"The others won't be pleased you came here." Her brother drew the doors to and leaned against the crossbar with his arms folded. "What do you want, Toinette?"
"I'm here to tell you how much I despise you," she hissed now they had privacy. "You ordered me to prostitute myself knowing full well that de Villaret was our father's murderer."
"And it didn't take much for you to spread yourself for him," he sneered, striding across to face her. "My, my, Toinette, what a milksop you are. A few minutes on your back for the sake of France and you're complaining."
"I don't have to list—"
Instantly his hand clamped her wrist and pulled her to him. "We're fighting this war every way we know how. Anything to get our lands back, you hear me! If I tell you to sleep with Robespierre, you'll do it. Now why are you here? What did you find at de Villaret's lodgings? Any notes on Calvados that we can use?"
"I found his notebook."
"Yes? Come on, I haven't all day."
"It was all about us. Us, Philippe! H... he knows everything about our family. It was all there, the date each of our sisters died, our father's murder. He even has David's portrait of us, Philippe, the one that hung in Papa's dressing-room."
There was no shock in Philippe's face, only a tightening of muscle that added cruelty.
"It must be some old vendetta between his blood and ours, don't you think? Something Papa never told—"
"Stop yapping, Toinette. What exactly did the notebook say about me?"
"Last heard of in Coblenz. Oh, don't look relieved. He knows who I am. He can denounce me any time he pleases. I think you have to get out of Paris now. He's left for Caen but—"
"Be quiet, let me think!" Her brother dragged his fingers either side of his stubbled chin. "Caen, you say? And there was nothing else of significance in his papers?"
"I-I didn't have time. H-he found me going through his papers." She refused to hang her head.
"Oh Christ in heaven, how could you be so—? I hope you thought of a good excuse."
"No, I tried to shoot him."
It would have been wonderful to see Philippe gaping at her if it wasn't so serious. Then he reached some sort of decision.
"I don't think you need to worry, Toinette."
"But what about de Villaret?" asked Fleur faintly, wondering if her ears were functioning. The comfortable, forgiving tone in his voice contradicted the vindictive calculation in his smile.
"Oh, we'll knock him off in a dark alley the moment he gets back from Calvados."
He was lying, but why she wasn't sure. Nor was she sure she wanted de Villaret cudgelled to death. Somehow he was hers to deal with.
"Toinette, you're a brave girl. You're one of us!" The chuck under the chin might be well meant but it was patronising. "Listen." His voice sank to a whisper."We're planning to do a deal with the federalists. Toulon, Marseilles, Nantes are all saying they don't want Paris dictating to them. The tide is turning, believe me. And we have a new, easier role for you. No, don't look at me like that. My friend Henri de Craon and some other émigrés in England are prepared to come back and help us." She waited, dreading what would come next. "Your café could be really vital. We could organise things from there. Of course, Henri will have to use another name, but if he ties the knot with you and we make it fully legal, that is, a civil ceremony and a nonjuring priest as well—all fair and square—then he can use the café as a cover and it could buy more of these." He kicked the nearest crate.
"Potatoes, Philippe?"
"No, for—Oh, you're joking." He looked as though he wanted to end the conversation.
"There's one thing you've forgotten, Philippe."
"And what's that?"
"I don't like Henri. I never liked him. He always completely ignored me whenever he came to Clerville."
"Women!" Her brother's arms rose in a gesture of disbelief. "You were nine, Toinette, and fat. Damn it, girl, none of us stays the same. Just because the fellow didn't make small talk with you about your doll's house." He was completely misreading her stillness, ignoring her hands clenched at her side. "It may impress you to know that Henri was planning to join the Knights of the Dagger." She must have looked blank for he added impatiently, "The royalists who took an oath to rescue the King."
"Did he?"
Philippe ignored her sarcasm. "No, he was winding up his affairs in London to do so but then the bastards executed the King sooner than we all expected."
"And now you want me to give him everything I own. I cannot believe that you could come up with such a cold-hearted scheme? It's out of the question. It's my café... yes, and Thomas's in a sense. I have been struggling to pay off all the debts and now you want to cream off any profit."
