by Louise Clark
"You know you have it." The Marquis caught her shoulders and raised her to her feet. "Stephan... do not do anything foolish." He lowered his voice. "Do not provoke this St. Luc. I fear he is mad. The expression in his eyes—"
"You there, no whispering! Come along, de la Riviére! I don't want to waste the whole day listening to your prattle."
Grabbing Stephanie's arm again, he dragged her triumphantly from the room. She did not go willingly, her distraught father noted with grim pride. She kicked and fought and bucked like a half-broken horse.
Dear God, the Marquis prayed, do not let this wicked man, St. Luc, harm her.
* * *
Paris was in chaos when Nicholas arrived late on the afternoon of the fateful day when the Girondins led the mob into the Chateau des Tuileries to accost their king. He had come from the eastern frontier, but not directly, for he had paused in Rouen to cast off the plain dark suit he had worn when posing as a member of the Assembly while inspecting France's border defenses. In Rouen his own baggage was waiting for him, along with papers identifying him as part of the British Embassy in France. He secured a carriage and four horses, then demanded to be taken to Paris through Versailles, as if it were his first time in France and he was determined to see all of the sights.
Versailles was a ghost town, but Paris was alive with violence. Nicholas paid little attention, beyond cursing his misfortune in arriving in the midst of one of the many riots that convulsed the city from time to time. The upheaval had drawn the people onto the streets, stalling carriage traffic and holding Nicholas up for interminable hours as he sought to reach the embassy, which was located not far from the Tuileries.
At the embassy rumors abounded. A nervous servant told Nicholas that the King had been overthrown when the Tuileries Palace was stormed by the mob. In a frenzy of drunken power, the people had assaulted the very person of the King, raped the Queen, and murdered the children as they destroyed the palace itself. Nicholas considered these pronouncements the highly embellished products of fear and ignorance, so he sent his compliments to Lord Gower, the Ambassador, found the room assigned to him and went to bed.
The next morning, refreshed from a hot bath and a sound sleep on clean sheets, luxuries sadly lacking in his life the past few weeks, he dressed carefully. If all went well, he would meet with the Marquis de Mont Royale, both to ask for Stephanie's hand, and to attempt to persuade the Marquis to leave France.
As he was about to tie a lace and silk neckcloth that added the right touch of formality to the puce silk coat and white waistcoat that he had chosen for his meeting, a servant brought a request from Lord Gower that the Earl join him for breakfast. Nicholas nodded agreement, satisfied with the arrangement. He would make a preliminary report to Gower; then he would be free to concentrate on his own affairs.
"Do sit down, Wroxton," Gower said a few minutes later, as Nicholas entered the modest breakfast room in the Ambassador's private quarters. He gestured to a fine oak sideboard set against one long wall. "I've had a selection of dishes laid out so that we may serve ourselves and dispense with the servants. I trust that suits you?"
Nicholas raised one black brow. "As long as you have included steak in your selections, I shall not complain."
Gower said heartily, "I have, sir, but I cannot guarantee the quality of the meat. Decent food is almost impossible to find in Paris now." He appeared to notice the waiting footman for the first time. Waving the man away, he said, "You may go now. We won't be needing you."
Once the door was closed, he said in a loud voice, "Help yourself, Wroxton. I don't know about you, but I am quite famished." Softly, he added, "It's a devilish thing, but one never knows who might be listening these days. The most stringent precautions are necessary to ensure one's privacy."
Nicholas, who had to practice even more rigorous precautions during his sojourns in the provinces, shrugged. He raised the lid on the chafing dish that held the braised steak. Breathing deeply, he said, "Decent meat or not, Gower, this smells heavenly. I have been reduced to a diet of cheese, bread and lentil soup for the past weeks. I shall savor every mouthful of this beef."
"Let me guess what it was like on the front," the Ambassador said, filling his plate with eggs, smoked trout and ham. "The army in disarray, the peasants terrified and hiding their surplus food, not to mention their women and valuables, as best they could."
