by Louise Clark
"He must!" St. Luc burst out passionately. "You are my key to power in this infamous city. If Brissot uses you properly, he will be able to force the King to reinstate his party. And when that happens, Brissot will know who to thank."
Stephanie wondered how her father had managed to convince the Vicomte that although he was powerless to influence King Louis, the fact that Brissot had her in his clutches would force the King to return the Girondins to power. She began to see the rough shape of a plot, but without more information, she was unable to define the details. Laughing shortly, she mocked, "I suppose that in gratitude for your gift, Brissot will raise you up to immense power."
"Yes!" St. Luc hissed. He threw the bottle of water he had brought at her. It landed in her lap, with half of the contents spilling out. "Drink your fill, Mademoiselle, and be quick about it. I want to be gone. I have much to do today."
Stephanie put the rim of the bottle to her mouth and drank deeply. When she had had enough, she poured what remained over her head and shoulders, for a moment of cool relief. "Is it tonight then, that you intend to make your move?" she asked disinterestedly.
St. Luc came over to retie her hands. As he wrapped the cord about her wrists, he shoved his face close to hers. She flinched at the odor of his stale breath. "After tonight, when I am a man of influence, you will be begging me to show you a kindness, Mademoiselle." He smiled and Stephanie's stomach turned.
"That will never happen!" she said fiercely, hate flaring from her eyes.
Instinctively, he slunk back, then, cursing, gave the rope a final vicious yank and tied the knots. "À bientôt, Mademoiselle. Until this evening."
Alone in the darkness once more, Stephanie was able to give free rein to the trembling in her limbs.
Dear God, she prayed, give me strength.
Chapter 17
When St. Luc returned it was still light. Stephanie heard his heavy footfalls ascending the rickety stairs and could not suppress a shiver of apprehension. Although she desperately wanted to believe her father had a plan in mind to wrest her from the Vicomte's clutches, she did not underestimate the violence and desperation that drove the Vicomte de St. Luc. His need for power, both social and political, ate at him like a sickness, pushing him to acts more honorable men would refuse to consider—acts such as selling her into the hands of the Girondins to augment his own position. Stephanie could not believe she would be rescued before St. Luc's desperation compelled him to do this, but she refused to allow herself to despair. The short time she had been in France had shown her that anything was possible in this turbulent, unhappy nation.
By the time St. Luc reached the door to her prison, Stephanie had her emotions well under control. As before, she blinked and squinted at the brightness of his lantern, but this time her captor did not put the lamp on the floor. Instead, he held it while he bent down to cut the bonds around her ankles. Dropping a cloth-wrapped package into her lap, he said curtly, "Eat."
His nearness made Stephanie want to shrink away, but she forced herself to remain still, her muscles trembling with the strength of will that was needed not to expose her helplessness. After a moment, when he made no move to release her hands, she raised them and demanded sardonically, "How am I supposed to eat, pray tell, with my hands bound?"
St. Luc stared at her for a moment, debating within himself whether or not to untie the ropes at her wrists. "Very well," he said at last. "I don't want you fainting from lack of food. But be quick. I must take you to the tavern of the Blue Angel on the Rue St. Denis to prove to Brissot's henchmen that you are truly who I say you are."
Stephanie was so intrigued by this statement that she did not flinch at the Vicomte's nearness when he knelt down to unfasten her bonds. "You have to go through an intermediary in order to see Monsieur Brissot?"
"Yes, curse it!" The knots were tight and resisted his efforts to loosen them. St. Luc grabbed his knife and inserted the tip in the knot. Stephanie held her breath as he cut so closely to her swollen hands. "Brissot is a busy man," he continued, but Stephanie did not think he was explaining the reasons to her. His low, muttered comments were more to convince himself that he was not being shunted aside as insignificant. "If he saw every peasant and sansculotte who wanted a favor of him, he would have no time for affairs of state. Once his supporters have been convinced that I am a man of consequence, however, he will see me immediately. I know it."
The ropes fell away and the Vicomte stepped back. Stephanie breathed a sigh of relief that was short lived. St. Luc had tied the bonds too well that morning, restricting circulation, and causing her hands to swell horribly. The painful reaction began almost immediately as the blood started to flow back into her numb hands. For the first few minutes, she was unable to hold anything in her turgid fingers.
