“You thought me very pretty once, Monsieur.” Sylvie smiled in place of prayer. “Do you still?”
“Your son—”
“Granted, I’m not as young as I was, but am I still your pretty girl?” She turned her head again, her clasped hands unmoving. “You’re still my boy, you know.”
“Please, Mademoiselle Dupire…”
Tessier’s words petered out and Sylvie turned on her knees and put her arms around his waist, pressing her face against his thigh. He dimly thought he should push her away, but instead, he linked his hands behind his back at the stark realization that she might see the scars and, somewhere in the distance, his own breath caught.
“My boy,” she murmured. “My good, good boy.”
“Mademoiselle Dupire,” he whispered, hating the way his voice almost shook as her hands brushed back and forth over his buttocks, bringing back too many memories with every caress. “Please don’t.”
“I watched you,” Sylvie said softly, her words almost lost in the darkness. “Just look at you—standing in the Conciergerie with the queen on her knees.”
I wanted you more than you ever knew, he wanted to say, longed to surrender to her as he had on so many evenings in another lifetime. You were always the other side of me.
“Tell me about your son—who did he supply with the tincture of opiate?”
“Have you missed me?” Sylvie’s mouth pressed to his breeches, and a decade or more fell away when he hardened at her touch. “You did, didn’t you?”
“Who did he supply?” Despite himself, he put his palms gently to her cold cheeks, easing her away.
She slid her gaze across to the scars for no more than a moment, then took his right hand and brought it to her lips, kissing the skin where it stretched and glistened. Softly, tenderly, Sylvie slipped his index finger into her mouth and encircled it with her tongue.
His heart pounding, Tessier went to lift her from her knees, but instead she drew him down until he was on the ground beside her, the rough earth floor digging into his flesh. He felt nothing but her mouth over his, lips parting and his body growing warmer despite the cold air.
“I missed my boy, too,” Sylvie cooed into the kiss, her hands moving deftly to his shoulders. “I would hear about what you’d been up to and I was so proud.”
“I looked for you,” he muttered, lowering his head until he could rest it against the swell of her bosom. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“How could I?” Sylvie wrapped one arm around him and pressed him close to her breast, the nipple hardening beneath the thin fabric. Despite the darkness and the linen that separated their bodies he could almost see the milk-white skin, feel the softness of her against him. “A boy has to make his own way in the world, doesn’t he? Look at what you’ve become.”
She reached round to work at the fastening of Tessier’s breeches and she slipped her hand inside to take hold of him, a touch he had never expected to feel again. Her grip tightened until a gasp of pain escaped his gritted teeth. He kissed the nightgown beneath his lips hungrily, pulling her to him. As she murmured and encouraged, Sylvie worked her hand faster and faster, squeezing her fingers until every touch was exquisite agony. At the suggestion of her fingernails, he finally let out a cry and felt the release that he hadn’t experienced in so long. She kept working until there was nothing left within him, that he had given all he could. The world swam before his eyes and a deep sigh escaped his chest. He breathed her in with the next breath, lost in the woman who cradled him.
“You’re a good boy,” she whispered into his hair, drawing her hand out of his breeches. “Am I to follow her to the guillotine now then? Will you put your girl to the razor?”
“If I must,” he muttered, fumbling at the lacing with stiff fingers as he tried to regain some sort of control. Yet the slender arm around his shoulders kept him from lifting his head from her breast, holding him to her. “No exceptions, Sylvie.”
She said nothing but took his hand in her own and placed it on her breast, massaging her body through the linen until her other hand left his shoulder. Then he could move again, bringing his lips to kiss the point in her throat where her pulse beat.
“No exceptions, Vincent,” she told him, a statement more than a question. “But you’ll always remember me here in her cell at the Conciergerie, more a queen than she ever was?”
“You are more than a queen to me,” he replied, tracing the line of her throat with kisses.