"Damnation, Toinette, de Craon will let you manage it if that's all that is bothering you. Gives him a chance to get on with organising the campaign. But some of your profit will have to go to that. Stop being so female and difficult."
"Dear me, Philippe, me difficult? Are you aware that during this conversation you haven't once considered how I feel?"
"You? Curse it all, Toinette, I'm trying to arrange a decent marriage for you. De Craon's descended from one of Louis XIV's marshals. And it's not as though you are a great prize, things being the way they are and..."
"And..." she prompted dryly.
"And..." he shrugged, "and if these times were less topsyturvy, his family, well, what's left of 'em, would demand his bride to be untouched, but you being..." at least he had the grace to look sheepish, "a widow, he cannot expect that. Why are you being so obdurate?" He met her scowling expression with a curled lip. "Listen to me, if Papa were still alive and he told you you'd be marrying de Craon, there would be no argument. Well, I'm your guardian and head of the family, and I'm telling you that is exactly what you will do and there will be no more argument. You'll like him well enough. When we've rid France of these bloody madmen, he'll get his chateau back."
"You think so?" She enjoyed saying that.
"Their government's about to fall in a heap and they're quarrelling among themselves like a pack of hungry dogs. We'll have 'em soon, you'll see, and the heads rolling in the Place de la Revolution will be plenty, I can promise you that. Going, are you?" He sounded surprised.
It was too easy to fall into her old childhood role and let herself be bullied but she was her own mistress now.
"Yes," answered Fleur, pausing at the door. "The thought doesn't thrill me but when can I expect to see you again, Philippe?"
"We're going out of Paris to... towards Clerville. We're seeing what support we can muster to help our leader, the Comte de Puisaye, and whether we can link up with the insurrection in La Vendée. I can't say how long I'll be away."
"I'll manage," she replied curtly, suspicious of today's openness when before he had been so miserly in sharing his plans, and then added, "Philippe, you are only twenty-one, with life still ahead of you. These friends of yours, do not let them rush you into anything. Think before you act." The charm that was possible flared only briefly in his smile but then he joined her, his hand upon the latch."Wait, Toinette, I need any money or jewellery you have on you."
She was carrying very little. Wearily, she emptied her purse into his palm but he caught her hand before she could snatch it away. He wanted the aquamarine. "Ah, I can get more for this."
"No! It was Maman's." She tried to free herself. "You ask too much!"
"Do you think she would have withheld it? Do you? Now give it me!"
"Let go, Philippe!"
With her lips a tight seam of displeasure, she drew off her ring.
Briefly a gentleman, he opened the door for her. "Take care, Toinette. And... and if de Villaret should get back before I do, just keep him at a dangle. It's me he's after and I'll deal with him, I promise you."
* * *
Raoul slept—or pretended to—as much as was possible in an ancient vehicle that pranced along over every rut and stone with the exuberance of a puppy. Sleeping was a w
ay of avoiding conversation. He spread himself along the seat on his side of the coach, ignoring the glowers of the ci-devant tax collector and his wife, and tried desperately to focus his mind on his mission.
Caen was a warm womb waiting for the Girondin seed; idealism waiting to take to the streets with federalist fervour. When he reached Calvados he must reassure their loyalists and arrest any of the administration or military who supported a rebellion against Paris. Arrest them, yes, and terrify them into passivity before releasing them (or at least that was his intent, though a few might deserve a more drastic sentence). Paris had to retain its predominance over France, otherwise there would be no hope of withstanding the Austrian emperor and his allies. Just the thought of that meddling Marie-Antoinette set at liberty to take her revenge was chilling. Women! Women were... Fleur!
It was useless trying to think of anything but her. Why had fate flung her to him again and again if it was not his destiny to care for her? But it was a destiny that ran counter to his common sense. Here he was, a man of reason, a devout Jacobin, lusting after a royalist who wanted to shoot him. Wanting her was a heresy, but making love to Fleur had felt so very good and he longed to do it again. His mind and body knew no peace now. Just remembering her sweet, slender body beneath his. Damn! Growing cursedly uncomfortable, he sat up and shifted his writing case discreetly across his thighs.
