“This water,” William spluttered as he approached, “is freezing.”
“Is that your excuse for your diminutive state?” William’s response was to splash Gaudet, who commiserated mischievously, “I cannot imagine what it must be like to be English—poor you.”
“Better English than French.”
“Nothing is better than French.” When William responded with a disbelieving laugh, Gaudet added, “And being French and stunning, well, that is best of all. I’ll wager you’ve never seen anyone quite like me.”
“You’d be right.” William trod water close by, his tone far from complimentary.
“The quality of my skin is second to none.” Gaudet cast an appraising glance at his companion. “A fine bone china.”
“If bone china were red.”
“I am not…” The words petered out as Gaudet glanced down, eyes widening at the irrefutable proof that his fine white skin, so fashionable and cultivated, had caught the dreaded sun. “I look like a farm hand.”
“Do I seem amused to you?” William’s tone was deadpan. “Because I am.”
“You are a beast.” Gaudet splashed water at William in what he knew full well was a flirtatious manner, looking forward to seeing how this altogether too serious man would respond. “And I am a beauty, so we are meant to be a pair.”
“I am not a beast.” He was rewarded with a splash in return. “You may be red forever.”
“Nonsense, Guillaume,” Gaudet replied, enjoying the soothing water on his back, the carefree moments they were sharing.
“Forever,” William continued, clearly warming to his theme as he swam after Gaudet, “and ever and ever.”
“Red or not, I am still beautiful.” A snort was the Englishman’s reply to that, nearly catching up with Gaudet. “And I will always possess the finest arse in this or any other land.” He glanced over his shoulder at William, adding for good measure, “Better than yours, Guillaume.”
“Bloody well isn’t,” came the spirited reply.
In the middle of the lake, Gaudet turned, treading water as he examined his sun-reddened shoulders. Not that it mattered, he knew—if Alexandre Gaudet went to Drury Lane with red shoulders, then the following morning, everyone would want them.
“Are you admiring yourself?” William asked, disbelieving.
“Of course, the alternative is to admire you and I’m hardly going to do that.”
“I’ll have you know, sir,” William was clearly affronted, “that I have been much admired in my time.”
“By the blind?” Gaudet squawked with laughter, amused at his own joke. “No, no—by blind imbeciles.”
“Not blind anybody.” William gestured wildly in the water. “And if I put my mind to it, nobody in the room would so much as glance at you.”
“Dreaming again.”
“Think what you like.” The Englishman turned and started to swim away, annoyingly serene.
There was silence then as William swam, apparently, and inexplicably as far as Gaudet was concerned, behaving as if the playwright didn’t exist.
“You are ignoring me, sir?” Gaudet followed him. “How dare you ignore me, the man whose pout inspired the late queen to poetry.”
“It inspired who to what?” William was clearly pretending not to hear.
“How dare you impugn Her Majesty’s poetry, Bobbins, God rest her soul?” Gaudet huffed. “She was an artiste—we composed works together at the harp…”
“You and a harp.”
“Me and a harp what?”
“I can just imagine it.”
“Can you now?” Gaudet swam closer. “If only you might have known La Reine—such a gracious lady…”
There was a decidedly non-committal noise at that, William managing to shrug in the water. That was one step too far for Gaudet, the perceived slight to the queen he adored, wept for, one tease he was unwilling to take. He turned and set off for the bank, calling angrily, “Shrug at her orphaned children, sir, as they sit alone in their prison cells and see how far it takes you.”
Gaudet heard movement in the water behind him but didn’t acknowledge the other man until a hand closed on his shoulder, William suddenly near when he replied, “If you were truly that fond of her, then I am sorry for your loss.”
“She was not as they would have you think.” Gaudet turned then, the past too near once more. “Antonia was a friend to me, a fine mother to her little ones. Democracy is no excuse for barbarism.”
William was silent for a moment and Gaudet saw a multitude of emotions play across his face. “The world,” he settled for finally, “is an unfair place.”
“Men are cruel.” Gaudet shook his head, never more sure of anything. “If the world is unfair, then that is why.”
“The end result,” William told him, hand still on his shoulder, “is the same.”
“It’s a good shoulder, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“My shoulder is a fine shoulder—the finest in France.” William relinquished his grip in response to Gaudet’s reply, muttering something Gaudet could not quite catch. “Second only to my other shoulder.”
“You prefer one shoulder to the other?”
“Which of my shoulders do you prefer?”
“They both look the same to me,” came the disinterested reply. “I’ve got two of my own.”
“Yours are all right”—Gaudet shrugged—“for English shoulders.”
“English shoulders?”
There was, Gaudet noted, a definite pinkness to the Englishman’s ears whenever he grew animated. With that realization, he howled with laughter, clapping and crying, “Your ears! They are pink!”
“Are not all ears?”
“They are pinker still now.” He drew a little closer, just inches from William, and laid a hand on his shoulder, feeling the strength beneath his palm. “And now, red!”
“They are not.”
Gaudet’s other hand came to rest on William’s opposite shoulder and he peered at the man who had saved him, studying his face. “You are troubled.”
