“I’ll try, but I’m not anyone important. You have a great deal of faith in me.”
Eugénie sets the glass down with a sharp sound, not looking at the table. She leans forward, eyes gleaming fierce and bright. “Father did too. He remarked that you have a sharp mind. He also said you have a gift for connecting with people, and that it was your greatest asset and your worst drawback as a spy.”
I can hear my uncle in her words, and realize she recites a quotation from him almost verbatim.
She keeps talking too fast, her voice rasping from her earlier tears. “He said you could get people to tell you things, but you also opened yourself up to them in the process and felt too much sympathy for them. He said you were likely to befriend anyone, if you wanted, but you probably wouldn’t be able to remain distant afterward.” She leans farther forward, arms resting on her knees, fingers outstretched beseechingly. She sounds like herself again when she speaks. “You see? You know the right people. I know you hate asking for favors, but you must. Please, Giselle.”
I feel stunned, after listening to my uncle’s cool appraisal of my personality, and then the contrast of Eugénie’s urgent pleading. She doesn’t need to beg me for help; I won’t abandon her. My fingers fiddle with the stone pendant of my Bastille necklace as I consider possible options. “I do have some revolutionary contacts.” I decide not to give Eugénie the details yet, in case my first plan fails and I need to come up with another. “I will talk to them and see what I can do.”
Eugénie leaps from her chair and throws her arms around me. “Thank you.” When she draws back, her eyes swell with tears again, but she manages to summon a tremulous smile. “At least one good thing came of this. We are friends again.”
I pull her back into another hug. She’s grown in the months we’ve spent apart, and is almost as tall as I am now. “Hopefully more than one good thing will happen, and we’ll obtain his freedom, too.”
After I see her into her carriage, I collapse back into the armchair, swept with a sense of dread.
I can think of only one person significant enough among the revolutionaries to help me. And to reach Robespierre, I need to enlist the aid of Léon.
Chapter Twenty-one
AUGUST 1792
When I go to the watchmaker’s shop in the evening, I’m told Léon is in his room above the store. I hesitate before knocking. It’s one thing to speak to him at the shop counter, quite another to disturb his privacy.
Opening the door, he stares, clearly surprised to see me. I take the opportunity to study him, noticing the smudged shadows under his eyes and the new extra prominence of his cheekbones. He isn’t too thin, exactly, but food prices have been erratic and many people are missing a few pounds for it, including myself. Léon looks like he’d benefit from a hearty meal and a long, restful night. An urge to stroke his hair while he lies with his head in my lap sweeps over me, and it fills me with sadness for the lost intimacy.
“I haven’t borrowed any books lately,” he says, referring to my last unexpected visit to see him. “You must be here for another reason.”
I give a tiny nod. “Yes. I need to speak with you.”
“Come in, then.” He steps away from the door, sweeping his arm to invite me inside.
“I expected more argument,” I admit, surveying the small room. The star-patterned quilt draped over the bed is a little rumpled, and judging by the lamplight nearby and the ragged copy of Le Morte d’Arthur on the dresser beside the bed, Léon had been reading before I came in.
His eyes look dark and unreadable. Finally his mouth quirks in a rueful half smile. “So did I.” The smile fades as he notices my Bastille necklace, untucked from the collar of my white gown. He reaches out and touches the chain so lightly that I feel the heat of his fingertip more than the brush of his skin. A wave of emotion rocks through me: the burn of heartbreak, a shock of hope, a frisson of desire. I lick my lips, feeling my breath grow suddenly shallow and rapid as my heartbeat accelerates.
He looks up from the necklace, staring into my face with intensity. “You still wear this?”
“I do.”
Léon flicks a glance back to the necklace and then to the floor. When his gaze returns to me, his aloofness has returned, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “It adds to your costume. You look quite the revolutionary lady.”
I wear a long-sleeved white dress decorated with tricolor embroidery, the popular style I’d worn long before our engagement ended, but the sharpness of his tone implies I’m faking it, a royalist in disguise as a revolutionary, and it hurts.