"What in hell...?"They were thrown from their seats as the coach suddenly careered off the road. Raoul reached instinctively for one of his pistols before he remembered that Fleur had taken them. A couple of shots cracked through the air and they heard a scream, then something human thudded back into the bodywork of the coach. Hoofs thundered past the vehicle and in seconds the carriage horses had been drawn to a halt.
"Out!" The door was flung open and Raoul found himself staring down the muzzle of a blunderbuss. "Your rapier, man! Disarm!" Scowling, Raoul obeyed and stepped down onto the forest floor with an ill grace. There were at least four horsemen. In the poor light he could only see the mask of the man closest but he did not think they were common highwaymen. Deserters, probably. One of them was unhooking the lantern from the coach. Two of the others had pistols pointing at him. The growing darkness was on his side but he doubted he could outrun them even if he headed for where the trees were thickest.
"Do something!" pleaded the tax collector, trying to calm his hysterical wife as he helped her out. Unarmed against four? raged Raoul. Oh yes, and he could walk on water.
"Credentials!" The pistol jerked a command at him. Jaw clenched, Raoul slowly unbuttoned his tunic then raised his hands to collar height while the man thrust a hand into his breast pocket and withdrew the pass and letter of authority. The man with the torch kneed his horse close so his leader might examine the papers.
"Deputy," crooned the leader with a maliciousness that made Raoul wonder if he would see next day's sunrise. Vindictive eyes met his as the man refolded the papers and slid them inside his riding boot. Then he signalled to Raoul to step away from the coach and nodded to his colleague, who raised his pistols and shot the other two passengers.
"Jesus!" screamed Raoul as the older man fell choking to his knees and crashed forward onto the leaves. The woman had been hurled back into the coach by the impact of the shot. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Raoul swung round to help her.
"Leave her!"
"But she's not—"
"I said leave her!"
"What kind of bastards are you?"
Two of them had dismounted. They surrounded him now. The woman's heaving filled the silence between them.
In a few seconds they roughly stripped Raoul of his tunic, sash and shoes.
"Now, your turn." The leader laughed. "I want you to grovel for mercy, king-killer!"
"Go to hell!" Raoul jerked his head back defiantly.
He struggled as two of them grabbed him by the arms while the third drove a fist into his stomach. Gasping, he tumbled to his knees, doubled over in agony. A savage kick from behind sent him sprawling face down.
"Spread him."
Spread him! Oh Christ, what were they going to do to him? He tried to resist as gloved hands savagely dragged his arms out across the ground.
"We're wasting time. What's this about?" protested one of the men.
"Bring the torch closer! Citizen animal, here, was a second-rate painter before he took to murdering."
"Who are you?"
The pistol shot deafened him. Searing pain ripped up his arm. Someone was screaming an oath and he realised it was him. Where his right hand had been was a mass of blood.
"I said who are you?" Each word was a gasp. This was it. His revolution and his life were over but somehow it mattered that death had a name.
"Philippe, Duc de Montbulliou."
Death did have a name.
"Finish it!" One of the others was edgy.
"Oh, I'll finish it. A piece of him at a time. A shot for every hurt this cur has inflicted on my family."
Tense, Raoul gritted his teeth and waited for the bastard to fire again. He heard the click of metal.
But the burst of fire came from the coach. One of the attackers screamed and toppled from his saddle. Raoul scrambled to his heels.
His breath came in short bursts. If he could only... Shots rang out at him. Something exploded below his hip, a throbbing pain so intense that he almost passed out, but his mind kept burning like a candle flame that wouldn't die. Then he felt the crack of pain against his skull and the candle went out.
* * *
"It's just as well you didn't shoot Monsieur de Villaret, ma petite, else we should all be looking through the little window tomorrow morning," M. Beugneux exclaimed, wincing with discomfort as he eased the bolster behind his back with his good hand. "Ah, reheated br-broth, how enthralling. It's my shoulder that is w-wounded, not my appetite."