“I’m in a lake with a naked Frenchman.” Something flickered across William’s face before it was gone. “Of course I’m troubled.”
“If you were a girl, you’d kiss me now,” Gaudet told him coquettishly before, with a flourish of a dive, he swam away.
Clearly William had no response to that because a moment later he was climbing out, heading for his clothes.
“What on earth?” Dee’s voice, stern and commanding, shattered the peace from where he sat in the saddle of an enormous black horse on the opposite bank. He turned to the young lady whose gray mount followed and told her, “Mademoiselle, avert your eyes. Monsieur—” With that, he pointed at William. “It appears we must chat once more.”
With a tut the girl reined her horse round, the long plait she wore bouncing as she trotted away.
Gaudet, meanwhile, called cheerily, “Might there be clean clothes? Mine are terribly muddy…”
“We fell in a ditch,” William protested, “We stopped to get clean.”
“Clothes and provisions may be found at the farmhouse beyond the copse.” The newly arrived figure pointed to the near horizon. “If your horseplay might be put off for a while we shall see you there shortly.”
“Horseplay…” Gaudet heard the naked Englishman mutter, already pulling on his breeches as Dee left, his horse galloping away toward the trees. “We were getting clean.”
“I shall swim a while more. I shall not be dictated to,” he decided, no intention of being barked at no matter how blue the eyes of the barker. “You may watch me, if you wish.”
“Of course I don’t wish.” William scooped up his clothes, gesticulating quite absurdly as far as Gaudet was concerned. “We are wanted men, sir, and not in a good way—be so kind as to extract yourself from the water this minute.”
“I will not,” Gaudet snapped, tired of the running, of sleeping in barns, of the constant, gnawing misery.
“No.”
“You would rather they catch up with us?” William stood at the water’s edge. “Because that is what will happen if we tarry.”
“Rubbish.” The unfairness of it all hit Gaudet with the force of a slap. “How dare he bark at me, when it should have been him who was chained and flogged? How dare any of you!”
“This is not the time to have a tantrum.” William gestured again. “Now are you getting out, or am I coming in to get you?”
“I will not be humiliated any further.” Gaudet shook his head. “Go to your employer and let me alone for one bloody hour. Have I not earned some respite after all I have endured?”
“You can have your respite.” William was already moving to sit on the edge of the lake. “When we are in Le Havre, sir.”
“Please.” Gaudet felt suddenly exhausted. “Give me some time, please.”
“You can have all the time you need once we reach safety.” William was holding out a hand toward him. “There are others relying on you—if thought of them is not enough to sway you, then I am without further recourse.”
“If they are relying on me”—the truth hit Gaudet too hard, the reality of that terrible statement—“then God help the poor bastards.”
As he swam to the bank and climbed from the water, he thought once more of Claudine and François, sure that he would fail them as he has always failed in anything that wasn’t fashion and frippery, that it was for someone else to be their hero.
“We will see them safe,” William told him more quietly. “You have my word.”
“‘We’?” Gaudet laughed bitterly, picking up the mud-spattered breeches and stepping into them. “Not we, sir, unless they need their styling or fashion advice or perhaps a farce to entertain? You, you and your employer, perhaps.”
“They won’t get very far without you.”
“They have got all the way from Paris to Le Havre. I think they are doing well enough, don’t you?” Gaudet murmured, feeling utterly hopeless. “I am…lost.”
“Then come to the farmhouse.” William held his hand out to him again. “Dee can tell me off and we will share that brandy.”
“I worry that I will bring trouble.” Gaudet curled his fingers around William’s, needing the comfort, the kindness. “They are safer without me.”
“You are all they have.” The words were unexpected.
“An idiot dandy?”
“Perhaps this is your chance to prove that you are more than that.” William’s voice was low and Gaudet released his hand. He pulled on his shirt before reaching to scoop up Papillon and cuddle her close. “Or that what you are is enough.”
“It isn’t.” With shoulders low, Gaudet glanced to the coat. Then he shook his head and, stooping to pick up his boots, walking away. After a moment, he heard William’s footsteps following at a distance, trailing him toward the farmhouse where Dee waited. At the last, though, Gaudet faltered, the thought of going in there to face that stern demeanor, more questioning, more temper, one that he would not stand. He stood staring at the simple dwelling, shaking his head. “I cannot.”
“You must.” There was the barest hint of humor in William’s voice as he came alongside Gaudet, the red coat slung carelessly over one arm. “You have the brandy, after all.”
One of the windows of the house was opened from within and Dee appeared, no sign of anything stern on his face when he called good-naturedly, “My bread is proving. I will not see it ruined by a French playwright…into the house.”
“One cannot get bread in France, they tell me,” Gaudet murmured, feeling William’s hand come to rest on his elbow, steering him forward, despite his reservations.
As they neared the door it was flung open and the girl with plaited hair emerged, beaming. He was surprised at her presence, the assured expression out of place in one who appeared no older than her teens.
