The Revolutionary and the Rogue

by Blake Ferre

  “It’s damn fine you wore it for him.” Quill winked. “The whole purpose of tonight was to celebrate his life.” He clinked his fingers on the translucent rim of the glass, the liquid dancing with each motion. “It’s through our memories that he lives on.”

  “To our beloved Julien.” Philippe raised his glass and clinked it against Quill’s.

  The two looked at Perrin expectantly. Perrin slowly raised his arm, joining his friends in an intimate tribute.

  Struck by a sudden sting of tears, Perrin glanced away. Fighting off the unwanted intruders, he was confronted by a different threat—a pair of unmistakable hawklike eyes.

  Someone had to be punishing him. That ill-mannered revolutionary from the street turning up here as well? The very nerve. Perrin rubbed his chest. The burn in his lungs fueled his memories of how Chevalier had pushed him against that wall.

  Chevalier’s mouth sloped into a sharp frown that bore into Perrin’s heart. His neck sizzled with the memory of those strong arms.

  Horrendous. On this, of all nights, how could Perrin possibly find another man desirable? Let alone that one.

  Not wanting to think on Chevalier another moment, Perrin exhaled and pulled Quill into a tight embrace. “God, I’ve missed you, you knave. Coming all this way.”

  “It was bloody time.” Quill fiddled with his sleeves, feigning indifference.

  “Pardon me.” An elderly gentleman with frazzled gray hair and a long nose pushed onto the bench beside Philippe. “Do you have room for one more?” The man wiggled his bushy gray brows.

  Though it had been several years since Perrin had seen the Marquis Duclos, recognition struck him. “Duclos? What are you doing here? And why are you wearing that ridiculous nose?” The peculiar disguise aside, those friendly hazel eyes cast a number of warming emotions through Perrin’s weary heart.

  “Lower your voice. I can’t let anyone recognize me. But I couldn’t miss our little soirée for Julien. Loved that boy like a son.”

  Blinking back another onslaught of tears, Perrin bowed his head. He owed a great debt to his old friend. If Duclos hadn’t taken Julien under his care all those years ago, before the fall of the Bastille, Perrin might never have crossed paths with his beloved. Or worse yet, Julien might have fallen victim to his father’s unrelenting temper.

  “And I think you know from experience that our lovely young Julien was my best model.” Duclos leaned forward and patted Perrin’s shoulder. “Don’t think I didn’t know what the two of you were up to in my studio when you thought no one was around.”

  Perrin’s cheeks surged with heat. “I know not to what you refer.” Perhaps, on occasion, after visiting with Duclos regarding a child in need of a home, Julien had dragged Perrin into said studio and demonstrated his talent for holding a great many poses. His glorious toned limbs sprawled on the canvas-covered furnishings.

  Duclos chuckled his warm, fatherly laugh. Always, kindness and understanding resonated from him. Never judgment. That’s what had made Julien learn to trust again. To face his broken past and rise up.

  “Don’t fear; no one ever watched. I made certain the staff and apprentices were kept out of earshot. But you most certainly didn’t know how to keep quiet.”

  “Can we not discuss this?” Perrin gritted, sensing his friends’ gawking gazes. He was suddenly reminded of why he’d chosen to hide away this past year.

  “Oh no, please continue.” Quill waved his hand, encouraging Duclos on. “I can’t believe you never shared these glorious details. You’ve been holding out on us, Duclos.”

  “Quiet! Mustn’t speak my name so loudly.” He quickly glanced over his shoulder before turning his gaze back to Perrin and squeezing Perrin’s hand as if nothing were the matter. “I suppose there were also the odd trysts shared in dark corridors, hmm?”

  Perrin slapped Duclos’s hand away. “Enough. You’ve had your fun.” But he had to admit, talking about Julien lifted a weight from his chest, offering his heart a little more room to beat.

  Duclos held back a laugh, his shoulders still shaking. “Alas, I’m afraid we haven’t much time.” The smile left his face, and he leaned closer to the center of the table. “I’ve a most urgent request. Meet me in the back room. You remember the one? The door beneath the stairs. Hidden behind the bar. Please be discreet. One at a time. Mustn’t be seen. It’s a matter of life and death. You saw the note?”

  “Life and death?” Perrin glanced at the half-empty decanter, confused by Duclos’s sudden shift in mood. “You’re the one who left the brandy? That note—what does it mean? Are you the Scarlet Crest?” Perrin lowered his voice, sensing a hush in the room. “What’s happened, Duclos?”

