Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10)

by Monique Martin

  Simon stood there cursing him, cursing the whole damned business. His chest heaved from the effort. He looked up and saw the hole in the roof where Phillips had landed. The shopkeeper yelled at anyone who would listen.

  Simon grabbed him by the arm. “Where did he go?”

  “What about my roof?”

  Simon tightened his grip and shook him. “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” the man snapped, and Simon shoved him away. He walked to the edge of the sidewalk, looked up and down the busy street, but Phillips was gone.

  “Dammit.” He’d been so close. So close to putting an end to this.

  He scanned the street once more and then started back.

  He got to the corner of Fleet Street near where he’d left Elizabeth, but the wagon that nearly killed her and the gaping crowd were gone.

  And so was Elizabeth.

  Every drop of blood in his body ran cold.

  No.

  He ran to the spot where he’d left her, his heart beating so loudly he could barely hear himself think. She was gone. How could she be gone? Not again. Not again.

  “Elizabeth!”

  He heard a whistle down the street and turned to see who it was through the crowd. William stood near the carriage and waved him over.

  Simon ran to him. “Where is she?”

  William nodded toward the inside the carriage. Sitting there was Elizabeth—alive and safe.

  Simon stared at her for a moment as the world started again. It took him a moment to gather himself, to get his heart to beat again.

  “She’s all right, sir,” William said. “A little bruised is all.”

  Simon climbed into the carriage. He knelt in front of her. She looked at him with worry.

  “I thought you were—” he said and couldn’t finish.

  “I’m all right. Phillips?”

  Simon shook his head and took hold of her hands. He squeezed his eyes shut as he held on for dear life.

  “It’s all right,” she reassured him.

  He managed a nod.

  But it wasn’t all right. And as long as that man and the rest of them were alive, he wasn’t sure anything ever would be again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  DECEMBER 5, 1777 - PASSY, France

  Peter Travers adjusted his coat, hoping he’d made the right choice with the blue. Did Franklin like blue?

  “Stop fidgeting,” Victor growled as they stood on the doorstep of Franklin’s chateau.

  Victor reached to ring the bell again, but the butler opened the door.

  “We are here to see Dr. Franklin.”

  The man bowed and let them inside. Instead of leading them to the parlor, though, he led them upstairs to Franklin’s rooms. Peter looked at Victor, but he appeared, as usual, unconcerned.

  Why was Franklin taking visitors there?

  “Is the doctor unwell?”

  The butler didn’t answer; he merely opened the door to Franklin’s suite and let them inside.

  “Messieurs Renaud et Travers!” he called out to the empty sitting room before leaving them alone in it.

  They stood there awkwardly for a moment. The room was sumptuously decorated as Travers would expect for someone of Franklin’s station here. It wasn’t Versailles, but it was trying. There was a secretary desk with exquisite marquetry—detailed wood mosaic patterns. All of the furniture was magnificent. A silk brocade settee and two bergère chairs sat on one side of the room and a table trimmed with great swaths of gold leaf on the other.

  “Hello?”

  Bancroft appeared at the mouth of the hallway. “This way, gentlemen.”

  Victor and Peter followed him, but not into the bedroom.

  Franklin sat naked in the clawfoot tub, a portable writing desk covered with papers across the top. Bancroft cross the room to reach for some of the papers before they disappeared into the tub.

  Silas Deane, another member of the American envoy to France, stared out of the window. “You know Lee despises me.”

  Franklin responded, but kept writing as he did. “He is forever tormenting himself with some suspicion or jealousy. Do not fall prey to the same.”

  “Yes, but his brothers are in Congress,” Deane said. “I fear they will recall me if I—”

  Deane turned and saw that they were no longer alone.

  Victor frowned. “We can come back at a better time.”

  Franklin smiled, completely unbothered at greeting veritable strangers from his tub. “There is no better time than the present.”

  He glanced over at Deane. “Do not worry yourself so much, my dear Silas. If I am not mistaken, our victory is close at hand and will likely outpace any ship that might come for you.”

  Deane, clearly embarrassed at having said so much in front of strangers, thanked Franklin and excused himself.

  Bancroft, the soul of equanimity, which Peter realized was a suitable trait for a spy, gave no indication of having heard anything at all. He took the letter Franklin had just signed and put a fresh piece of paper in its place.

  “The two gentlemen from last night,” he said quietly.

  “I would invite you to sit, but alas ….” He waved around the room.

  He returned to writing as he spoke. “I wanted to thank you for helping Master Austin with his difficulties yesterday. I understand that you were quite helpful.”

  “We did what we could.”

  Franklin glanced up. “As do we all.”

  He signed the letter he was writing and held it out to Bancroft. “Send that posthaste. I think it will be well received.”

  Bancroft bowed and took his leave.

  Peter waited for him to be out of earshot before he spoke. Although they had no reason to think Bancroft was working with the Council, it was possible. Either way, he was not to be trusted.

  Peter cleared his throat, suddenly nervous at standing in front of one of his heroes, naked or not.