St. Luc gave her three minutes, then he sneered, "Stop pampering yourself, Mademoiselle. I'm in a hurry. Tonight I hope to be able to see Brissot himself after I've spoken to his underling. Eat the damn food or I'll tie you up again and we'll be on our way."
The threat worked. Stephanie carefully picked up the chunk of cheese in one hand, holding it as best she could in her still weak fingers. She kept the other hand raised, flexing it to restore the circulation. After a time, she reversed the process, so that she would be able to exercise both hands in the short time St. Luc was allowing her to eat. Moreover, to gain more time, she chewed slowly and thoroughly, though the cheese was coarse and had the unpleasantly bitter taste of mold. Each second brought more life back into her hands and she had a feeling that tonight she would need the use of them. St. Luc watched impatiently, his foot tapping nervously. Stephanie concentrated on the physical responses of her hands and belly and paid no attention to him.
The moment she popped the last morsel of bread into her mouth, he bounded forward to retie her hands. This time he left enough play in the rope so that her circulation was impeded, but not badly. Stephanie was not sure whether this was accidental, due to his haste to get her to the tavern he had mentioned, or because he felt that to tie her too tightly might present the wrong kind of image to the tough revolutionaries. Either way, she was relieved.
When he had finished, St. Luc stood up. Before picking up the lantern, he withdrew a pistol from his pocket. The gray-black metal gleamed evilly in the flickering light. Cocking it, he prodded Stephanie with his foot and said, "Get up."
Moving stiffly, she managed to scramble to her feet, though with a frustrating lack of grace. Standing, she faced him proudly. "Now what?"
"You precede me down the stairs, and don't do anything stupid, like trying to escape! I shall be right behind you with my pistol cocked. I would be loath to put a ball into your back, but..." He didn't bother to finish the statement, but left it to Stephanie's imagination. "Now go!"
She moved carefully around him, hoping she would not stumble. The Vicomte's precarious hold on reality was slipping under the pressure of near success and she thought it more than likely that he would fire his weapon at the merest accident. Choosing her footing carefully in the dim light, she paused at the top of the steep staircase to conquer nervousness and mild vertigo. The steps were shallow, little more than a wide ladder. With her hands bound, Stephanie was unable to brace herself on the walls of the narrow passage for balance. Fortunately, there was a sturdy railing. She closed her fingers over it and prepared to descend, one stair at a time.
As she moved slowly down the staircase she could hear St. Luc behind her, breathing impatiently, but apparently accepting the fact that she could descend no faster. By the time they reached the street, dusk had fallen. St. Luc muttered something unpleasant under his breath, then took her arm to hurry her forward. Her leg muscles protested the sudden movement, weak from the tension of descending four flights of badly lit, narrow stairs with a madman aiming a gun at her back. She stumbled, but the Vicomte merely jerked her arm and issued a rough demand for her to hurry up. Stephanie bit her tongue to hold back a furious retort, then concentrated on remaining upright
.
Her prison had been located in a part of the city she did not know. The streets were narrow and winding and the tall buildings that abutted the roadway almost blocked out what light remained. People scurried from one place to another, eyes downcast, avoiding friend and enemy alike. The pavement was filthy with refuse, and the stench from the open sewers was a miasma over the whole area.
They walked and walked as darkness fell about them. With each step, Stephanie felt strength return to her legs. She allowed St. Luc to tug her along, guiding her through the terrible maze of poverty, for she knew that to try to escape was useless. Even if St. Luc did not catch her immediately, she would be lost within seconds. More than likely she would have fallen into the hands of one of the shifty-eyed denizens of the dangerous quarter and she shuddered to think of her fate then.
Their route took them over one of the many bridges that crossed the Seine. For a brief moment, before the houses on the right bank cut off the view, she could see the majestic bulk of the royal chateaux—the Tuileries and the Louvre—to the west. The palaces represented safety, and as they disappeared from sight, despair flooded through her. The night began to take on a nightmare quality that numbed her senses with unreality.
