by Louise Clark
Not imaginative enough to consider that all might not be as it seemed, or that he might be dealing with a foe more dangerous than a Parisian laborer, St. Luc puffed himself up like an annoyed bantam cock and addressed Lejeune, disdainfully refusing to look at or acknowledge his challenger. "I am a true servant of the Revolution, Citizen! Indeed, I was its agent in England. There I gathered information on the activities of the émigré nobility and when I could, the secret plots between the British government and the Emperor of Austria!"
Stephanie decided it was time to take a hand in the Vicomte's downfall. Pitching her voice low, she drawled contemptuously, "Allow me to interject, gentlemen. The Vicomte de St. Luc lies appallingly. His life in England was a round of parties and the occasional fleecing of an unwary pigeon." Her smile was deliberately rueful, acknowledging that she was one of those he had cheated. Several men laughed. She glanced over at Nicholas. He was smiling, a devilish grin laced with reckless pleasure. In his eyes was an approval that gave her the strength to continue. "The Vicomte was run out of England because he chose to cheat the wrong man—a duke who used his influence and power to destroy St. Luc's comfortable little niche."
"How do you know all this, boy?" Lejeune demanded.
Stephanie allowed a small, contemptuous smile to flicker on her lips. "The Vicomte is a skinflint, as well as a cheat. He left behind him a mistress who cherished no love for him in her heart."
"Lies! Slander!" St. Luc shrieked. Furious, he cuffed Stephanie on the side of the head.
As she stumbled, Nicholas jumped to his feet. His movement was instinctive, but he was able to turn it to good measure when the tavern erupted in a hubbub of voices. Pushing past the others it his table, he came to stand in front of St. Luc. "You talk of lies," he challenged. "Then prove you speak the truth!"
"How?"
Nicholas moved with the speed of a serpent. Suddenly, the candlelight glinted lethally off the blade of the knife he held in his hand. "With this."
"You want to duel? Over this—"
Afraid St. Luc would see through Nicholas's disguise, Stephanie leapt in. She shot Lejeune a long look. "Evidently the Vicomte is a coward, as well as a liar and a cheat."
The revolutionary roared with laughter. St. Luc glared at her and raised his fist once more.
Nicholas's knife slipped dangerously close to his throat. "I wouldn't want Citizen Brissot to see our captive all covered in bruises, St. Luc. Keep your hands to yourself."
The Vicomte was reduced to swearing at Stephanie. "When I've disposed of this peasant, you will regret your cockiness, de la Riviére. You will regret it for years! I shall see that you live in hell!"
"Threats, threats," Stephanie drawled lazily. "Are you going to fight this man or not, St. Luc?"
"The boy has a good question, Citizen. Do your accept this man's challenge?"
"If I must demean myself," St. Luc blustered, "I will accept only if we use swords."
Nicholas raised his brow in a sweetly familiar way. "Look around you, Citizen. Do you see anyone with a sword to loan you?"
The patrons of the Blue Angel were working class Parisians. If one of them did happen to own a sword, he was not likely to bring it to the local tavern. There was not a sword in the place, but plenty of the men were pulling out hunting knives that had been hidden in the folds of their clothes. St. Luc smirked as he breathed a silent sigh of relief. "Then I shall take Mont Royale's cub and leave. I will not participate in a barbaric duel with knives."
Nicholas grabbed Stephanie's arm and drew her away from the Vicomte. He placed her slightly behind him, protecting her from the Frenchman's grasp. "Not so fast, St. Luc. I've got no objection to you taking your lying hide out of here, but you leave the boy behind for right-thinking people to use."
"Hear hear," said an approving voice in the crowd.
"Agreed," said another. Lejeune, once again swigging his wine, laughed.
"Right-thinking people!" St. Luc said contemptuously. "Such as yourself, I suppose."
"Such as Citizen Brissot," Nicholas retorted firmly. That got him even more vocal agreement than before.
St. Luc was becoming red in the face. "I will not leave the Mont Royale cub here!"
"Then fight me for him," Nicholas challenged. "The winner takes him to Citizen Brissot, tonight."