  He and Victor had discussed how to proceed last night and agreed that forewarned was forearmed. While Quincy couldn’t simply assassinate Franklin—the repercussions of which could be devastating to the British cause and might even bring more world powers to bear against them—she could assassinate his character.

  “Sir, we believe there is a plot against you.”

  Franklin arched and eyebrow. “Just the one?”

  Renaud chuckled. “It is one we are concerned with in particular.”

  Franklin waved toward his writing desk, and Peter stepped forward to remove it. Renaud averted his eyes as he helped Franklin stand.

  Franklin stepped out of the tub and put on his robe. “As you can imagine, gentlemen, I have quite a few enemies here and even some allies that I would perhaps be better off without. But I—”

  His face twisted in pain as he took a step.

  Victor helped steady him. “What is it?”

  “Gout,” Peter answered.

  Franklin nodded and winced in pain. He sat down on a small stool. His ankle was red and swollen from a fresh attack of gout.

  “Fetch my medicine, would you? Bedside table.”

  Peter hurried into the other room and found a tray with a glass and two bottles—one large and one small. He brought it all back to Franklin.

  Franklin put a small dose of what Peter realized was laudanum into the glass and then added a few parts of something from the other bottle.

  Franklin drank it down and put the glass back on the tray. “Thank you. Would you put it back, please? It’s wise to keep one’s medicine in the same place for ease of finding during a crisis.”

  Peter replaced the tray from where he’d found it. He knew Franklin had taken laudanum later in life for his kidney stones but didn’t realize he was already on the stuff. It was a powerful, dangerous and addictive opioid.

  Turning, he watched Franklin, with Victor’s help, hobble into the bedroom.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Peter asked.

  “Turn back the clock?”

  If he
only knew, Peter thought.

  “In lieu of that, I would request the pleasure of your company for dinner this evening.” He smiled to himself. “The delightful Mrs. Dubois will be there.”

  They agreed and he turned, dismissing them without actually doing so. “Send in Bouchet, would you? I seem to have misplaced my breeches.”

  ~~~

  “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

  Victor grunted. He was not really listening. He seldom listened to Travers. Ever since they left the chateau this morning to follow Bancroft, he had been prattling on endlessly.

  “That’s where the Eiffel Tower should be,” Travers continued, unabated. “Will be.”

  “This is not a sightseeing tour.”

  Despite what he said, Victor glanced across the Seine to see for himself. How many times had he stood here, in this very spot? It was disconcerting to see the tower not where it should be. He should have been used to seeing such things, or not seeing them, in his travels through time. However, he seldom allowed himself to look beyond the focus of his missions. He was not there to admire things but to save lives and, more often than not, to take them.

  “You’re right, of course,” Travers said. “I’m sorry.”

  Victor grunted again, pleased to have the relative quiet of the river now. Ahead of them, Edward Bancroft strolled along enjoying the unseasonably warm winter day.

  He paused to look at the river. Victor and Travers did the same, moving behind the cover of a horse-chestnut tree to block his view. Victor peered around the edge to keep an eye on him.

  After a moment, Bancroft continued on, but Victor made no move to follow.

  “Shouldn’t we …?” Travers asked.

  Victor shook his head and watched Bancroft disappear down the path.

  After a few moments, he walked to the spot where Bancroft had been.

  “Why aren’t we following him?” Travers asked. “Aren’t we trying to find Quincy?”

  Victor walked around the tree and then smiled. He pulled the letter out of its hiding hole.

  “Oh!”

  It was a tried and true way of passing information—the dead drop. He opened the letter, read it and handed it to Travers.

  He started back toward the chateau, and Travers hurried to catch up.

  “I don’t understand. It’s just a letter about some man’s romantic exploits: Edward Edwards.”

  “So it appears.” He took the letter back and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Unless you know how to read between the lines.”

  ~~~

  Peter held the letter over a candle flame, and words appeared between the written text. Invisible ink. Remarkable.

  “When you said read between the lines, you meant it.”

  Victor frowned and snatched the paper from his hands. “For all the good it has done us. This is useless.”

  Peter knew it was, at least for their purposes, but it was still so exciting to be part of it all—Bancroft reporting secretly to his British masters while working right under Franklin’s nose.

  But Peter also knew he had to temper his enthusiasm, and not just to keep Victor from killing him. Despite the letter’s historical significance, it didn’t have anything in it that would help them protect Franklin for the next few days until the note from Vergennes, the French Foreign Minister, arrived and the treaty was assured.

  “We are still no closer to finding Quincy than we were yesterday.”

  Victor tossed the letter into the fire. Peter thought about saving it, but Victor was right. Sadly, he watched it burn.

  Chapter Twenty

  DECEMBER 26, 1776 - SOUTH of Titusville, New Jersey

  Jack and Teddy started searching for Burgess as soon as Hamilton was otherwise occupied. The men who’d been first across took the opportunity to try and catch a little sleep before the marching began. They were curled up at the base of trees, under overturned rowboats and just about everywhere Jack stepped.