“The necklace is one of my most treasured possessions.” The stark truth of my answer strikes him, I think, for he turns away, hiding his expression, before sitting on the bed.
“Be seated in the chair, if you wish. Tell me what you came for.” He folds his arms across his chest, and the posture highlights the lean muscles of his forearms, exposed by his casually rolled sleeves.
I want to hear more about him, but I sense he won’t welcome personal questions, and besides, Eugénie is relying on me. “My uncle has been arrested on suspicion of anti-revolutionary activity. The charges are false. He’s not a royalist.”
“Are you certain? Perhaps it runs in the family.” His lip curls slightly.
I rise from my perched seat on the edge of the hard chair, only realizing I’ve done it when I find myself prowling forward toward him, scowling. “I’m certain. Like you, he was disgusted by my role in Varennes. Even without knowing this, you should never doubt his interests in the revolution. He initiated my spy work, and it turned out he had Geneviève working for him too.” Dimly, I see that this information shocks him, but I’m too angry at the jab to pause. “Léon, I want to apologize for lying to you. I should never have done it, and I’ve regretted it every moment since. But I won’t apologize for doing what I thought was right. You and my uncle have both treated me as though the matter was something to be simply compartmentalized and understood, like the colors black and white. But I was the one seeing the royal family day after day, witnessing the most intimate moments of their lives. I watched the queen weep with dread; I saw her children frozen with terror. Maybe I should have held myself back and tried not to care about them, but in the end I made the only choice I could. Maybe it wasn’t the right one, but it was mine.”
He rises too, standing so close to me that I feel the heat of his body and I have to tilt my head to stare furiously into his eyes.
“Is this what you came for? To shout at me for being angry at you?” The shadow in his voice only makes its soft rumble more dangerous.
“No.” I look down, chagrined. “I didn’t mean to say that, but it feels good to have it out. I came to ask if you can get me an interview with Robespierre.”
His brows arch nearly to his hairline. “Why?”
“I’m going to confess that my uncle hired me to spy on the queen. It should prove his loyalty to the revolution.”
Léon abruptly paces to the window, then back to my side, his movements tense. “It’s dangerous, Giselle.”
It’s the first time he has said my name, and hearing it makes a spark leap through me. “Every day is dangerous and unpredictable,” I say, and it comes out more harshly than I intended. “I went into Tuileries and saw the gory aftermath. It was burned into my eyes for days after. I know of the danger.”
“It will bring your name to the attention of some of the most powerful men in Paris. Fervent revolutionaries prone to suspicion and drastic actions.”
“Even so, it must be done.”
He is quiet for so long that I think he’ll refuse. I shift, preparing to leave, to think of another plan.
“All right,” says Léon at last. “I’ll come with you.”
“That’s not necessary.” My mouth forms the words stiffly. “I know you don’t want to be near me, that you won’t forgive me. You’ve made it clear enough.”
“No, Giselle.” The dark glitter of his eyes matches his forceful
tone. “I’m not offering because manners dictate it. I’m insisting because you have a better chance of convincing them if I’m there to vouch for your story. I’ve been too busy of late to go to Café du Foy, but I’ve had enough philosophical discussions with Robespierre and Marat and Desmoulins that they have at least a small measure of trust in me. You need me there.”
“I—Thank you.” My independent pride deflated, I lower my voice. “When will be convenient for you to visit Robespierre?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll get the afternoon off at the shop downstairs. We need to hurry. The jails are crowded—they’ll start using the guillotine soon, just to make room.”
The vicious, practical truth in his words makes me shiver. “I’ll meet you here after lunch, then?”
Léon nods. “Wear a dress with a slightly lower collar, and the necklace. Let them see you wearing part of the Bastille.”
“I will.” I linger in the doorway, feeling awkward. “Well … good night. Enjoy your reading.” I gesture toward Le Morte d’Arthur.
He shrugs. “I’ve read it many times, but it’s comforting. One can’t read Rousseau and Voltaire all the time.”