The laugh that escaped Sylvie’s lips was low and the disbelief he detected in it sent a pang of sadness through his body. In reply he pulled her closer to him as though that alone might convince her of the sentiment.
“I bow before you now as I always have,” Tessier whispered as she put her hand in his hair and dragged his head roughly upward, until their eyes were level.
“We’ll see, Monsieur Tessier,” she replied, putting her parted lips to his again. “We’ll see.”
Chapter Twelve
With night having fallen over the city, William found himself peering up at the house at where he was to perform another, unexpected, rescue. The news of Gaudet’s child had filled him with both surprise and irritation, the additional burden and distraction not one he had bargained for. Not only that, but the celebrated playwright smelled like a deb’s posy, the journey through Paris delayed by Gaudet’s insistence on reminiscing at every street they passed, seemingly having forgotten his very life was on the line.
“Are you certain,” William whispered, “that this is the house?”
“This is Abel’s home.” Gaudet nodded toward the small, narrow building where a dim light burned in one window. “And my girl will know we are close by.”
“We knock, we get her and we go.” He glanced around, cautious to the extreme, every second one that could bring discovery. “Understood?”
“Thank you, chérie.” Gaudet clapped excitedly and rapped at the narrow door. From within came a cacophony of yaps and barks, the sound of scratching, as though a dozen dogs were clamoring at the panels and, somewhere beneath it, a wavering old male voice cooed, “Quiet now, angels…back to your beds.”
William waited with as much patience as he could muster and, as soon as the door opened, announced, “We’re here for the girl.”
The tiny old man within gave a cry of delight and declared, “I believe the little one already knows.” At that came the unmistakable sound of paws racing down the distant wooden stairs. A tiny white poodle flew along the hallway and leaped into Gaudet’s arms, lapping at his face as he cooed happily, Monsieur Abel beaming with obvious adoration.
“The girl,” William pressed, certain they had no time to spend coddling animals. “Where is she, Monsieur?”
“Papillon, say hello to Bobbins.” Gaudet held out the poodle, its glittering dark eyes regarding William shrewdly. “Papa has missed you so, princess.”
“I don’t understand.” William realized, even as the words left his mouth, that this was an almost permanent state of affairs where Gaudet was concerned. “This is a dog.”
“And your suits are ready and packed.” Abel pottered back into the house. “I had thought you were arrested. I did not tell the mademoiselle, I had not wanted to worry the poor child.”
“It’s a bloody dog!” William felt as if he were fast losing hold of reality.
“Let Papa collect his suits, Angel,” Gaudet cooed, cradling the poodle beneath his arm. “Then we are off to find Auntie Claudine and little François…have you had a splendid time?”
“Is anyone listening to me at all?” William tried, pinching his nose.
“Are you to carry the suits?” Abel asked, leading them along a darkened hallway. “You will need a carriage.”
“We don’t have a carriage—”
“Then you will need strong arms.” He threw open the door to a workroom in which were piled what seemed like dozens of bright, folded fabrics, far from the four suits Gaudet had mentioned. William took it all in in asto
nishment, not quite believing this was happening when Abel said, “Here are the suits, all ready for you.”
“We cannot take them,” William declared flatly. “You can take what you can wear, Gaudet, and that is it.”
“You said, I think, I might take ten?” Gaudet asked innocently, the pout already returning to what was, supposedly, one of the most enchanting faces in London. If it was, its attraction passed William by as he stared at the playwright, once again wondering what madhouse he had landed in.
“Take what you can carry,” William turned for the door. “I want no part in it.”
“I cannot carry suits and my girl!” Gaudet gave a theatrical sigh. “You must carry Papillon, she would not like the mud in the streets, I know.”
“She does not,” Abel agreed warmly, “and she will only sleep on the green silk I brought up from Calais…we have gone through an ocean of it.”
A moment later, William found himself with his arms full of poodle, the dog regarding him with an expression he did not find entirely comfortable. “Right. We go now.”