Frustration gleamed in St. Luc's eyes, but he had no option but to capitulate. "All right. Damn your eyes, I'll fight you." Someone threw him a knife, while others cleared the tables from the middle of the room. Lejeune, still holding his bottle, took custody of Stephanie and found himself a place in the forefront of the crowd that had surrounded the opponents in the hastily made ring. Acting as referee, he ordered the combat to begin.
Nicholas was the larger man and, it soon became evident, the more agile. St. Luc, however, was not above using underhanded tricks to overcome his lack of skill. What began as a simple contest, with the winner taking the prize, suddenly changed into an intense battle from which only one man would emerge alive.
Within the ring, Nicholas reversed his strategy. He had hoped for a quick fight, to wound the Vicomte so that all could see he bled, and allow the man to surrender honorably. But there was a feverish light in St. Luc's eyes that told him the Frenchman would not easily accept defeat. Cautiously, Nicholas moved forward, hoping to position himself so that one lunge would finish off his opponent.
The Vicomte feinted, drawing Nicholas toward him. Then, he stuck out his foot, tripping Nicholas. The crowd roared its disapproval.
Landing on one shoulder, Nicholas rolled as St. Luc lunged at him. The blade missed him by inches as he jumped lithely to his feet. Had he been winded and less agile, the knife would have slit open his throat. The control that had held Nicholas's rage in check fell away. The rules had changed. St. Luc wanted a fight to the death? Nicholas was glad to oblige him.
Crouching in a defensive posture, Nicholas waited for the perfect moment to spring. St. Luc was breathing heavily, but his eyes were still filled with the fire of combat. Suddenly, he bounded toward Nicholas.
Shifting back to put him off balance, Nicholas lunged at the Vicomte. They made contact, each wrestling the other for control of his knife hand.
Their faces were inches apart. Nicholas said in a voice which only St. Luc could hear, "Before you die, Vicomte, take a good look at this face. You've seen it before." He won the struggle and his knife sliced a nasty gash in St. Luc's arm before he sprang away.
St. Luc paused a moment to stare at his injury, then at the man who had caused it. Recognition suddenly flared in his eyes as he remembered another working class man who had ruined his life. With a scream of rage, he lunged at Nicholas, his knife clenched in a position to hack and stab. Once more, the two men made contact. "You are the chimney sweep! You fabricated evidence against me and"—he grunted with the exertion of fighting the more powerful Earl—"you had me deported from England. Damn you!"
Nicholas made a disgusted sound in his throat. "I had no need to create anything, St. Luc. You provided the evidence yourself."
"How dare you! How dare you destroy my life! You're nothing but a low peasant. You have no right interfering in the lives of your betters!"
Nicholas laughed, gave the Vicomte a shove, and in the same instant inflicted another little wound, this time along his ribs. The Vicomte stumbled backward, almost winded, the sweat pouring down his face. The fury in his eyes told Nicholas that the fight was far from over.
Switching the knife to his left hand, St. Luc reached into his pocket—for a handkerchief, Nicholas thought. Remembering the man's earlier tricks, he remained crouched, ready to spring in any direction. Suddenly a high, frightened voice screamed, "His pocket! He has a pistol!"
The warning saved Nicholas's life. He leapt forward even as the Vicomte was pulling the gun out of his pocket. Before the Frenchman could aim the weapon, Nicholas had grasped his wrist.
"You are a vile, evil, slimy toad of a creature, St. Luc," he said contemptuously.
"I will not be spoken to in that manner by one of your sort!"
"Then know the man who spoiled your pretty little game in England and the one who is once again about to rescue Mademoiselle de la Riviére from your dissolute clutches. Look, St. Luc, past the trappings of a sansculotte. Whom do you see?"
For an endless moment they stared into one other's eyes, until full recognition dawned on the Vicomte's face. "Wroxton?" he said disbelievingly. "The Earl of Wroxton? But how..." Surprise made St. Luc weaken, giving Nicholas the advantage. He was able to wrestle the gun lower. In a moment he would have wrenched it from his opponent's hand.
Hate flickered in St. Luc's eyes as he fought to regain control of the pistol. For a split second it was pointed straight at Nicholas's heart. He laughed shrilly, his eyes gleaming with the madness of his evil victory. "Good-bye, Monsieur le Comte!"