  Jack sighed and took off his hat to shake off the snow. Burgess could have been any of them, and they’d never know. Still, they kept on looking and hoping.

  Finally, at about four in the morning, the last of the equipment and men had been ferried across the river and they were told to prepare to march to Trenton.

  Nine miles to Trenton.

  How these men, in their condition, with no sleep, no food, and a storm fit to freeze the devil himself could do it, Jack didn’t know. But they would, and he was damn well going to make sure it wasn’t in vain.

  “We should go back,” Teddy said as they reached the end of the impromptu camp on the eastern shore of the river.

  Jack clenched his jaw and nodded. “All right, but —”

  He stopped and put out a hand to stop Teddy as well.

  He wasn’t sure what made him pause, but he’d learned to trust his instincts. Teddy looked up at him expectantly, his eyelashes caked with frost.

  Jack held up a quieting hand and they waited. One horse, and then another, neighed in the distance. A group of them were picketed nearby.

  Jack jerked his thumb in the direction of the horses, and they made their way up the slippery bank. It was still dark but, even in the darkness, Jack could see a figure moving near the leads of one of the horses.

  The man untied the reins of a strong looking sorrel from the picket line. As he did, Jack knew it was Burgess. And as if Burgess felt them watching, he looked up and saw them. Their eyes met for a moment. Then he hurried and mounted the horse, riding quickly away.

  “Dammit.”

  Jack ran after him and untied the line of an appaloosa. Teddy arrived at his side and Jack turned to him.

  “Stay close to Sullivan. You’ll be all right.”

  He mounted the horse and turned him halfway around. “If I don’t make it, it’s up to you.”

  Teddy’s face pinched, but he nodded.

  “I’ll find you,” Jack said and then turned his horse in the direction Burgess had ridden and dug in his heels.

  ~~~

  Teddy watched Jack disappear into the forest. A ball of worry spun in his stomach as he realized he was alone now.

  Jack would be all right. He was sure of it. He would catch up to Burgess, and this would all be over. Teddy stood there on the edge of the woods and watched, hoping it would happen then. Right then. But it didn’t.

  Jack didn’t come riding back.

  There was only silence. And the storm.

  Teddy dispelled the negativity that threatened to overwhelm him. He wouldn’t let Jack down. He wasn’t nearly as strong or brave as the men who were about to risk everything to build a nation, but he could do what needed to be done.

  He hoped.

  He turned as two men came along to untie the horses for the carts. It was clear from the looks on their faces that they noticed the ten horses they’d tied up here were eight now.

  “Two of them got away,” Teddy said. “I tried to catch them.”

  The heavier set man of the two sighed and nodded. He looked off into the dark forest and considered following them.

  “Never find them now,” the other said. “Isn’t time anyway.”

  Teddy dipped his head in apology for his failure and scurried back down the slope to the shoreline to find Sullivan. He found him and the rest of the men preparing the artillery for the march.

  “Where’s Mister Wells?” Sullivan asked.

  Teddy shook his head. “Not feeling well. Fever.”

  Sullivan frowned disapprovingly, but his expression changed when his attention was diverted by something ahead. Jack forgotten and Teddy pushed to the back of his mind, Sullivan hurried ahead, leaving Teddy with the others.

  Teddy took a deep breath and tried not to let fear overwhelm him. He’d been afraid before, but this was different. It was always different when your fear was for someone else.

  Slowly, the column ahead started moving. Their long march had begun.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SEPTEMBER 28, 1774 - LONDON, Englan
d

  “I’m all right,” she said again. “I feel a little like throwing up, but I’m all right.”

  Simon stood in the doorway to their bedroom at the inn, a worried look now permanently etched into his features. He took a step closer. “The baby?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “She’s fine. I’m just angry. And a little freaked out. That was close.”

  Simon’s jaw clenched. He came over to her and ran a hand down her arm. “Yes.”

  Poor Simon. As upset as she was, being nearly killed did that to a person, he was having some serious PTSD.

  She was starting to understand what it was like for him being in a near-constant state of alert. Her adrenaline had only now started to recede. Her whole body felt flushed and electric. She took in a deep breath and let it out.

  She looked down at the bed where her dress and top petticoat lay. She’d taken off most of her clothes to clean them. They were a mess, but it was not as bad as it could have been. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. It could have been very, very bad. Her hand went reflexively to her stomach.

  For a moment, she let go of everything but Charlotte. Maybe it was all in her mind, but she could swear she could feel her, feel her presence. And as if Charlotte knew she needed reassurance, Elizabeth felt that bubbly nudge she’d felt back in Teddy’s study.

  Content that everything was truly all right, she let her fear go and focused on her anger. People really needed to stop trying to kill her child.

  She picked up her dress and then put it back down as she tried to focus.

  “We shouldn’t leave Paine alone,” she said.

  “He’s not. I made arrangements with William to go back and pick him up when he leaves the Royal Society.”

  “We should be there.” She sat down on the bed and lifted up the last of her petticoats. Her knee was skinned.

  “We should be home.”