Taken by the Rake (The Scarlet Chronicles, #3)

by Shana Galen

  She rose. “I will help you.”

  He’d turned back to the fire, but now he faced her again. “You will make the papers?”

  How could she trust this man? How could she put her life in his hands? She swallowed the fear—nay, the terror—rising in her throat. “I will do more than that. I will help you rescue them.”

  He stared at her, his green eyes as cunning as a cat’s. “You realize it is suicide?”

  Oh, she realized that. She could easily imagine her neck under the blade of the guillotine. Alex had told her of a woman, a member of the Pimpernel’s League, who had escaped the blade after being betrayed by her lover. She’d cautioned Honoria that if she ever found herself in that position, she would not be so fortunate. The sewers they had used to escape were now guarded or closed off.

  Honoria drew in a breath. “Some causes are worth dying for. If the life of an innocent child is not a worthy cause, then what is?” Her voice shook. “I will help you.”

  He reached out and closed his warm hand over hers, an action that settled her more than she had supposed it would. “I have not said this enough in my life—thank you.”

  LAURENT COULD NOT SLEEP. He had grown used to the sounds of La Force and sharing a room with a dozen other men. The bedchamber on the Boulevard du Temple was too quiet, too still. The bed felt too soft and smelled too sweet, as he had made it with clean linens stored with floral sachets.

  Oh, very well. The Englishwoman had made it. He’d supervised her, though.

  Or perhaps the scent teasing his nose was not the linens but the lavender scent of the woman sleeping beside him. Not beside him exactly. The bed was large enough to sleep six, and she had curled up on the edge farthest from him. She probably would have liked to sleep with her back to him, but the fetter on her wrist prevented her from lying on that side. And so her face was turned toward his, and he could see her quite clearly in the dying firelight.

  He had not expected her to agree to help him nor had he expected his heart to ache with gratitude when she had. He had shouldered this burden for so long on his own that the relief he felt when she had taken some of it from him was tangible.

  And yet he was torn. He had not exaggerated when he’d said this mission was suicide. The dauphin and princess meant more to him than his own life, but what gave him the right to risk this Englishwoman’s life as well?

  Laurent had never really believed all the nonsense about divine right. He could fawn as well as any other courtier, but he saw the claims of divinity for what they were—tactics to keep the populace in line and to preserve the monarchy. They had worked for nine hundred years. But now everyone had read Rousseau and suddenly reform was in the air.

  And who could blame the sansculottes? If he’d been born a peasant, he’d want to live on the Rue Saint-Honoré and hold sumptuous balls and lavish dinner parties as well.

  Laurent had never considered himself divinely chosen for his position in the world, but he’d sure as hell taken full advantage of it. He did not regret his past either. He’d enjoyed his life. Perhaps he might have acted more moderately in some of his pursuits, but that was a discussion for another day.

  The Englishwoman, that was who concerned him now. Had she lived her life fully? Would she have regrets if she were to die today?

  And why the devil did he even care? She was nothing to him.

  His gaze traced the lines of her face, the slope of her cheek, and the shadow of her lashes. Her full lips were relaxed in sleep, making her look younger than she was—although as to that he had no idea how old she was. Perhaps five and twenty. Her life had barely begun.

  She was beautiful, he thought again as he watched her sleep. It would be a shame if such a beauty should die. But then beautiful women were dying every day at the Place de la Révolution. No one mourned the loss of their loveliness.

  “I can hardly sleep if you insist on staring at me,” she murmured.

  He almost laughed. “I am not staring. I am admiring.”

  “I’d rather you admire my skills as a forger than my face, which is merely an accident of my birth.”

  He recognized the crux of his argument about the dauphin and princess from the night before. “I was not only admiring your face,” he added. “I admire your body as well.”

  Her eyes opened and shot him a glare.

  “I have never met a woman who detested a compliment. Why do you dislike your beauty? I know many women who have spent fortunes to look half as beautiful as you appear without even trying.”

  “I pity them.” She tried to turn over, remembered the cuff on her hand and the attached chain and swore under her breath. Instead she settled for lying on her back and pretending to go back to sleep.

  “I pity them too, but you did not answer my question.”

  “I don’t have to answer your question. Just because I have agreed to follow you on the path to death does not mean we need to become confidantes.”

  “What about lovers?” He had intended it as a quip, but as soon as the words had passed his lips, he realized he’d meant them. He wanted this woman. For what little time he had left of this life, he wanted to possess her beauty, her spirit, and her sense of mystery.

  “I am not one of your courtesans,” she said without opening her eyes.

  “I am not implying that you are. However, if we are both to die soon, perhaps we might spend our last days indulging in pleasure.”

  Now her eyes snapped open. “Perhaps we might better spend our last days planning how we can ensure these are not our last days. I want to return to the safe house.”

  “What?” Laurent sat up, the sheet falling down about his waist. She lay on top of the bedclothes and had gone to sleep fully clothed. She had not even been willing to remove her boots. While he had stripped down to the loose trousers he had borrowed from the safe house and nothing else. Now her gaze strayed to his bare chest before she snapped it to the ceiling again.