“Of course not.” A tiny smile springs to my lips. This is the most natural way he’s spoken to me during our meeting, and it makes me happy to end it this way.
Chapter Twenty-two
AUGUST 1792
Like me, Léon has dressed carefully for our meeting with Robespierre, cultivating a pro-revolutionary appearance. He wears a tight-fitting blue coat with red trim, and a crisp white shirt underneath. Instead of the white pants of his national guard’s uniform, he has chosen black, and added a further revolutionary touch with a small tricolor ribbon pinned to his hat.
“You look well,” I tell him. It’s an understatement; I can hardly prevent myself from staring at the way the coat highlights the broadness of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips.
He lifts his shoulder in a nonchalant gesture, but the corner of his mouth curls in a brief self-conscious smile. “It’s an important appointment.” Pursing his lips, he studies my appearance, and when he reaches a hand toward my face, my heart flutters in wild excitement. He only tugs a loose curl forward, though, letting it fall along the curve of my cheek. “There. It might help if you look delicate and soft, like you were entirely led into spying by your uncle, whose anti-royalists interests are so great that he recruited you to help him. Your dress is nice,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Very revolutionary.”
The small compliment is more than I ought to expect, so I squash the prickle of disappointment that he wasn’t admiring me, only analyzing the strategy of my outfit. I did choose my dress with care, displaying tricolor against the formal cut of my bodice and skirt.
Upon reaching Robespierre’s abode, Léon and I are admitted at once but directed to the library with instructions that Robespierre won’t be available for about half an hour. Léon browses the books, but I’m too restless, and instead stride back and forth across the room, glancing at the papers on the desk with cursory interest, fighting the leftover spy’s urge to memorize them. There’s nothing interesting, though, only notes on the last constitution. Robespierre is too clever to leave secret plans lying about.
“Any other works you’d like to borrow?” I ask Léon, tracing my finger along the spine of a Latin book.
“No. There are things I’m curious to read, but I won’t trouble him to lend them to me.”
Wondering if this means Léon isn’t as friendly with Robespierre as he once was, I glance up at his face, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He looks surprisingly serene, although he drums his fingers restlessly along the bookshelf.
“Your collar is a bit crooked,” I tell him, noticing. “May I?” I reach toward a wrinkle in the fold of his white shirt.
“Please.” He clears a sudden hoarseness free of his throat.
When I brush against his neck, expertly tugging the collar straight, he twitches. The movement is difficult to describe: stronger than a tremble, not vehement enough for a flinch. I try not to touch his skin, but the stiffness of the coat means that it takes me a moment to properly fix the collar, and by the time I finish, Léon has gone still again, like a stone settling at the bottom of a pond.
“Sorry.” I tilt my face up toward his, inspecting my handiwork. “It looks better now, though.”
He licks his lips, eyelashes flickering as he looks away, and then back again, his gaze sliding slowly across my skin. Heat trails along my collarbones, coiling around my throat behind the necklace. I can’t help leaning closer to him, my head swirling with desire even though I should be frightened of the upcoming interview with Robespierre.
Léon rocks back on his heels. “We shouldn’t stand so close together. It isn’t proper.”
“Since when have you cared for proper?” I ask, rather waspishly. “You got me drunk and kissed me on the first night we met.”
A shadow curtains his face as he half-turns his head, scowling. “It was my wine—you didn’t have to drink it. And you kissed me first.”
“You wanted me to. And I wanted to.”
“I don’t want to talk about old, tarnished memories.” His sharp words slice into me. “Things are different now. I didn’t have to help you today, you know. Don’t torment me in return; it’s cruel.”
The unexpected admission makes me blink in surprise. “I wasn’t aware I had the power to torment you.”
He begins pacing along the length of the room, moving with fierce, contained energy. “If you didn’t, your betrayal of our trust wouldn’t have hurt so badly. If I felt nothing, I’d be able to forget you. I’d never again remember laughing with you, and I’d never dream of bitter retaliation, of making you feel as wretched as I did.”
