Fleur-de-Lis

by Isolde Martyn

  "Would I be fêting you if I thought that?"

  "Yes," she admitted, "I think you might. You are a very clever man, Citizen de Villaret. Too clever for me."

  "Raoul! And you have not told me one half of it, Fleur. Why did your husband not leave the inheritance to his friend Monsieur Beugneux? Or were you already well acquainted with Bosanquet?" So he had been poking a stick into the tree to see what bees flew out.

  "With Monsieur Bosanquet, no. No, truly, it was the sudden whim of a dying man and I'm very grateful to him. As God is my witness, Raoul, I never set eyes on Matthieu Bosanquet until I found him wounded on the road and took him back to my cottage." She held her breath, expecting him to ask her why she had been living in Grimbosq.

  "Bosanquet must have seen much merit in you." He turned her hand over. Her mother's ring twisted beneath his touch.

  The sensual scrape of his thumb across her palm set off a warning tocsin. She had already confided too much. "Oh, I nursed him, read to him."

  "A good Samaritan. Hmm, but remember your Gospels; there were several Samaritans, the traveller and a woman at the well. Will you let me drink?" He kept hold of her hand so she could not withdraw it across the cloth.

  "Oh," her lower lip quivered, "you would soon go on your way."

  "It isn't necessary to believe, you know, just trust."

  "Do you not think it is tempting?" Her heart was thumping like a soldier's drum.

  "No yokes, no bridles," he promised.

  "No future," she answered bleakly.

  "Safer so." Raoul leaned forwards, his face alive with idealism. Had he stood so looking up at the steep walls of the Bastille the day it fell? "We are on the edge of a new age, Fleur. Take a breath and jump!"

  "You don't know me." I would endanger you, and if you find out who I am, you will endanger me. What had Marat said? The Revolution is our wife.

  "Does it matter? I'm your destiny, Fleur, believe me. I've wanted to have you ever since we met in Caen and fate keeps tossing you to me." His hands framed her face and his lips touched hers, caressingly at first and then he deepened the kiss, skimming his hands down to her shoulders and holding her with a fierce, beautiful possessiveness. Oh, bon Dieu, no wonder lovers spent so much time embracing.

  "Citizen, it—" she protested when he drew his face back.

  "Raoul," he corrected."Listen to me, Fleur. This thief you spoke of the other day. He's an illusion. Thieves are neither kind nor loyal. They only steal hearts in fairytales. Did you see his face? I doubt you'd even know the scoundrel now."

  "That may be true."

  "Or is it..." The astute smile belonged to a victor. "Could it be that you are not what you seem, sweet citizeness, and I might discover too much?"

  "Ah, you have it, Monsieur Interrogator. I am undone at last. I admit everything. I am one of King George's spies sent to lure you to my pillow."

  "Excellent." His eyes were dancing with roguishness. "Pillows, I like. We could come to an arrangement. I will feed you tidbits of tantalising but false information about army supplies and the strategic plans of the national guard to please William Pitt, and meanwhile you can..." his voice was a great beast's purr, "tantalise me." He carried her hand to his lips.

  "Raoul, it is not possible. I am sorry."

  The silence was disturbing, cruel. Outwardly he seemed amused but she sensed the words had sunk into the bone.

  "You heard about the Tennis Court Oath when you were in Calvados, citizeness?"

  "All of France knows of it." What path was he leading her on now? Yes, she knew that when King Louis had summoned the States General to sort out France's deficit, the demands of the representatives who were neither nobles nor churchmen had angered the royal temper.

  "Remember, Fleur, when the King forbade the Third Estate to meet and ordered the doors of their assembly hall locked against them, what did they do?"

  "Why, they went to a nearby tennis court and took an oath not to disperse until they had achieved reform."

  Raoul de Villaret took her chin in his hand."I want you, Fleur Bosanquet. That is my demand and you may lock your door against me but I'm a revolutionary, I do not keep to the rules." And letting go of her, he abruptly snapped his fingers for the maitre to bring the billet.