  “Just a few hours ago you agreed to help me rescue Madame Royale and the dauphin. Now you are talking escape again.”

  “No, I am not talking about escape. I am thinking of how we can best succeed in this mission. You and I trying to save the children at the Temple is doomed to failure, but if we ask the League to help us—”

  He sliced a hand through the air. “You were there when I proposed rescuing the children. The League refused.”

  Now she sat up. “They did not refuse. They merely did not think it a prudent action at the moment.”

  “To hell with prudence. I will not let Marie-Thérèse languish in the godforsaken Temple another day.”

  “And perhaps if I explain your determination—which I might add you aptly demonstrated when you kidnapped me—they might be willing to take action regardless. After all, if you and I act alone and fail, it will only make their mission to rescue the dauphin all the more difficult.”

  “And if they refuse?”

  “Then you and I proceed as planned.”

  “How can I trust they won’t abduct me and send me to England?”

  “I won’t allow it.” She sounded quite confident in her abilities.

  “I have seen the men of the League. If Dewhurst thinks to send me back to England, you will have little to say about it.”

  She raised her shoulders and let them drop. “That is a chance we will have to take. There will be a hundred more before we enter the Temple. At least this one may gain us support.”

  “Or doom us.”

  “In any case, I must go back if I’m to make the documents and papers you want. All of my materials are on the Rue du Jour. It takes special paper and seals to create a realistic forgery. I cannot simply sit down at your desk and cast magic spells.”

  Laurent blew out a breath. He had thought of this, but he’d supposed they would purchase what they needed. Only he could hardly go out and about to shop for ink, paper, and the other supplies. He had been the very good friend of the king’s younger brother. Laurent’s face was familiar to man
y in Paris, and if he was seen he might be recognized.

  “We were lucky with the Guard yesterday,” he said, thinking aloud. “How are we to make it across Paris again without garnering attention?”

  She looked down at her skirts, tracing a pattern on them. “Do you have any money?”

  She didn’t know of his plan to gather funds from whatever he had tucked away here. “I am certain I can find some coin stashed away in drawers or cabinets. I have valuables to sell if we need more.”

  “Then we shall hire a carriage to take us to the Rue du Jour. We’ll make our own tricolor cockades and dress ourselves as patriots. No one will recognize us, and if we’re questioned, we’ll say we are stopping to visit a sick friend before going to see the executions at the Place de la Révolution.”

  It was not a bad plan. He could admit that much. But it would mean going back to the safe house and reasoning with the League. He wanted to go to the princess and rescue her now. Today.

  Laurent tamped down his impatience and reminded himself it would do the children no good if he was captured before he’d saved them. He would have to wait another day or so.

  “Where are you to find patriotic clothing?” he asked. “I might have something I could wear, but I don’t have a wardrobe of women’s clothes.”

  “I suppose I shall have to dress as a man then.” She waved a hand. “I am used to disguises.”

  Laurent did not mention that she would make far too pretty a boy. He was ashamed to say he rather wanted to see her dressed in male garb.

  Outside the sun had risen and the gray light of morning faded. “We had better begin if we want to use the executions as our story. They start between ten and noon,” she said.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I must disguise myself as a patriot so I am not killed when I leave my own house,” he muttered. “If this is liberty, I miss the days of tyranny.”

  Eight

  Honoria had just finished tying her cravat—or at least attempting as much—when the marquis tapped on the bedchamber door. She’d sent him away while she dressed, and a quick look at the clock on the mantel told her it had taken her longer than she’d anticipated. The loose fetter hanging from her wrist inhibited her movements, and she’d had to work at fitting it through the sleeves of the coat.

  “Mademoiselle, may I come in?” he asked from the other side of the door.

  So polite, even when he suggested they become lovers. It had sounded more like a business negotiation than a request born of passion.

  But there was passion in him too. She’d seen the way he’d looked at her, and it was a look she knew well. It would have made her uncomfortable if there hadn’t been something else behind it—something akin to reverence or at least courtesy. This was no man who would take her against her wishes or seduce her with lies and false words. She respected the marquis for that much at least. She could not have tolerated him if he’d been like so many of the other men she’d known.

  “Yes, I am ready,” she called. When he entered, she turned for his inspection. “I am sorry it took me so long. I had trouble pinning the trousers so I would not trip over them. I left them as long as I could to hide my boots.”

  His gaze dipped as he performed a leisurely perusal of her clothing. By the time he was finished, her cheeks felt hot.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  She blew out a breath of air. “I will not.”

  “Did you look at yourself from the back in the mirror?” He gestured to the cheval mirror in the corner.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Well then.” He made a spinning motion with one finger. The gesture annoyed her, but she complied.

  She paused with her back to him for exactly two heartbeats, enough time to hear him make a small sound of apparent distress. “What is it?” she asked when she’d spun back around.

  “That coat is not quite wide enough to cover your...”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Curves,” he said with a smile.