“You want to forget me?” More than anything else he’s said to me since Varennes, this feels like a knife twisted into my heart. “I can’t help you with that, since I never succeeded in forgetting you. I don’t want to. But if it’s retaliation you want, you have the means. You have the power and the opportunity.”
“What do you mean?” He turns to face me, eyes narrowing.
My voice drops to a hiss. Even in a haze of fury, I’m conditioned to never speak openly about Varennes. “You know my greatest secret. You know what I did. You could have me bowing under the guillotine for it if you decided to tell your high-ranking friends.”
His lips part, eyes widening in horror. “You believe I could do that? You think I crave such a terrible revenge—that I’m a monster?” He crosses the room to stand in front of me, moving so quickly that I’ve hardly adjusted to his new closeness when he reaches out his hands and places them on either side of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. My breathing falters, my pulse rocketing like fireworks.
“No,” I whisper. My cheekbones grind against his palms. “I don’t believe it. But I think, maybe, I would let you.”
“Jesus Christ, Giselle.” Léon’s grip tightens, fingertips meeting behind my neck, and he draws me closer to his chest, tilting my head back. For one endless, ephemeral moment, my heart beats with frantic excitement and I revel in the warmth of his body pressing against mine. Then his lips cover mine in a hard, hungry kiss, hot as a brand and as dizzying as too much wine. My hands slide around his hips, linking behind his back and pulling him closer to me. I want to hold him forever. From the possessive way he slants his mouth over mine, deepening the kiss and gathering me more firmly into his arms, I think he wants the same thing, but I’m terrified to believe it in case I’m wrong. Then he makes a low growl in the back of his throat and trails softer kisses down my neck, across my exposed collarbone, and I stop thinking at all.
The rhythmic thud of hard-soled shoes on the wooden hall floor outside the library jolts us back to our senses. Léon straightens, loosening his grip on me. The footsteps move past the closed door, fading from earshot. Not Robespierre, not yet. Léon kisses me once more, gentler this time, and then takes a small step back. His eyes bl
aze with passion and his voice sounds smoky. “This isn’t over.”
I meet his scorching gaze. My lips feel swollen and my skin tingles. “No, it’s not.”
Aware that Robespierre could enter at any time, we seat ourselves in chairs on opposite sides of the fireplace, carefully avoiding eye contact, waiting in heavy silence. At least ten minutes pass before Robespierre swings the door open, and by then we’ve regained a semblance of composure.
“Citoyen Gauvain, how nice to see you,” he says jovially. “It’s been too long.” He turns to me. “And you—Citoyenne Aubry, isn’t it? It is an honor.”
He and Léon exchange small news and pleasantries, and at last Robespierre leans forward in his seat. “What brings you here today, Léon? You wouldn’t bring such a lovely companion to borrow a book.” His politeness doesn’t quite mask the curious glance sidling to me.
“Giselle has valuable information for you,” says Léon. He speaks with a smooth balance of confidentiality and enticement, but I know him well enough to see the strained look around his forehead. “It’s about a prisoner.”
Robespierre turns to me, arching one brow in curiosity.
“My uncle,” I say. “Pierre-Augustin Caron de Beaumarchais.”
“Ah yes. The playwright.” Robespierre’s wide mouth droops in a frown. “His plays were celebrated at court, I believe.”
“And throughout Paris. His plays pleased many people, although it is true that even the queen enjoyed his best one. He knew well enough how to interest the limp minds of the nobles.” I meet Robespierre’s gaze squarely. His eyes glint like a cat’s. “He spied on them for years.”
He straightens, fingers splaying across his thigh, as if he could snatch the truth out of the air. “Indeed? This is a very interesting statement, mademoiselle. In what capacity?”
“He got his start spying for the old king, and it was there he started to despise the excesses of the court. When the revolution began, he returned to spy work, this time against the royal family. He helped me obtain a position in the queen’s household as one of her wardrobe women and recruited me to spy on her. I reported back to him for two years.”
The Wardrobe Mistress Page 24