  Outside, they walked briskly to the Rue de Montpensier, where the horses of the hire coaches shifted miserably in their harness. The rain was heavy again. Sufficient to make any stalking rascal abscond, she hoped, but she was relieved that de Villaret mounted the fiacre steps after her.

  "This is kind, but I am sure it is inconveniencing you," she protested politely.

  "I should be on your guard if I were you," he replied cryptically, and rapped the driver's panel.

  From him? It was her own perfidious passion that would betray her if he so much as touched her.

  After the flow of words between them earlier, the patter of rain on the coach roof and the hooves echoing in the street were suddenly lonely sounds. Fleur wanted to reassure him that it was not his fault she dared not deepen their friendship, but to even hint at her true reasons was to open a Pandora's box.

  "Raoul..."

  The word was innocent, just his name, but a word can whirl and change with the play of breath and become an incantation. The spell of halves was broken. Her companion reached out and took a second savouring of what he truly wanted. The man's skill was magnificent, enthralling. Fleur had never imagined a kiss could be so compelling. Winding her arms shyly about his neck, she parted her lips and he instantly deepened the kiss with a soft growl of pleasure. It was too easy to forget he was an enemy. Within her a subtle alchemy was refining her anger into a nobler emotion. Insatiable, his mouth teased and tormented her, now demanding, now hardening. His hand rose to her breast and unlooped the fastenings. She was unsure, until his fingers stroked down inside the opening of her gown, touching her breast through the frail fabric of her chemise. A wonderful sensation spiralled down her body.

  Was this why Eve was driven from Paradise—because she learned to feel and wanted more, rivalling the Supreme Being in her demand for worship? Fleur's skin, sensitive as it hungered for each stroke of Raoul's fingers, alerted all her senses, arousing a different hunger between her thighs.

  "Rue des Bonnes Soeurs, Fleur." She surfaced to find that suddenly the buttons were being tucked back into their silken slits, her breasts packaged back. "Send for me if you have any more trouble, citizeness." How formal he sounded now, she thought regretfully."Or would you like me to put a guard on your house?"

  "You can do that?"

  "I can."

  "No, that's not necessary. Perhaps he was a footpad and, seeing me on my own, he... Oh, please tell the driver it is the next gateway."

  The fiacre braked at the entrance to the courtyard and de Villaret sprang out and helped her down. The rain was easing and the sky was growing dappled; the moon wore a seductive veil of cloud half-drawn across her face.

  Raoul stared up the street the way they had come and then, with an expert eye, inspected the courtyard.

  "Thank you for your kindness," she began.

  "I keep a ledger, Fleur, and I will call in the debt, make no mistake."And then he added with humour, "One of Thomas's dinners will be welcome."

  "Of course." She kept her voice light.

  "Wait here," he told the driver, and taking her elbow, he steered her across the courtyard to her doorway.

  "Did you know your patrons at the Chat Rouge call you "the Bastille" behind your back?"

  "The Bastille!"

  "They are taking wagers as to when you will fall."

  "But the business is doing well."

  "Not fail, fall."

  "I see," she replied coolly. "Well, they are wasting their time to be bothering with such a trifle. They might remember that when the Bastille fell, there was hardly anything inside. Thank you for warning me. I shall be on my guard in July when the anniversary comes around."

  "I was there when the Bastille surrendered,"
he murmured, his face a shadow to her. "When you do fall, ma douce, I will be the one to take you. Goodnight, Fleur." He carried her hand to his lips.

  It was tempting to hurl things around when she reached her boudoir a few minutes later, but restlessly she swung round and sped down to the kitchen where she lifted Machiavelli out of his crate. He regarded her soulfully. Not that she trusted a python's judgment. He was probably thinking of rabbits. Damn de Villaret! Did men have nothing in their heads but revolution and seduction?

  It was then a spatter of gravel hit the windowpane.

  Chapter 14

  "Well, I'd never have wagered you'd whittle down to a beauty, Toinette," the man who had been following her declared gruffly, tossing his hat and whip onto the small table beside her armchair.

  "I d-didn't recognise you, Philippe. To think all evening it was you following me."

