"You have the advantage of me, sir." Raoul removed his hat since the woman had not reappeared to take it, and pulling off his gloves, laid them upon the small hall table.
"Oh, B-Beugneux. André Beugneux." The clasp of fingers was tepid. Raoul was offered a chair in the salon and sat down opposite his host, wondering—and not only about last night's donkey. Who was this leftover from the ancien régime?
"I g-gather you have demonstrated some interest in Madame Bosanquet's past," the older man remarked."You left the secretaire open."
"Careless of me." Very careless.
"Utterly," the man concurred. "So what are you h-here for? To apologise... again? Or is this an official call?"
"I know that those responsible for Matthieu Bosanquet's unfortunate death have not yet been found, Citizen Beugneux, and I dislike mysteries. If I can help clear Citizeness Bosanquet of any suspicion, I shall count myself useful to her."
"H-how thoughtful of you, Deputy." Beugneux withdrew a porcelain snuff box from his pocket, flicked it open and offered Raoul a share. Refused, the older man took a pinch, loosened it upon his wrist and inhaled. "Widows, particularly those recently bereaved," he observed languidly, "are beset with a whole rainbow of emotions and, as you may have observed, our little provincial citizeness is scarcely out of the schoolroom. Do you not think it wise to let her come to terms with her loss? You place temptation in her way at a time when Fleur is exceedingly..." the thin white fingers spread, "vulnerable."
Fleur. Her name rested in Raoul's mind like a blossom on his palm. Yes, Fleur.
"Warning me off, citizen?" he retorted with asperity. "Are you some relative to her?" What right had this scented nobody to interfere? And Fleur Bosanquet had shown no sign of grieving—except when she remembered!
The old gentleman raised his quizzing glass. "My d-dear young man, your p-persistent attention has become rather a nuisance, a p-public nuisance! Since M-Matthieu Bosanquet was a friend of mine, I really do feel he w-would want me to safeguard his widow."
"I am sure he would, citizen. No doubt you too might have had reasons to rejoice in his demise."
"Tsk, tsk!" The quizzing glass was permitted to fall. "As you will have observed when you examined his will last night, D-deputy, it left nothing to me."
"Except his young, charitable widow. What happened to the aunt from Caen? Was she some hired actress?"
The answer was withheld. Beugneux moistened his lips like some ancient reptile before he replied, "I hear you m-met Citizen Machiavelli and had an interesting journey home." The old eyes, pouched with frail skin, narrowed at him. "Stay away, Deputy, find amusement elsewhere or your adventures this morning may become an amusing anecdote for P-Paris. As I believe you are aware, madame's nephew owns a p-p-printing press."
With a shrug at the threat, Raoul rose to leave, his expression no less stern. "Murder is not something that is acceptable to the Republic of France, citizen," he warned as M. Beugneux saw him out.
"You surprise me." The man's eyes glittered as he pulled open the door. "Then I am mistaken in what I observed last September. Adieu, monsieur."
* * *
If bread had been more abundant in Paris, Fleur would have fed the chestnut-headed ducks that had swum up waggling their tail feathers at her, but it might have started a riot. Instead she joined M. Beugneux on the path and linked her arm through his. Thankfully he wore a commonplace surtout, the colour of squashed olives, over his usual plumage and they made an innocuous pair unlikely to draw attention.
Strolling through the gardens of the old Palais de Luxembourg did not restore her spirits like the forest trees of Grimbosq. Fresh green leaves had struggled out into the city's smoky air; a red squirrel streaked like a flame up one of the tree trunks, but the hubbub of hooves, wheels, dogs and touters could still be heard from the Rue d'Enfer. The swept paths and clumps of jonquils were more joyous than the mired streets with their broken cobbles, and at least their conversation could not be overheard.
M. Beugneux had not yet come to the point of revelation. He had been skating around that particular crack in the ice ever since they left the house and had only this minute informed her that de Villaret had called while she had still been asleep.
"My dear, this admirer of yours is becoming a trifle de trop and he really has the manners of the times—none at all."