  “Mustn’t speak of the Scarlet Crest out here. Not safe. I’m just as eager to meet with our leader as you. But unwanted eyes are upon us. Back room. One at a time, so as not to draw attention to yourselves.” His playful smile dropped into a forlorn frown. “And stay away from those men over there.” Duclos discreetly pointed to Chevalier and his foul-mannered companion from the street.

  “Chevalier?” Perrin hastily looked away when the scoundrel himself glanced at Perrin with wrinkled brows.

  “Don’t look at him. He mustn’t see me. This isn’t good. Not at all. We must be quick.” Duclos brushed his wiry hair over his eyes, masking his face from view. “Under the bar, behind the stairs. Wait. No. It’s under the stairs, behind the bar. Yes. One at a time.”

  Without another word, Duclos slid from the bench and scurried behind the bar, sneaking into the back room. Under the stairs.

  Perrin’s eyes trailed back to Chevalier. What in the bloody hell had he gotten himself into?

  …

  Henri narrowed his gaze, studying the older man who’d suddenly hurried away from that obnoxious group of aristos. Plainly dressed with a large nose and a mane of unruly gray hair, he didn’t seem to belong amongst such a frivolous crew. Yet, they’d laughed together as though they were well acquainted. Suspicious indeed.

  Henri tried not to glare at the aristo or his obnoxious friends, but found his eyes drawn back to that corner table time and again. Not an hour ago, that mob on the street had nearly trampled the man. Now, the aristo sat and laughed with his friends, all the while flaunting his expensive attire. Henri seethed that he’d accidentally protected that pompous peacock on the street.

  Robespierre and his fine silk stockings. The aristo’s words sprang to his mind. It was contradictory that their leader pranced about in expensive clothing while so many citizens starved.

  “You’re staring at that empty glass like you’re about to crush it or throw it at some aristo’s head.” Luc tossed the remainder of his wine down his throat. “To hell with Duclos. I’m tired of waiting. Clearly, we’ve been misinformed.”

  “Citizens.” An auburn-haired server poured another glass of burgundy for Luc.

  When he extended the bottle to Henri’s glass, Henri pushed the offering aside and leaned to the left, glancing once more at the table of aristos. To his irritation, the server stepped in his line of sight. Henri cocked his head to the right and noticed the tawny-haired man with the long jaw had left the table.

  The server shifted his weight, blocking Henri’s view once more. “Are you sure you don’t want another?” The man swayed uneasily from foot to foot, each time hindering part of Henri’s view. Almost as if the man didn’t want him to see those confounded aristos.

  “We’re fine. Leave us.” Henri suffered a pang of regret over his poor manners. Growing up, he’d often been reminded by his father that a kind man held a greater status than the king himself.

  The server ignored him, offering the ingredients of the chef’s latest soup. Henri glanced around the server’s backside, drawn to that cursed table of aristos. That feathery, foppish fellow had left his seat, leaving Henri’s aristo behind. Alone.

  Those alluring green eyes ratt
led Henri’s fantasies like pesky embers that refused to be smothered.

  “I forgot about the sausages. Tiniest slices, but I promise they’re real meat,” the server continued to babble.

  Luc pounded his fist on the table, jostling their glasses. “Leave us.”

  The server squeaked and hurried off.

  Henri’s gaze met his aristo’s. The man’s visage bore a hazed darkness, the emerald hue of his irises aged by some sort of specter. His windblown curls were copper-tinted and shimmered in the candlelight.

  Curse those pesky good looks. Beneath the beauty, Henri was certain he’d find a plethora of evils. His father’s wisdom rang through his ears.

  The wealthy embellish their appearances to hide their failings.

  “Aristo,” he murmured as a warning to himself—a reminder of everything the stranger represented. Injustice. Loss.

  Luc coughed, spewing wine across the table. Henri winced at the offending splatter on his cheek but wiped it off with a swift brush.

  “Stinking server put salt in my drink.” Luc wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then tipped the glass over the candlelight.

  A shameful waste of fine salt.

  While Luc swept his hands over his chest to clear the mess, Henri realized the handsome aristo had slipped away from the table. Turning to seek him, he saw a door close from behind the bar, under the staircase.

  The server had salted the drinks at the moment the aristo had snuck off. Between that, the nonstop soliloquy about food, and the strategic blocking of Henri’s view, it seemed the server had been up to something. Henri wanted to know what that was.