  Her brother the twenty-one-year old duke stood before her clothed like a coachman. He smelled like one too, of horses, sweat and stale clothing. Perhaps it was all part of his disguise.

  "And a fine dance you led me, Toinette." He formally took her hand and kissed her cheek, still with the boyish awkwardness she remembered. Sad that despite the mature broadening of his shoulders and the stubble upon his cheeks, there had been no learning of easy charm since they had last met, but no doubt he was very weary.

  "I—I'll fetch you something to drink," she offered nervously.

  "I need more than that." So would the conversation. Two years of silence was a dampener to any reunion.

  "Of course." Alone in the kitchen she had time to collect her wits along with the cheese and precious bread from the Chat Rouge. Was he intending to stay?

  At least Philippe had the manners to open the door so she might carry the tray in. The repast was off the plate instantly. He ate like a soldier and she watched him guiltily, wondering why she did not like him better.

  "A fancy place you have here, Toinette." He took a swig of the wine; it passed muster.

  The single candle lit the uncomfortable air between them. Her sibling's sprawled form in the armchair opposite seemed an illusion.

  "They know me here as Fleur," she corrected, rising to refill the wineglass on the small table at his elbow. "My schoolfriends at Trinité called me that."

  "Fleur." He tasted the correction on his tongue as though it were a poisonous lozenge. "How very childish. Safer, I suppose." The long legs shifted, shedding a large comma of dried mud from his boot soles. "I brought you a missive from our aunt."

  "That was my next question." Fleur took the letter and swiftly slit it open. "Oh, I am so thankful she reached safety."

  "I'm not. The stupid woman has done nothing but grumble since she arrived."

  "Yes, she fusses, but she's not stupid. I was glad of her company the last two years, believe me." His morose expression deepened. "I doubted I should ever see you again, Philippe. I should have appreciated a letter, just one."

  "We are at war, in case you haven't noticed," he retorted coldly. What was it he wanted of her? Money, she suspected.

  "Isn't it dangerous for you to be back in France?"

  "My God, of course it is, but shall we say I have some business in Paris and it seems I need to carry out my family obligations. Our aunt insisted. I can see why." His scowl implied he preferred her fat and indolent.

  "What family obligations, Philippe? Surely you cannot mean me. As you see, I am hardly in need of help."

  "Zum Henker damit!" he swore, rising to help himself from the decanter. "The old baggage is right. You are grown headstrong. She tells me you consort with actors and such riffraff."

  "Actors are recognised as citizens now," she exclaimed defensively.

  "Pshaw! Whores, bawds." He turned haughtily. "You were bred for better than that, a decent alliance through the marriage bed." He was evaluating her like a merchant, and the blood rose shamefully, heating her cheeks. One didn't march out and slam the door on a duke, but it was tempting. Married! True, if the Revolution had not occurred, an alliance with another noble family would have been arranged, but she had now tasted independence.

  "This is Tante Estelle's meddling." Fleur rose. She needed the wine as well. "You didn't care a scrap till now."

  "Time has a way of running fast," he muttered, making himself comfortable again and crossing his boots at the ankles. "And now you are nineteen, I believe. I forgot that you would be in need of a guardian to see to such matters." Again, the calculating appraisal.

  "Nonsense, Philippe. Besides, I am still in mourning. Indeed, surely it is you who needs a son to carry on the title."

  "With me a royalist and guillotine fodder? If I am killed, your son will have my title."

  "You are forgetting Cécile is safe in England."

  "She's dead." He delivered it like a dish of poison and watched Fleur digest the horrid revelation. The memory of a golden-haired minx shimmered between them: Cécile, the youngest of her three half-sisters. Philippe flung himself out of the chair. "Christ, sometimes it drives me almost mad. Our lands, our family, the respect..."

  "When..." Fleur tried to swallow the pain and find her voice. "What happened to her?"

  He toed the carpet edge, avoiding her eyes. "I don't know for certain," he muttered, dully running a hand along the mantelshelf."Inflammation of the lungs, I suppose. But it's my guess she was half dead from hunger."

  "H-how did you find out?"