“I must select the suits I adore above all others,” Gaudet decided. “Monsieur Abel, the remainder will be a gift to you.” Abel agreed readily and there then passed what seemed like hours as Gaudet deliberated over this shade of green, that hue of blue, sorting through acres of silk and lace, brocade and threads and all the time the poodle stared at William, eyes bright.
“Your dog,” he told Gaudet, “is staring at me.”
“Do I want the blue of a summer sky or the blue of the tall chap’s eyes?”
“Does it matter?” William shook his head. “Blue is blue. Can we go?”
“Blue is blue?” Gaudet repeated, he and Abel laughing uproariously and, at the sound of it, William froze, widening his eyes.
Gaudet’s laugh was unlike anything he had ever heard, piercing through him in a way that had him fighting the urge to drop the confounded dog and clap his hands over his ears.
“Will you please,” he managed through gritted teeth, “choose a damned suit?”
The laughter ceased suddenly, William surprised to find that the panes of glass in the window had not actually been shattered by it, and Gaudet said, “Two more minutes, chérie…”
“Two minutes…” He gave a sigh, thinking longingly of a particularly fine brandy that he had not tasted in far too long. “Two minutes.”
What must have been close to an hour passed and finally Gaudet stood, his arms laden with an enormous amount of clothing.
“No.”
“I do not do no.”
“I do not,” William felt his last remaining thread of patience snap, “give a fig for what you do or do not do, sir. I have been charged with your safety and you cannot carry that pile of gaudiness all the way to our destination.” Shifting the poodle into one arm, he approached the playwright, pulling out a suit at random. “This one. Take this one. Leave the rest. I will hear no more on the subject.”
“Oh.” Gaudet’s face dropped and he looked to Abel and said, “Her late majesty’s favorite, God rest her.” Both men exchanged a suitably forlorn frown and Gaudet sighed, handing it to Abel. “I shall also take the shirt from Bordeaux, you know the one…have you a portmanteau?”
“Of course.” The old man nodded. “And if there is any way to send the rest of the items to you in London, I shall find it.”
William felt a flicker of something he recognized a moment later as guilt, before crossly pushing it aside. “Your safety,” he pointed out in an attempt to ameliorate his perceived unfeelingness, “is more important than clothes, Monsieur.”
“She adored the blue,” Gaudet said wistfully as Abel set the clothing into a portmanteau. “You have chosen well, cherie.”
“Well.” He cleared his throat, certain no good could come of quibbling the name at this point. “Shall we go?”
“Monsieur Abel, you are a saint.” Gaudet kissed the old man’s cheek. “Thank you, sir.”
“Go safely,” the elderly man replied. “And I shall send the suits on.”
Still clutching the poodle, William made for the door, listening carefully for any sound out of the ordinary before opening it. Finally, he gestured for Gaudet to follow, slipping out into the night with the playwright trotting alongside, swinging the portmanteau.
As they went, William was acutely aware that the poodle was still staring at him, a fact he did his best to ignore when he muttered to Gaudet, “A dog… I thought we were rescuing a child.”
Gaudet answered with a hmph, clearly too pleased with his bounty to argue. On they went through the darkened streets. The dog’s gaze remained locked on William. They were almost at the door of Charron’s workshop when William saw a vision that he knew too well, his stomach jolting at the sight of two armed soldiers standing beside a jet-black carriage. He had ridden in that vehicle many times since his arrival in Paris, always with Vincent Tessier.
“Get back,” he whispered to Gaudet, grabbing the Frenchman’s arm and bustling him into the nearest alleyway.
The whinnying of one of the two horses at the head of the carriage split the silence. Then there was a click as the polished ebony door of the carriage opened. A single foot emerged first, the delicate filigree shoe buckle catching the moonlight before Tessier unfolded his tall, thin frame from within, every inch the figure of menace so feared in these streets. As though someone had called his name, he paused and looked around, face pallid and drawn beneath the moonlight. He wore the outfit of the execution day, a shadow in the funereal black frock coat with its silver buttons, scarred hands that had beaten and burned not covered by those well-worn leather gloves.