"Hmff." The broth was steaming and Fleur needed to navigate it past the carved teak elephant, the pedestal bearing a naked Pompeian athlete and the Viennese harpsichord. The chef followed her in with a tray of coffee, and paused, goggled-eyed.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "This is a museum, monsieur. How did you acquire all this stuff?"
Beneath his tasselled nightcap, M. Beugneux's smirk was reminiscent of Machiavelli's expression after his latest rat, but the gentleman offered no explanations.
"Eh, patronne, I forgot." Thomas fumbled in his leather waistcoat pocket. "This arrived for you from the Messagèries while I was out in the stable. I thought it best to wait until you were in a better frame of mind."
Fleur bit back a retort as she unfolded the unsealed paper. It contained a single sentence. She read it aloud in absolute fury.
Judge not, that ye be not judged. R.
"It's the Sermon on the Mount," M Beugneux observed unnecessarily.
"The Order from the Mountain morelike!" Fleur flounced angrily from the bedside. "How dare he quote the Bible at me!"
Not when the Republic guillotined good men like the Abbé Gombault and turned nuns out to starve! Judge not, that ye be not judged. So de Villaret was not prepared to answer for his sins and his message was a clear warning that she was in his power. Well if he thought he was going to be returning to an obedient little skirt waiting to be tumbled, he was mistaken.
With intense satisfaction, she crushed the paper and lobbed it into the fire, pleased to see de Villaret's handwriting brown and fracture in the flame. "There!" Hands clasped behind her back, she stood defiantly, daring them to argue.
"The deputy is not a stupid man." M. Beugneux blew a long, slow breath across the bowl and mopped the rime of broth from his thin lips with a shaky right hand.
He was right. Her rashness this morning had put them all at risk.
"You think I let the horse run away with the cart, do you?" she challenged, singling out M. Beugneux, but it was Thomas who nodded.
Found guilty, Fleur folded her arms defensively. "If that vindictive cur thinks I am going to purr around his b
ootcuffs when he gets back..." she muttered over her shoulder. "Maybe he's already denounced me. Maybe it'll be a matter of days. Hours, even." If she was being melodramatic, she had good reason. Like many citizens going about their everyday lives, Fleur had tried to ignore the slam of the guillotine's falling blade, but the two worlds were at last colliding.
"Truth has a strange way of bubbling out, given time," M. Beugneux remarked. "Maybe things aren't what they seem."
"Like you, eh?" Thomas employed the nail of his little finger as a toothpick, and then added, "You know what, patronne, I'd say your father had more enemies than there are fleas on a dog's rump. DeVillaret was one of many."
Fleur found her way to the open window and stood looking out on the moonlit backyard, her arms cradling her body. A rat skittered soundlessly along the top of the wall.
Papa had hanged the ratcatcher at Clerville for poaching. Quick to judge and slow to forgive, that had been Papa. Like the day he had horsewhipped one of David's young apprentices for a misdemeanour. She recalled crouching by the balustrade and watching the struggling youth, hurling abuse at her father, hauled down the staircase by two of the footmen. And Papa had stood wigless, clothed in his silken dressing-gown, looking on from above like some vengeful king, while her sisters had quietly closed the door of their bedchamber and then burst into shrieks of laughter.
Papa must have noticed the rustle of Fleur's dress for after the boy had been dragged off along the servants' passage, he had swung round to confront her.
"So you saw, Françoise-Antoinette. And what did you make of that?"
"I do not know, Papa," she had replied honestly, "I saw you beat that boy."
"You saw impudence rewarded. Remember that, child. Give an inch and filth like him will take a mile."
"Yes, Papa." But at nine years old she had not understood the sudden afternoon violence nor why her father had been barelegged. It was several years later that she had discovered her sisters had maliciously shut the apprentice in the secret passage behind her father's private apartments. The lad had fumbled his way along behind Papa's bedchamber while her father had been tupping the chambermaid. Hearing the noise, Papa had discovered him behind the panelling and had been so furious, he had seized his riding crop and viciously beaten the lad, refusing to hear his explanation and accusing him of deliberately playing the voyeur. Yes, the apprentice had been a prize braggart—even Fleur had taken revenge on him for calling her names—but he had deserved a fair hearing.
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