  "My friend, the Chevalier Henri de Craon—you know, I was at school with him. Well, he was an émigré in London at the time. It seems someone found his name among Cécile's papers and wrote to him. That's how I heard."

  "Oh God!"Tears could come later. Fleur knuckled them away beneath his stare and sat down feeling like a hollow statue. There was no pity in her brother's face, no comforting arms held out to her, only a stony resolution. "Philippe," she whispered, but it was for what might have been that she grieved. Her brother had always been a stranger. Heels disappearing into the branches of a tree; spurred boots against a horse's flanks as he rode to hunt; trunks packed for military school; or his arm flung up in dispassionate farewell from a carriage window. This was all she knew of him.

  "It is just you and me, little sister." Philippe's callused fingers caught her chin. "So now you understand your value and your duty."

  "I supported our aunt and myself for two years," she pointed out, jerking her head free.

  "And came precious close to starving, I hear. Let us waste no more time arguing." Like an auctioneer, he was glancing about him at the ornaments and paintings. If he recognised the evidence of master artists, he made no comment."You are to sell up and return to the country where it is safer. We will win this war eventually but it may take longer than we anticipated."

  "No, Philippe, leaving Paris is quite out of the question." For once she was almost thankful for the Revolution."I have responsibilities. Business is going well. Besides, people are dependent on me for work. I cannot let them down."

  "You always were slow-witted, Toinette, but I never thought you bourgeois. Can you not see, when Brunswick and the Emperor break through with their armies, the sans-culottes will turn on the likes of you like rabid dogs. We are not dealing with rational human beings. Christ, girl, all it needs is for the ignorant rabble to dislike the shape of your face and they'll tear you apart." He did not need to remind her of last September; the slaughter of her father and sister was too painful.

  "I must live with that possibility," she said softly, remembering the crowd gathered round the fiacre. "I am not afraid."

  "I do not give a damn whether you are afraid or not," he exclaimed, pacing once more to the fireplace, then swinging round."You have a duty to marry while you're still in good looks. From what our aunt tells me of Bosanquet's holdings, selling them should buy you a ci-devant noble and some of the Church land that's come onto the market. That should suffice until I can claim back our estates. No, save your breath! You're scarce out of school so don't argue with me!" His hand came down,
slicing against the macasser on the back of her armchair. "What could our aunt be thinking of, leaving you unchaperoned, vulnerable to some impoverished Casanova!"

  "Philippe!" She twisted round, glaring. This was too much like facing her father with holes ripped in her stockings from climbing the roof of the orangery. Shear away the wild tangle of hair and put a powdered wig on him and it could have been a younger version of her autocratic Papa standing there. Even his mannerisms, the way he rubbed his thumb to and fro across his closed fist, were inherited.

  "No, don't make excuses. I want you away from the republican filth who are sniffing around your skirts." How dare he underestimate her! Fleur stiffened her shoulders, ready for battle. "Why are you looking at me like that? You've not lost your virginity, have you? Tante Estelle—"

  "I-beg-your-pardon?" she ground out, every staccato syllable frosted.

  He moved closer, louring over her. "Oh, have I offended your virtue, Toinette? Well, that's a relief. At least it proves you have some left."

  She snatched up the cup of wine and tossed the contents straight in his face. "How dare you insult me in such a vile fashion. If I was a man, I would call you out for that." She flung a shaking arm towards the door."Please leave!"

  He laughed down at her, ignoring the clear droplets dripping down his unshaven chin. "Lord, we have been corrupted, haven't we? I didn't think to see you behaving like a gutter trollop." He raised a hand and for an instant she thought he would hit her. "See what comes of mixing with the creatures that murdered Papa and Marguerite! Or had you forgotten?"

  "No, I have not forgotten. How could I? But I'm surviving, Philippe. I've managed to stay alive since we lost everything and I resent you storming in here telling me how to behave as though I were still a child. Go now, now! Before I have you thrown out. And if you wish to return in better temper tomorrow, do so, but this is my house, not yours, and I will not endure your insults."

  "Do as she says." M. Beugneux made such a theatrical entrance that he nearly tipped Fleur into hysterical laughter. "Is this vile creature bothering you?"