William held his breath, faintly aware that his fingers were digging into Gaudet’s arm.
“Those scars…” Gaudet murmured. “Gloves for a beating—he took them off for the lash…”
And those burns—long since healed but the gnarled skin left ravaged—stretched glistening and taut across prominent bones like a stripped-back anatomical drawing. William hated having to shake those hands, to see them knitted on the desk, handling food, holding the bloodied crop when Robespierre had made his unexpected visit.
“Shut up,” William snapped. “Do you want to get us killed?”
Tessier turned in a full circle to survey the street, tilting his head up to peer at the windows where an unseen audience would, no doubt, be watching. After a moment, he turned his head from side to side slightly then, almost deliberately, took the black leather gloves from his coat and pulled them on. He peered toward the shadows where the pair were concealed. A moment passed before he pushed his gaunt face forward just a little and those blazing, almost colorless eyes narrowed. The expression he wore grew hawk-like and he squinted into the gloom, flexing his fingers as he tried to focus.
“Home,” Tessier instructed the coachman suddenly. “I believe it is too late for politics.”
William did not let out his breath until Tessier was in the coach. There was another pause before the horses were coaxed into life, the carriage moving off at a steady pace a moment later.
“I write plays,” Gaudet said, his hand closing over William’s for a second, as though it were a confession, his shoulders sagging. “That’s all I really do. I write plays and I enjoy life. I’m not made for this kind of thing.”
You are not the only one, William responded silently, instead murmuring a moment later, “I have promised to see you safely home.” He found himself holding the playwright’s gaze then as he added, “I am a man of my word.”
Gaudet inclined his head and admitted, “I believe that is true.”
“But you must tell me one thing,” William added, the two of them very close now in the darkness.
“Go on,” Gaudet urged.
“Why is that confounded animal still staring at me?”
“She is quite enchanted,” Gaudet deadpanned with a wry smile, “by your exquisite beauty.”
William could only stare at Gaudet for a long moment at that, wo
ndering again how his life had become this. “We need to get inside,” he concluded. “Come on.”
It was with a sigh of relief that William stepped into the workshop and, once Gaudet was safely beside him, closed the door. One look at Charron told him that something was wrong, the cabinetmaker sitting before the window, the walnut jewelry box gleaming in one hand and a polishing cloth in the other. Without acknowledging their presence, he worked the cloth over the already perfect surface slowly, back and forth as though setting a rhythm.
“What is it?” William asked after observing for a long moment. “What has happened?”
“Tessier took them away,” Charron whispered, his hand stilling. “They put me in a cell for a couple of hours and then they brought me back here… I don’t know what happened to Bastien or Sylvie…”
William closed his eyes briefly, his orders from Dee clear in his mind. “I have to get Gaudet out of Paris,” he murmured finally.
“The herbalist, Madame Masson, gave Bastien’s name under interrogation… She made the sleeping draft,” Charron explained. “There are spies everywhere—once Tessier started asking around, plenty of people would have been happy to point the finger…”
“I cannot help them.” William hated himself at that moment. “I am sorry.”
“I know,” Charron assured him, staring out into the street. “I could do nothing for Plamondon, you can do nothing for Sylvie and Bastien…you must go tonight.”
“We must,” William agreed, meeting Gaudet’s gaze. “Be ready to leave shortly, Monsieur.”
“I wish you both well,” Charron said simply. “If I can get them out, if we can follow. Where are you heading for?”
“Le Havre,” William informed the shattered man. “We are headed for Le Havre.”
“Go safe,” Charron told them, his head whipping round at a heavy knock on the front door as a second knock sounded from the back.
“Open the door,” came a shout, that familiar jet black carriage drawing to a halt outside the window. “Open the door, Charron.”
The Star of Versailles Page 9