After what seemed an eternity, they reached the Blue Angel Tavern, located in the bottom floor of a house that had once been a handsome residence. The area must have been more law abiding than the one where Stephanie had been imprisoned, for people nodded to each other when they passed and eyed askance her bound hands. But in an alley near the tavern, a man held two saddled horses protectively. He wore a greasy Cap of Liberty pulled down over dirty blond hair and filthy, tattered rags that appeared to be the trousers and carmagnole of the sansculotte. He grinned the vacant smile of the foolish as St. Luc and Stephanie passed. Despite her plight, Stephanie felt sorry for the fellow. She hoped that the men who owned the fine animals paid him well for his services.
As St. Luc opened the door of the tavern, the sounds of male laughter and occasional female squeals of pleasure flooded out. Stephanie felt her stomach roil, but she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin proudly. No one would know how frightened she was at that precise moment.
St. Luc dragged her inside. Several steps led down to the taproom. The place stank of stale wine and the fumes from the cheap tallow candles that lit the room with a dim, flickering glow. The Vicomte gave her a shove, so that she stumbled down the stairs, and came to rest against the edge of a table. Her abrupt arrival created consternation, then one of the men seated there noticed her bound hands and said, "Oh ho! What have we here?"
Straightening, Stephanie shot a contemptuous glance in his direction, but said nothing. She was not about to help St. Luc out.
"I am looking for Citizen Lejeune. Is he here?"
The man eyed St. Luc consideringly. "What was it you wanted to see him about?"
"That is between myself and Monsieur Lejeune," the Vicomte retorted haughtily. Annoyed at being questioned, he had reverted to old-fashioned manners that made his questioner's gaze harden.
"Oh ho!" said the fellow again. He rose to tower above the Vicomte. "Well now, Citizen, you remember our good Lejeune has friends here." He glanced from St. Luc to Stephanie and back again. "We don't take kindly to strangers, understand?"
St. Luc's eyes glittered with fury. "Where is Lejeune?"
The man flexed massive biceps that bulged against the cheap cotton of his shirtsleeves. Stephanie had the distinct impression that he would enjoy taking St. Luc's head between his immense arms to crack it like a nut. "Lejeune's over there." He pointed to a small, skinny man, dressed in worn, but clean, trousers and blouse. Lejeune was in need of a shave, and his hair was lank, but there was a certain air of vitality about him.
As they watched, he said something that made the men around him roar with laughter. He raised a bottle in silent salute, then put it to his mouth to drink. Those about him followed suit. Stephanie glanced at St. Luc, saw the sneer on his lips and knew that he had formed an instant contempt for the man. With a curt nod, he tugged at Stephanie's arm as he boldly set forth to meet Citizen Lejeune.
The round table at which Lejeune lounged was in a corner of the room. Several of the men seated there were clearly drunk, but above the narrow neck of the wine bottle he held to his lips, Lejeune's dark eyes had the cool, detached clarity of a sober, calculating mind. Stephanie could not contain a shiver as he watched them approach. St. Luc's arrogance would be poor protection against the cunning of this man.
St. Luc cleared his throat. Lejeune paid no attention to him. "Citizen Lejeune!"
The revolutionary moved his head fractionally in order to shoot St. Luc a dead-eyed look. "What?" He took a swig from the bottle he held, then slammed it onto the table.
St. Luc stood stiffly, outraged by the treatment he was receiving. "I understand I must go through you in order to gain an interview with Citizen Brissot."
Lejeune was silent for a moment; then he laughed. "And who told you that?"
"Monsieur—Citizen—Condorcet at the Cordeliers last night."
Lejeune shrugged. "Then it must be true." Stephanie resisted the urge to laugh. St. Luc was clearly involved in matters far beyond his capabilities. Even she had caught the sneer in Lejeune's voice and seen the mockery in his eyes. If the Vicomte thought he would ever get in to see Brissot through this ruffian, he was a complete fool. Knowing she could do nothing to influence the outcome of the charade, she allowed her gaze to rove about the tavern.
Her sudden arrival had alerted most of the patrons of the Blue Angel that a drama was about to be played out, and they were watching with unabashed interest. Those seated closest to Lejeune's table were also listening intently to the dialogue, and there was laughter at St. Luc's expense. Without knowing why, Stephanie glanced at each man in turn.
