, but the odds have been against us. She’s half English and half-Indian; both sides regarded her with suspicion. She’s the dearest girl, but when I’m gone she’ll be alone. I need you to give me your word Bart.”