"Only when he's trying to frighten. Perhaps I should have spoken with him this morning, monsieur. Maybe I could have found out why he really broke into the house."
"I suspect he was following me, my dear, which does present a rather large problem—for both of us."
"Then you had better tell me what this is about." Perhaps de Villaret was not really interested in her at all—a relief and a disappointment—but what in God's name had M. Beugneux been playing at?
"The aristocrats that escaped from La Force, petite. I was hoping not to involve you, but I regret to say they are hiding on your property, little one."
She halted, withdrawing her arm from his. A crack in the ice? A cursed great, gargantuan hole! My God, this was the last thing she expected. "What, at the house?"
"Not at the moment." The gentleman seemed relieved that she did not faint or turn hysterical. "No, my dear, at the Chat Rouge."
She did not know whether to be relieved or furious but she must give nothing away. "The voices I heard on my first visit! Not ghosts at all."
He shook his head. "A few days more in prison and they would be." His frown grew deeper. "I congratulate you on your sangfroid... and admirable discretion." He was studying her with renewed curiosity. "So you heard them, when was that?"
"The first afternoon I was there with my aunt. Not since, I promise you." Her gloved hand curled round his arm. "You!" she said in wonderment. "All the while it has been you rescuing them?"
He pinkened and glanced away modestly, the flutter of eyelash judged perfectly. "With a little assistance."
"Oh, M. Beugneux, how very brave." Inside, she was wondering how many more malevolent tricks God had up his sleeve for her. No one was what they seemed any more. What else could cursed well happen? Emilie admitting she was an English spy? The python the Emperor of Austria in disguise?
"But now I have endangered you, dear child, and we have de Villaret lurking on our doorstep as if, forgive the vulgarity, you are a bitch in heat."
"I have my own reasons for not encouraging him but..." God protect them! She and M. Beugneux might not be standing in the Jardins de Luxembourg in a week's time; they could be in a tumbril with their hands tied behind their back and—"Oh, God!"
"I will spare you the details of my adventures, my dear child. The less you know, the better, and there are others involved whose names I should prefer not to divulge. You do understand?"
"Of course." Such ludicrously genteel conversation! They might be discussing the weather.
"You probably wish us to find another hiding place. They only stay a night or so until the hubbub dies down and then we move them on."
"No," replied Fleur resolutely. "You must continue to use the Chat Rouge. I presume my late husband turned a blind eye to such activities, or was he part of this as well?"
The puckered cheeks were drawn into concaves; the answer was careful: "I did not involve him." Nothing more was added.
"And your stammer, monsieur?"
"It comes," he shrugged, "and goes."The silence between them was no longer companionable; the gusty April wind irritatingly tried to make away with her hat and veil. "If you wish me to move my lodgings..."
Fleur halted. "No! No, my husband wished you to remain." Perhaps it was absurd to invoke M. Bosanquet's last hours as though his every word was gospel, yet it seemed the only star to steer by. "But only," she added, "so long as you do not endanger Thomas or any of the staff."
"D'accord." Her hand was raised gallantly to his lips. "I salute your courage. Meantime, I perceive you find yourself unhappily between the hammer and the anvil." He offered his arm again, and they strolled
on like father and daughter. "On the one hand, this Jacobin deputy should be avoided like la peste, on the other hand, I hear that he faced a public drubbing in the Convention and only emerged a free man because that odious creature, Georges Danton, stood up for him and convinced the house he was a man in love. With you, madame. I can see that you might be tempted to return his ardour. That young man has a fine physique and a quick mind. Too quick."
Fleur nodded, biting back a short Caen oath; today was getting worse by the minute.
"I fear this morning's little rap over the knuckles is hardly likely to put him off. Drat this wind!" M. Beugneux clapped the tricorne hat to his wig's horizontal curls.
"And the more he hangs around, the more dangerous it is for you and your poor fugitives, monsieur." Let alone her, she added as a postscript. M. Beugneux might find himself rescuing her from La Force.
"Hmm, it seems best that my friends and I cease our activities for a while."
People might go to the scaffold and all because of de Villaret's suspicions. They walked on in silence.