“Papa has clean clothes waiting for you both and I must see the adorable little pup,” she told Gaudet, so preoccupied with fussing over the poodle that Gaudet surrendered her to the girl. “He is not in such a fierce temper…”
“It stares,” William called over his shoulder as he left the room. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Has it risen?” William enquired with as much levity as he could manage as he entered the kitchen where Dee was working his magic, readying himself for the Riot Act. “You wouldn’t have wanted us in here with all that mud—your carpets would have been ruined. And a muddy Frenchman is a squawking Frenchman.”
“As ever,” Dee turned from the stove and regarded William with a deep frown, folding his arms, “this is not my house and it contains no carpets. I should not even be in France, putting my daughter in danger.” Dee sighed, picking up an incongruous china teacup and taking a sip. “But a little discretion, perhaps?”
“For swimming?” William frowned. He peered at Dee, certain he was missing something of great importance.
“Better to save entanglements until you are safely back in England,” Dee told him, those bright blue eyes too piercing. “Try to avoid naked embraces until then?”
“Naked what?” William blinked.
“Each man to his own,” Dee said plainly. “But for God’s sake, Knowles, keep a clear head.”
“We were swimming.” William had the distinct suspicion that he was repeating himself. “To get clean.”
“That diamond is going to pay for you and I to do nothing for the rest of our lives. It comes first.” Dee took another sip of tea and observed, “Le Havre isn’t so distant—don’t get the playwright hanged before you get there.”
“You think,” William managed to keep his voice calmer than he felt, “that I am buggering a French playwright?”
“Well, if not yet, then looking at the two of you in that lake, I doubt it can be far away.”
“I need a drink.”
Gaudet’s voice sang out through the house, calling for his Guillaume, and Dee addressed William with a raised eyebrow and repeated, “Guillaume? You have told him your actual name?”
“That isn’t my name,” William protested, “my name is not French.”
“Keep your breeches buttoned until you see the white cliffs of Dover,” Dee told him, turning to open the oven with a smile of satisfaction before he retrieved a fine loaf of bread. “And I wish you luck, sir, because with a jewelry habit like his, you’ll need it.”
“What I need,” William decided weakly, “is a drink.”
“Guillaume!” came another shout. “Be a love and bring up my new coat.”
“He’s got you well-trained,” was Dee’s wry observation as he settled with his tea once more. “You’re better behaved than Harriet.”
With a roll of his eyes to the heavens, William turned for the door, certain that the day could not get any worse even as he scooped up the coat and called, “Give a man a moment.”
“Monsieur Gaudet has spruced up very well,” Harriet told William when she passed him on the stairs, still cuddling Pap. “He is in the room at the end of the hallway.”
The playwright had indeed spruced up well and was once again immaculate, though the plain and simple shirt and breeches he wore were a world away from the fine suit he still carried in the portmanteau. Gaudet’s hair was somehow perfect once more and he lay back on the mattress, hands pillowed beneath his head. He met William with a bright smile and declared, “Chérie, I may have had a moment outside, I do apologize—”
“I have your coat,” William told the reclining Frenchman, “here.”
“Did you get very badly told off? Isn’t he commanding?” Gaudet gave a rather wistful sigh. “I rather think he should have a dashing white charger.”
The response that came then was something close to “Hmph,” William setting the coat down none too gently on the bed before going to the window, the view of a field full of fat pigs doing little to improve his mood. “You won’t say that when you hear what he thinks we’ve been up to.”
William needed no further telling, uncapping the flask to take a deep drink. He closed his eyes as the warming liquid burned its way down his throat and he wondered whether he could get drunk and stay drunk until Le Havre…until England, perhaps.
“I wonder if our new, tall friend might be tempted into a lake…” At his own words, Gaudet gave a hoot of laughter and William felt him leave the bed. Seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of the playwright sliding his arms into the thick brocade coat.
“He thinks we’re buggering each other.”
“Did you tell him,” William asked, even though he could almost hear the pout, “that it was only in your dreams?”
“I told him no one was buggering anyone.” He took another swig, the very idea growing more absurd with every passing moment. “Good God…”
Gaudet was suddenly standing beside him, looking out of the window at the pigs. He took the flask from William and swigged from it. “You were virtually kissing me, Guillaume.”
“I was not.” William reached for the flask once more, fingers inadvertently brushing Gaudet’s hand. “I have a job to do.”
“Then do it.” The playwright beamed. “And I shall do someone else.”
Chapter Nineteen
“You never listen,” Sylvie spat, slamming her fist into the palm of her hand. “Bastien won’t be gone long, you can’t arrest—”
“I can and will arrest them all when you tell me where this safe house is,” Tessier interjected. Her eyes blazed as she fell silent. “And you will tell me or I will not let you leave this inn, Sylvie.”
“If I tell you where I’m going…” She glanced around the bare room of their latest tavern. Her secret meeting with Tessier had not been hard to arrange in such an anonymous place. “You’ll not be able to restrain yourself—you’ll arrest the lot of them and never see your precious diamond. You know I’m right, and then what happens to me?” Sylvie shook her head, chewing her lower lip for a few seconds, then clasped her hands in her lap, pale against the dark fabric of a dress that had seen better days. “I’ve been on the streets too many times, I want more than that for us.”
The Star of Versailles Page 14