But when the gun went off in an explosion of sound that was deafening to everyone in the enclosed space, it was not Nicholas whose body was jolted with the force of the impact, but the Vicomte's.
Once again, St. Luc had underestimated his opponent. In the seconds before St. Luc spoke, Nicholas had sensed his intent. He twisted St. Luc's wrist away from his body, even as the man's finger had squeezed the trigger. The look of shock on the Vicomte's face showed very clearly the unexpectedness of his ultimate fate.
Gently, Nicholas lowered him to the floor and stood back. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he said, "He may not be dead. Someone should call a surgeon."
"Why?" Lejeune said disinterestedly. "This one is not worth saving."
Nicholas shrugged. It went against the grain to leave a man to die alone, without even the pretense of assistance, but he had other, more important concerns now. Stephanie was standing perfectly still beside Lejeune. Nicholas went over to her and curled one hand firmly over her arm. "This one is mine," he said to Lejeune, defying the man to alter the rules of the combat.
There was a momentary battle of wills; then Lejeune looked down at the bleeding body of St. Luc and smiled ruefully. "Brissot is at the Cordeliers at this time of night. You will find him there."
Nicholas grinned savagely. "Good. Then we'll see if this young fellow is as important as that carrion claimed!"
On the filthy floor St. Luc moved. His mouth opened and he attempted to speak. Nicholas shot him a glance, saw the word "English" form on his lips and decided there was no more time to linger. He tugged Stephanie's arm. "Come on, you, I'm taking you to Citizen Brissot, now!"
St. Luc coughed and spat blood. Several men knelt down to hear his dying words. Nicholas used the moment to hurry Stephanie out of the tavern, before any of his erstwhile supporters learned that he was even less to be trusted than St. Luc himself.
They burst from the Blue Angel into the cool night air. Nicholas gave a low whistle and the shadows moved. A horse snorted as the man in tattered clothes appeared, leading his two mounts.
"We've got to be quick, Tony. St. Luc and I decided Stephanie's fate with knives, but he's not quite dead. Those Frenchmen may pour out of their haunt at any moment." As he spoke he caught Stephanie about the waist and tossed her up onto one of the horses while Baxter held the reins. Stephanie, her hands still tied, slid her leg over the pommel. She clutched the horse's mane and hoped she would be able to keep her seat. She was relieved when Nicholas mounted behind her and wrapped his arm around her waist. With one deft movement his knife appeared again and he slit her bonds. Equally as quickly, he stripped the brown wig from his head and spat the pads plumping his cheeks from his mouth. Then he gathered up the reins and kicked the horse into motion. "To the embassy, Tony. At a gallop."
Chapter 18
The horses clattered along the cobblestoned streets, their iron-shod hooves making enough noise to rouse the neighborhoods they rode through. No heads poked out of windows to see what was going on, however. In Paris it had become wiser for the common man to ignore the unexpected late at night. Once they were spotted by a group of National Guardsmen emerging from a tavern, and ordered to stop. Nicholas turned his mount into a nearby alley and disappeared into the maze of streets that was Paris, leaving behind the shouted orders and scramble for horses.
As they neared the Embassy, their surroundings began to change from crowded houses jumbled together and abutting the narrow streets, to a more gracious area with large mansions set back from the road. Iron fences circled the buildings securely, while the wide gates were barred against midnight intruders. Somewhere to the south of this district lay the royal palaces. Stephanie could feel the control over her emotions crumbling, for they were so close to safety that she knew she would not be able to cope if they were stopped now.
At one set of locked gates Nicholas drew his lathered horse to a trembling halt. Tony cantered to a more leisurely halt as Nicholas shouted, "I am the Earl of Wroxton! Open the gates!"
A soldier, standing at attention, brought his musket to the ready as he cautiously approached the iron fence.
To Stephanie, the man seemed to take an eternity. She began to tremble as the seconds ticked away and she imagined her chance of happiness dissolving into nothingness. "Hurry up, there!" Nicholas snapped, concerned for the woman in his arms.