"I just cannot understand why he is so interested in me," she muttered, more to herself than her companion. "Do I honestly look like a murderess?"
"You look..." The old man stopped and stared down at her. "Do you never gaze in your mirror, child?"
"Not really, only to use tweezers, that sort of thing. I couldn't afford a mirror until I came to Paris. Ah," she patted his hand, "yes, I understand what you are saying, monsieur, and that is very gentlemanly of you, but you're wrong. He suspects that I'm a fraud, that I murdered Matthieu."
"And," said Matthieu's friend, "did you?"
* * *
Armand frowned at the fountain where one of the coppery nymphs was sporting a scarlet cap of Liberty. "I have the greatest respect for the fair sex," he murmured, "but they can be a confounded nuisance. Everywhere I go that wretched grisette turns up looking like a lovesick loon. No, behind us, the chit below the statue."
Raoul glanced down the main walk of the Tuilleries gardens, and then idly to the side, where he noticed an apron straining across a generous bosom, a mass of lustreless hair escaping from a mobbed cap, a sunburned snub nose and a mouth temporarily shaped like an unlucky horseshoe.
"And I thought you were talking about Madame Roland, Armand."
"That is not amusing." His friend waved a fly away. "I just wish women would stay where they are meant to be, wearing a kitchen apron or nothing at all. Women like her reduce our debates to vaudeville."
"That is democracy, Armand."
"Don't you sound so devilish superior, Raoul. I noticed you started playing to the gallery once you realised that Widow Pussycat was up there. We're here to make laws, not indulge in ogling. Uuugh, and look at that chit watching my every move."
"Since you rarely move at all, with your nose constantly in a book, it can't be very exciting for her." Laughing, Raoul punched his lapel. "It's all right, Armand," he said soothingly, "when we've ousted you from government, we intend to ban all women's clubs—especially knitting ones," he added with feeling, noting the pair of grim tricoteuses who were handing out broadsheets to passers-by. "Anyway, Armand, the puss in question doesn't like being stroked, not by me at any rate."
"Do I detect a challenge taken?"
"My interest is mainly professional. Listen, she appears out of nowhere in Caen, claiming to be married to an elderly Parisian who has just been attacked and killed; the witnesses to her marriage have disappeared. Then she comes to Paris, magics up a chef who makes a foie gras to die for, mimics Marat and me, and has half the city flocking to watch her performance. One instant, she's La Coquette; the next, she's a bourgeois widow, all vestal virgin and it's 'keep your hands on the table'. Diable, Armand, I'm fascinated. What is she going to do next?"
"So you suspect her of murder?"
"Yes... no. I"m utterly confused. Damn it, every time I meet her, the air is electric. You have to admit the girl's a little Venus—beautiful breasts, a killing smile and those lovely eyes. And she's not stupid. She wouldn't be running that damn café of hers so well if she were. She's intriguing. In fact, yes, I wouldn't mind waking up to all that every so often." He waited for a reply.
"Ah, well."Armand, some inches taller, merely blinked down at him and shrugged.
The subject seemed to be closed and Raoul, conscious of having displayed a far from professional attitude, swallowed and asked soberly: "So what did you want to talk about with me?" If there was any mention of a donkey, he was not sure how he would handle matters, especially as he had just this minute made an utter ass of himself yet again.
"I wanted to warn you about this morning's session."
Raoul looked down and ran a thumb distractedly across his fingernails. "So your faction is still baying for blood? I have never diverted public money."
"They want a scapegoat to throw to the people, Raoul, and you'll do a treat."
"I was protecting Boissy."
"I know that. Look, if the paperwork is in order, neither of you have anything to worry about. What I don't understand, and nor do my colleagues, is why Danton felt it was necessary to defend you."
"I daresay he was feeling sentimental."
"Or that he suspected you were guilty."
Raoul's anger exploded. "Armand, how long have we known each other? You know I would die for the good of France. So would Boissy. Mon Dieu, we should be rowing in one direction, man, not squabbling like a pack of curs. Tell your colleagues they can examine the bills and the receipts. They can even read the correspondence between Boissy and myself on the potential use of balloons in transportation."