  “You haven’t a less tailored one. It took me at least a quarter hour to bind—”

  Her face was so warm she imagined it bright red. She’d almost discussed binding her breasts with him.

  Of course, he’d been able to deduce her next few words, and his gaze went straight to her chest. “You succeeded there. We shall just have to hope no one looks too closely at your bottom or your face.” He crossed to her and reached for her, but she swatted his hand away.

  “What are you doing?”

  He held his hands up as though in surrender. “Your hair is far too thick and lovely to be worn in a queue down your back. I only intended to tuck the end inside the coat.”

  Now she felt like a fool. She reached up to tuck it herself, but the tight fit of the coat and her bindings made the task all but impossible.

  “Allow me?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She gave him her back and hoped he was not looking at her bottom. She’d expected him to grasp the tail of hair and shove it into the coat, but instead he lifted it so gently she shivered. His hand slid down the length of it, then turned as he wrapped it around and around. Finally, he reached her nape, and his knuckles brushed the bare back of her neck. Honoria could not stop her eyes from closing. She could well imagine him tugging her head back and taking her mouth with his.

  But such thoughts would not serve either of them. She had no intention of allowing this man to bed her. She didn’t even know him, and what she did know of him consisted of arrogance mixed with insanity with a dash of recklessness. If they were lucky, they would free the prince and princess and then go their separate ways. If they were unlucky...Well, that eventuality did not merit more thought at the moment.

  The marquis’s hand pulled the collar of the coat away from her neck, and she felt her hair drop into the opening. “There,” he said. He held out a tricolor cockade that matched the one he wore on his coat. Honoria took it, noting he’d managed to pull his hair into a short queue that would probably be hidden under the wide-brimmed hat he’d carried into the room. She would wear the Phrygian cap so popular among the revolutionaries, and she took the large cockade and pinned it to the cap rather than her coat, where she did not want to attract additional attention.

  “What about blunt?” she asked, turning to look in the mirror as she placed the red cap on her head.

  “I found a little.” He pulled it from his pocket and dropped it on a table. “I think I must have a pouch in this wardrobe somewhere.”

  “And what about the key to these fetters? I can hardly go about with a chain dangling down.”

  “The cuffs on the shirt will hide it,” he said. She gave him a dark look.

  “Or I could look for the key.” He opened the wardrobe and began to shuffle its contents. In the meantime, Honoria peered at the money on the table.

  What the marquis described as a little turned out to be several hundred assignats. Honoria had never been poor, but she had never had money to spare either. It amazed her that anyone could find so much money lying about, seemingly forgotten. She had never felt any antipathy for the nobles in England or France, but if she had been born just a few rungs lower, her feelings might have been somewhat less neutral. Parisians were starving, and this noble had enough “forgotten” coin lying about to feed a family for a week.

  “Aha!”

  She turned, eager to be rid of the weight on her wrist, but the marquis held up a small purse. In one quick motion, he swept the assignats into it and tucked it in his coat.

  “And the key?” she asked with another glance at the clock. It was half past nine now.

  “It must be here. I looked through the rest of the house.” He went back to his search, and she wandered the perimeter of the room. She dared not open the curtains, but she parted one very slightly and looked out on the Boulevard du Temple. People were lined up outside the Salon de Cire, ostensibly to see whatever new tableau the wax artists had created. The day was sunny, so at least she need not worry abo
ut being caught in a cold rain.

  She dropped the edge of the curtain back into place and stared at the marquis. He still searched the wardrobe, bent so he might look into one of the lower shelves. Was it wrong to admire the way his buttocks looked in the trousers? She should look away now—not that he seemed to have any compunction about staring at her body.

  She looked away anyway. If he caught her watching him, it would invite trouble.

  “Wait a moment.” His voice was muffled from within the wardrobe.

  “You found it?” She moved forward, eagerness mixed with hope.

  He straightened and held up a small key. “I think this is it. Let us try.”

  She held out her hand, and he took it, holding her wrist lightly in one hand and brandishing the key in the other.

  “You needn’t touch me,” she said, when he’d inserted the key. “I can hold my hand steady.”

  He turned the key. “I rather like touching you.”

  She could not see his face, as his head was bent in work, but she thought she heard a smile in his voice. Then the cuff opened and clattered to the floor. Honoria snatched her hand away and rubbed it as though it had been burned.

  “All set then?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And if your friends refuse to help us?”

  “They won’t,” she said, starting for the bedchamber door. She would be glad to be out in the open with him again. The bedchamber felt infinitely more dangerous when they were alone together.

  “And if they do?” His voice was right behind her.

  “Then you and I will go alone,” she promised. But even as she said it, she felt a tremor of unease.

  IT WAS NOT DIFFICULT to hire a carriage, and she allowed the marquis to tell the driver the story they’d agreed upon. They would visit a sick friend in the Rue du Jour and then journey to the Place de la Révolution to see the executions. The driver grunted and nodded in agreement, and Honoria kept her head down when they climbed inside.