"That and more," Nicholas agreed absently as he added eggs, ham, and a creamed vegetable mixture to his plate. "There is anger, confusion, and a certain resilience. As I was impersonating one of the commissioners sent out by the Assembly, much of the anger was directed at me. Few believe that France can defeat Austria, especially now that Prussia has added its forces to the alliance, and they blame the Assembly for beginning a war France cannot hope to win. But there is also a great deal of bitterness against the officers who have emigrated, leaving the army without it traditional leaders, and against the King, who is believed to be conspiring with the Austrians to defeat France."
Gower listened quietly, his expression thoughtful. He waited until they were both seated at a small round table set well away from the door before replying. "What you are saying, Wroxton, is that the revolution is about to be destroyed by the very weapon it created!"
Nicholas cut into the beef and savored a bite before replying. "I wish that what you suggest were true," he said at last, "but I fear it is not. Throughout France there are pockets of resistance to the revolution, but the anger I observed at the front was the traditional outrage of peasants caught in the middle of a war between dynasties. What the local people think and feel is not of very great consequence."
"No," Lord Gower agreed, absently inspecting his plate. "More to the point is the outlook and organization of the army. What details were you able to discover on that issue?"
"The army is in total confusion," Nicholas said slowly. "With the officer corps gone, the troops are being led by former sergeant majors and men with no experience who have been appointed by the Assembly. The new National Guard units that arrive daily have little or no experience of battle. Most are poorly drilled and under-disciplined. But..."
Gower shot him a quizzical look. "But?"
"These new recruits may lack experience, but they are imbued with the passion that has fueled this whole damned revolution. They are green now, but give them a few battle scars to harden them up and they will be unstoppable."
"Surely, Wroxton, you are wrong!"
"To defeat them, Austria must destroy them," Nicholas said somberly.
"That is no way to wage war!" the Ambassador said, aghast. "My dear sir, what you are suggesting is barbarous!"
"A trend toward savagery seems to permeate the whole of the revolution," Nicholas said, a thread of bitterness in his voice. "What the devil was that riot about last evening? Have you had the opportunity to sift through the rumors to find the truth?"
Lord Gower nodded gloomily. "A nasty situation, Wroxton. Brissot and the Girondins arranged the riot as a show of strength to force their way back into power. Reports vary, of course, but I heard that nearly twenty thousand people broke through the guards and into the Tuileries. Louis was forced to stand for two hours, enduring their taunts and insults. He even had to put on the Cap of Liberty! Dreadful, quite dreadful."
Nicholas pushed aside his empty plate. Frowning, he asked, "Was anyone hurt?"
"No, surprisingly not. Louis ordered his family and the courtiers into private rooms and faced the mob alone. If the man had shown that kind of courage in his political dealings, he would not be in the sorry situation he is in now." Gower added grimly, "I fear that unless the Austrians rescue him, His Majesty, King Louis Seize, will never truly rule again."
Nicholas was interested in the more immediate status at the palace. "Is the Tuileries still under siege by the mob?"
"No." A grim smile curled the Ambassador's lips. "I heard earlier this morning that there is now great sympathy for the Royal Family. As ever, overindulgence creat
es its own aftermath of regret."
"The King's position is deteriorating daily," Nicholas muttered, thinking of Stephanie's fear for her father.
"His only hope is the Austrians," the Ambassador said simply. "But with each victory that brings them closer to Paris, Louis's position becomes more precarious. It is only sensible, moderate men on both sides who manage to keep the whole shaky structure from falling in upon him."
Men, Nicholas thought grimly, like the Marquis de Mont Royale. Would such a man desert his monarch in the current dangerous political atmosphere? Nicholas feared that he would not. And if that fine, thin line between sanity and chaos should ever be breached, Mont Royale would inevitably be one of the casualties. Stephanie would be devastated. Nicholas resolved to do whatever he could to convince the Marquis that he must leave his troubled country behind and come to England, at least for the present.
"I need to gain entry to the Chateau," he said to Gower. "As soon as possible."