"Oh, you don't need to convince me. Convince them." Armand nodded to a crowd of sans-culottes sauntering past. "Do something public and patriotic. Like finding out who is syphoning the traitors out of La Force."
"Very well." Raoul was seething. "And you can do something public and patriotic too. Right there!" and before he stormed away, he shoved his Girondin friend towards the girl beneath the statue.
* * *
"Have you seen who is gracing us with his company, patronne?" Columbine rearranged her scarf so it exposed even more cleavage; on stage Juanita suddenly seemed to be singing louder.
"Want me to tell Thomas to add extra salt to the potage, madame?" whispered Albert. "Ah, too late."
Fleur watched with annoyance; her chef had decided not only to serve Raoul de Villaret personally as though their customer was a Bourbon monarch, but now he was standing back, smoothing his hands on his large rear, while the deputy considered the first mouthful. Then, having concurred over its worth, Thomas actually sat down and gossipped with the cursed devil as though they were friends met over a game of boules. M. Beugneux was right; it would take more than a ride on an ass to shame de Villaret. She just could not afford to let him frequent the café. It would be too dangerous.
As if he sensed her interest, the man in question let his gaze languidly scan the restaurant and found her watching him. No, he was not shamed. Instead, he placidly tore the pain de campagne and returned his attention to Thomas. It was tempting to ignore him, but the trouble with fire was that the brilliant dancing flames offered not just light and heat but entertainment. Perhaps she could stand the heat for an instant without being scorched.
Sweeping up to the seated deputy, her smile was like a flag of truce. "I did not think I would see you here again, citizen." Hands clasped serenely, she absorbed the warmth of his stare with too dangerous a delight.
"I do not believe in bearing grudges, citizeness," de Villaret answered, cleansing his lips with a napkin. "Where else in the city can I find food so superlative?"At that compliment, Thomas rose, smirking, and left her carpeted.
"Please." Raoul gestured to the empty seat. "Won't you join me?" He let it sound like a threat but, to his delight, his pretty tormentor not only sat down opposite but, setting his high crowned hat to one side, propped her elbows on the tablecloth in true sans-culotte fashion.
"I am glad yo
u are not feeling surly, citizen," Fleur Bosanquet murmured huskily."I wanted to apologise for what I did." She was apologising? He watched her fingers playing lovingly over the metal buckle decorating his hat.
"The donkey ride? Oh, surely not." Summoning up a sense of humour afterwards had not been easy. "And the python?"
"Perhaps not the python," she admitted. "I never asked him to leave his box."
"You are enjoying this," Raoul accused, demolishing the meagre breadroll further.
Fleur made her grin mischievous and stroked an impetuous finger teasingly round the hat brim. "Don't look so fierce, Deputy. According to Danton, you are supposed to be aflame with passion."
"Don't flatter yourself. The only thing I am feeling passionate about this morning is finding the traitor who is aiding those aristocrats from La Force," Raoul answered and watched her fingers freeze. "However, you do well to remind me, citizeness. What do you suggest?" He stared at her with a look that Marcus Antonius might have used on Cleopatra.
"Oh," Fleur exclaimed. The Jacobin knew his power. She was glad the rest of the café could not see her face. What would it be like to untie the ribbon band that held his hair and tangle her fingers in such dark luxury, dragging his face towards her, feeling his kisses on her face and throat? She had never kissed a man on the mouth, and this man had a gorgeous mouth and a smile that could have commanded her soul. But he wasn't smiling.
"I thought, mistakenly, citizeness, that you might sense the électricité that Volta speaks of." Raoul found the ensuing silence hurtful. The widow was staring at him as though he had just read her name for the tumbrils. He fingered the spoon again, and wondered if the quiet was just an omission. Perhaps patience was necessary. Perhaps it was she who needed the stroking. "Look, I, too, apologise for last night."
His left hand set down the spoon and reached out with a will of its own. He possessed himself of her wrist, thumbing over the satin skin above her pulse, and felt his own blood quicken.
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