Their clothes were similar to the ones St. Luc was wearing—the coarse cotton shirt and loose trousers of the Parisian sansculotte. To a man, they were unshaven, but most wore clothes that were faded from frequent washing and their hair, though unbound, was clean. Although there was nothing remarkable about any of the faces, and none showed any expression but amusement or avid excitement, Stephanie's gaze slowed and lingered on one.
At first glance, it was difficult to determine why this man should interest her above all the rest. Several days' growth of dark beard covered a face that had plump cheeks and a mouth that was rather small. Tangled brown hair fell wildly, all but hiding his narrowed eyes. He watched the little drama, leaning back in his chair, his broad shoulders slightly slumped, one leg crossed over the other knee. In his hand he cradled a dirty pewter tankard, filled, Stephanie supposed, with ale. His hands held her attention for a long moment. Though the skin was dirty, the nails broken and chipped, his fingers were long and sensitive.
Excitement fluttered through Stephanie. She knew those hands. They had stroked her skin in the intimacy of lovemaking and taken her to heights that made her feel as if she were flying. Startled, she looked upward into eyes that now watched her openly, eyes as vividly blue as the sky on a fine summer's day. Her heart began pound against her ribs as her breath caught in her throat.
Just moments before the smile of delight hovering on her lips found life, she saw the fleeting frown in her love's blue eyes and there was no mistaking the faint shake of his head. Instinctively she obeyed him and masked her pleasure at seeing him there. But hope swelled within her and burst into exhilaration, She had absolutely no idea how Nicholas had contrived to mask his patrician features so effectively that she had not identified him until she looked closely, but she had no doubts that Nicholas was more than a match for the crude Lejeune and the vile St. Luc. He would destroy the Vicomte's plans as he had done before.
There was no time to wonder how Nicholas had found her, or how he managed to fit so comfortably into this vulgar assembly. For the moment, all that was important was that he was there and that she not spoil his disguise by indicating that she knew him. After one l
ast, lingering look, she turned back to St. Luc. From the bluster of his words, the Vicomte had completely lost control of the conversation.
"I don't like your tone, Lejeune! I have here an enemy of the State! One, moreover, who could be very useful to Monsieur Brissot. I demand an appointment with him!"
Lejeune eyed St. Luc craftily. "You keep saying this young fellow is important to the State, but you don't say why. I think you're making the whole thing up."
Thoroughly incensed, St. Luc burst out, "What I have here, Lejeune, is a returned émigré. I caught him in the act of conspiring against the revolution and against France! Moreover, the boy is an asset in himself, for he is not just any plotting aristocrat." He grabbed the sleeve of Stephanie's coat and shook her. She twisted away, shooting him a contemptuous look. "This," St. Luc continued, "is the cub of the ci-devant Marquis de Mont Royale!"
Lejeune suddenly sat up and St. Luc beamed his triumph. Addressing Stephanie, the revolutionary demanded, "Well, boy. Is that true?"
Did he really expect her to answer? Stephanie wondered. She stared mutely at Lejeune, defying him with her eyes.
"Say something!" St. Luc hissed, prodding her in the ribs. She looked at him levelly and without a hint of emotion, but still said nothing.
Lejeune began to laugh. "Arrogant young pup, whoever sired him." He looked thoughtfully at Stephanie's fine features. "All right, St. Luc, leave him with me. I'll ensure that Citizen Brissot sees him."
The Vicomte, however, was not so easily gulled. "No, indeed, Lejeune. I will take Mont Royale's spawn to Monsieur Brissot. The boy is the key to his future power and I intend to be part of it!"
Lejeune straightened. Stephanie realized that a challenge was imminent. She held her breath, fearful of coming under the control of the cunning Lejeune, even if only for a few hours.
The challenge came, but not from Lejeune. To her right, the dear and very familiar voice of the Earl of Wroxton boomed out in the dialect of the French streets, "Who are you, Citizen? You keep talking about the ci-devant Marquis, but call our good Citizen Brissot, Monsieur! You are not one of us, I can tell!"