"The Court has been turned totally upside down after yesterday's events," Gower said. "I should think... Yes, what is it?" The footman who had rapped then quickly opened the door and bowed. "A message, milord. From the Chateau des Tuileries. It is marked urgent."
"Thank you." Gower took the thick parchment. "You may go. If there is to be an answer, I will summon you." About to break the seal, he hesitated until the servant quietly closed the door. Certain that they were alone again, Gower shot a piercing look at Nicholas. "The daughter of the Marquis de Mont Royale has been staying with your aunt, is that not so?"
Nicholas nodded, a sudden tension filling him.
"This letter bears Mont Royale's seal. If you will excuse me a moment?"
Nicholas waited impatiently while the Ambassador unfolded the parchment, skimmed over the contents of the letter and then reread it more slowly. The look of dismay on the man's face did nothing to reassure Nicholas.
After a seemingly endless time, Gower passed the open paper to Nicholas. "I think this concerns you more than me."
Quickly, Nicholas read the note. "Dear God," he groaned. "Stephanie."
Chapter 16
Two hours later a carriage bearing the Earl of Wroxton swept through the imposing gates of the Chateau des Tuileries, unchecked by the blue-coated National Guardsmen supposedly protecting the palace. The indifference did not surprise Nicholas, but it did confirm his worst fears. In some quarters there might be sympathy for the King after yesterday's debacle, but it would be short-lived, for among those who held power—including the military arm of government—Louis Seize was a dangerous liability.
The coach drew up before the palace doors. One of the embassy servants jumped off the carriage to lower the steps so that the Earl could disembark. While the man worked, the National Guardsmen looked on in sullen silence. None attempted to query the Earl's right to be there, or moved to aid the servant. They simply stood, watching with baleful contempt.
Nicholas took his time leaving the carriage. He had to exercise every mental restraint he knew to keep from bounding into the palace and racing up the imposing staircase to the royal apartments, demanding to see the Marquis de Mont Royale as he charged forward. Gower had persuaded him that he would not only be evicted from the chateau if he acted so impetuously, but he would draw unwanted attention to the Marquis, and hence to the fate of the man's daughter. So Nicholas minced down the carriage steps in a promising imitation of a coxcomb, took snuff when he reached the carriageway, sneezed extravagantly, then continued on his bored way into the chateau. Every movement was a lazy, languid parody of the habits of an aristocrat of the old order. Small wonder the National Guardsmen scowled at his appearance.
Dressed with the old-fashioned formality favored by the court, Nicholas found the tight, heavily laced silk coat that allowed little flexibility of movement helpful in reminding him that he had a pose to maintain. Then too, by descending from the coach with majestic slowness, he was able to see and take note of many small, but telling, bits of information. The uniforms of the of the guardsmen, for instance, were wrinkled and stained, but their weapons gleamed with careful oiling and their boots shone with polish, evidence that the new army was no longer a toy to be used to gain an acre or two of land at a monarch's whim. There was also the attitude of sullen acquiescence as they stood guard. These were not men whose loyalty was given to an individual, monarch or no, but to an intangible belief. These were dangerous men who were not to be trusted with the protection of the King, for it was possible that they, themselves, would turn on him, should the need arise. And if they did, their participation would be lethal for Louis and the members of his court.
The embassy footman preceded Nicholas into the palace, announcing his status and purpose for being there. There was a marked difference between the attitudes outside and inside the building. The palace staff jumped to attention and made haste to direct Nicholas to a waiting room, bowing obsequiously as they departed with promises to alert the Marquis de Mont Royale to his presence immediately. Nicholas was left to cool his heels and worry about the dire mishap that the Marquis hinted had befallen Stephanie.
Fortunately, it was not long before the Marquis, dressed in a silk coat of cornflower blue, a pale green waistcoat and black breeches, positively few into the room. "Le bon Dieu be praised!" he said almost immediately.