The soldier looked at the three scruffy individuals and cocked his musket. The horse Nicholas was riding snorted and tossed its head, infected by the impatience of its rider. The movement made the soldier look more closely at the animal. It was a chestnut with an unusual white marking on its nose. Recognition dawned and the soldier frowned. He peered at Nicholas, then made a decision. Slowly he lowered the hammer, placed his musket carefully against the stone post from which the gates were hung, then set about removing the bar which held them secure.
Nicholas put his heels to his mount and charged inside the moment there was a large enough opening, almost running over the guard in the process. With a hoot of triumph, Tony followed.
Halting the horse in front of the imposing Paladian facade of the Embassy building, Nicholas dismounted. A footman hurried out of the double doors and across the columned porch to discover the cause of the noise. Nicholas reached up to catch Stephanie about the waist to help her slide off the horse's back. Arriving shortly after Nicholas and Stephanie, Tony gestured to the servant, ordering that the horses be taken to the stables in the rear of the compound.
Faltering, the servant said, "But who are you?"
"I'm the Earl of Wroxton, you fool," Nicholas interjected impatiently, worried about Stephanie. She was now shaking badly and as her feet touched the ground, her knees buckled and could not hold her weight. Nicholas cursed softly and picked her up. Carrying her as if she weighed no more than a feather, he strode up the steps to the front door.
"Nicholas, this isn't necessary," Stephanie murmured against his shoulder. "I can walk."
He paused a moment to look down into her eyes. His own were alight with a smoldering passion. "I know. Hush now. Would you spoil the pleasure of your knightly rescuer?"
Stephanie laughed. "Never, milord." She snuggled closer. "Nicholas?"
He paused just inside the open doorway. Behind him there was a murmur of voices as Tony reassured the footman, who was now reassured by the soldier who had been guarding the gate that the Embassy was not being invaded by sansculottes and that the horses should be returned to their stalls. Nicholas concentrated on Stephanie. "What is it, my sweet?"
"I need a bath." She shivered. "I'm filthy. I want to be clean again."
Turning, Nicholas shouted, "You there!" Both the footman and the soldier were immediately silenced by the voice of command. Tony grinned. Nicholas was silhouetted in the doorway, an imposing image of a man whose size was immense and whose strength was boundless. Since the soldier seemed to have been struck dumb, the footman stepped forward. "You wished something, sir?"
"A bath. No, two baths. Have the hot water brought up to my room."
Stephanie murmured, "And a fire. I want a fire."
The night was warm, but Nicholas did
not question her request. What Stephanie wanted tonight, Stephanie would have. "And we need a fire laid. See to it immediately."
The footman bowed. "Of course, m-my lord. And will a second chamber be required for the young, er, gentleman?"
Nicholas looked down at Stephanie, a promise in his eyes. "Not tonight." He did not hear the footman's stammered "Yes, my lord," or the soldier's "S'trewth!" He did hear Tony's shout of laughter, but he was so lost in the sweet smile on Stephanie's face and the love shining from her slanting brown eyes that the world around them receded into the shadowy distance.
The door to his chamber was open when Nicholas reached it. Inside, a servant was hastily laying the fire. Gently, Nicholas lowered Stephanie to her feet, letting her body slide against his in a sensuous caress. There was a whoosh as the fire caught. The servant scuttled out, pulling the door closed behind him.
His hand crept up to tangle in her dark hair, while the arm at her waist drew her hips hard against him. "I'm dirty," she said as his mouth descended toward hers.
"I love you," he replied huskily. Their mouths met in a kiss that was filled with tenderness. Tears sprang into Stephanie's eyes and spilled over onto her cheeks. Nicholas lifted his head. Gently, he rubbed his thumb over her damp skin. "What's this? Are my kisses so awful?"
"I thought I would never see you again!" She sniffed, then laughed. A mischievous smile appeared through her tears. "I should have known you would rescue me. You've made a habit of saving me from my folly over the past few months." She laid her head on his shoulder, contentment filling her.
"A habit I will never lose, my love," he promised softly, placing a light kiss on her hair.
Stephanie felt the caress and stiffened. Surprised by her reaction, Nicholas loosened his hold and let her slip away. "I'm dirty," she said flatly, standing stiffly, her hands clenched by her side. "I want to be held by you, Nicholas. I want to be loved by you, but only when I can come to you clean and unsullied."