As dismay seized him, Nicholas swallowed hard at a sudden constriction in his throat. The Marquis exhibited all of the symptoms of a father in deep distress. His clothes had been chosen haphazardly; his neckcloth had obviously been hastily knotted, and his wig, though of a style usually used for formal situations, had not been freshly powdered.
Nicholas was afraid that his worst fears for Stephanie were about to be confirmed. "Monsieur le Marquis de Mont Royale," he said carefully, bowing. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Mont Royale hesitated, then visibly collected himself. "My apologies, Monsieur. I have been cudgeling my brains since yesterday, trying to think of how I might rescue my darling daughter, and when I sent to the British Embassy for help as a last resort, I find myself blessed with the very person I wish to see. Forgive me if the events of the past day-and-a-half have made me forget my manners. Come, sit down. We have much to discuss."
Though his muscles itched to be released into the soothing violence of action, Nicholas curbed the need, as he had done earlier, and instead accepted the Marquis's suggestion that they sit. "What does Stephanie need to be rescued from, Monsieur?" he demanded bluntly as he perched gingerly on a spindle-legged chair.
Mont Royale's face seemed to sag. "She was taken yesterday by one of the mob."
Nicholas's eyes narrowed. "You allowed a sansculotte to kidnap your daughter?"
"Not an ordinary sansculotte," the Marquis said bitterly, "but an odious turncoat by the name of St. Luc—"
"St. Luc!"
Mont Royale looked sharply at Nicholas. "You know the man?"
"Alas, I have that misfortune," Nicholas replied grimly. "So, too, does Stephanie. Until recently the Vicomte was living in England. He was much feted amongst the émigré community, but when he was found to be selling secrets, he was deported. Mont Royale, I regret I must tell you that he is an extremely dangerous man. He is without personal integrity and has a habit of blaming everyone around him for the misfortunes he creates. While Stephanie is in his hands, she is in grave danger."
Mont Royale paled. "Then what are we to do?"
Nicholas stood and began to pace as muscles that had been tamed before could no longer be denied movement. "When I left England a little over a month ago, Stephanie was residing safely in my London house. How did she come to be in the chateau during the riot yesterday?"
"She returned to Paris with some misguided idea that she could convince me to leave France and come to England. She did not say why she had chosen this particular moment to make the journey." The Marquis cocked his head and looked curiously at Nicholas. "You say you were away for a month. Is it possible that she thought to make
her grand gesture when you were not there to stop her?"
Incredibly, Nicholas smiled. "Stephanie doesn't need me to be absent in order to flout my commands, Monsieur. She is quite happy to do so before my very eyes. No, I think she came to Paris because I was not there to lend her support when the news from France became more and more bleak."
"Ahhh," said the Marquis, a smile in his eyes, if not on his lips. "Stephanie mentioned that you had become very close. I am glad to see that the feelings appear to be mutual."
Nicholas stopped his pacing long enough to grip the back of the chair he had been sitting in. "Monsieur, I came to Paris on the same mission as Stephanie, to convince you to join us in England. I regret that Stephanie's impatience overruled her good judgment, but impulsiveness is part of her character—and her charm." He hesitated, then added less fiercely, "I had also intended to tell you that when I returned to England I would marry your daughter at the first possible opportunity."
Mont Royale's lips curled in the beginnings of a smile. "You are very forceful," he said approvingly. "Stephanie will benefit from the strength of a man such as yourself. She would run roughshod over a weak man."
"Stephanie has already begun to test my will," Nicholas said, smiling ruefully. "I doubt marriage will tame her."
"You look forward to it."
Again Nicholas grinned. "Danger in any of its forms appeals to me."
"I see," Mont Royale murmured, momentarily amused. Then he sobered. "The problem still remains of how to find and rescue my daughter. A wedding cannot occur without the bride."
Nicholas slapped one hand on the edge of the chair, impatience and frustration in the gesture. "St. Luc is a viper, a man completely without honor. His loyalties can be bought for the price of a few comforts in life. If we can find a way to contact him, we may be able to convince him to release Stephanie for a price."