  Luc snarled. “I’m through with this horrid place and its clientele.” He pushed out of his chair. “I’m heading to Duclos’s residence. Are you coming?” The hollow cheeks and deep-set lines that framed his mouth only accentuated Luc’s unbearable mood.

  Henri couldn’t leave now. He was certain the server had been protecting those aristos. “I think I’ll stay. Something’s not right here. I’ve a feeling about that aristo from the street, and Duclos might still turn up.” Henri eyed the door behind the bar, wondering if maybe Duclos had already arrived.

  “I’ve no more taste for this establishment. We’ll see who catches that traitor in the end.” Luc raised his chin and marched toward the exit.

  Henri remained seated until the redheaded server whisked himself away to a rowdy table, then made his move.

  After creeping behind the bar, he tested the handle of the slender wooden door beneath the steps. Oddly, it was unlocked. Henri pushed his way into what appeared to be a small closet. Though it was dark, he made out a crack of light streaming from a second door. Henri stepped fully inside and pulled the door to the main clubroom closed. He hoped he wouldn’t end up locked inside this unpleasant place. Ignoring the cobwebs, he crept toward the voices that carried through from the other side.

  Upon reaching the second door, he leaned forward and centered one eye at the unusually large iron keyhole. Those three irritating aristos were gathered at a round table. An older gentleman, who had his back to Henri, set a rolled parchment in front of Henri’s aristo. Its size was about the length of the man’s forearm, and it was bound in some sort of cloth or canvas.

  This was it. The rumored exchange.

  “I’m sorry our mutual friend will not make an appearance tonight. I’m afraid it’s not safe. I’d hoped for you to meet. I’ve risked too much coming here tonight. But I had to see you before…”

  “Before what?” the aristo from the street asked.

  “It’s time for me to pass my legacy on to another. Can’t run things by myself any longer,” the older gentleman said.

  “Your legacy? You mean the orphanage? Are you planning to leave?” the feathery blond fellow asked.

  “Keep those parchments safe. They hold something very dear to me. Come see me tomorrow night behind my estate. I’ll arrange for you to meet with our mutual friend then. It should be safer. I promise this will all make sense. Tomorrow.”

  Henri’s chest tightened as the older gentleman spun around. Though the conniving schemer wore a false nose, he was without a doubt the former Marquis Duclos. Henri rubbed his damp palms on his rough breeches, delighting in Luc’s error. Henri would ensnare Duclos tomorrow night behind his home—and perhaps those irritable companions of his as well.

  “Wait. I don’t understand.” The aristo from the street stood, tucking the rolled parchment under his arm.

  “I’m sorry, de Vesey. I must be off. I’ve a few plans to sort out.” Duclos fiddled with his false nose. “I’d hoped our mutual friend could have been here, but I fear the timing was all wrong.”

  At that moment, the dust in the room tickled Henri’s nose. He pinched it, struggling against that irritating itch. But to no avail. He released an explosive sneeze.

  “Who’s there?” De Vesey flicked his gaze to the door, and Henri froze, holding his cursed nose.

  “I think we’re being watched. We must leave immediately,” Duclos urged.

  “Watched? You mean…those men at the table you warned us about? Chevalier?”

  Henri’s heart burst through his chest at the mention of his name. He staggered away from the door and knocked his head on the underside of the inconveniently placed stairs.

  “Now! Go now.” Duclos’s voice rang with apprehension. “Hurry. Through the back door. Tomorrow. I’ll explain everything tomorrow.”

  As if the fates hadn’t been cruel enough to him already, the door behind Henri swung open, smacking his backside. He yelped, rubbing the throbbing welt. Clearly, he wasn’t cut out for this sneaking-around business.

  “What are you doing in here?” The redheaded server scowled, grabbing Henri’s arm tightly. “Get out this instant!”

  Henri struck his forehead on the doorframe, scrambling to escape the tight enclosure. To hell with the establishment, its absurd spaces, and its no-good patrons.

  “Sorry. I lost my way.” It was a pathetic excuse, but Henri didn’t look back as he bustled out of the club.

  Once outside, he hurried to the alley to see if he could trail those sneaky aristos. De Vesey. He intended to find out exactly what that pest was up to. De Vesey was likely one of the Englishmen Duclos was conspiring with. And that rolled parchment had to be the damning evidence. Perhaps it was a set of maps documenting where English troops aimed to attack.

  Farther down the alley, Henri spotted de Vesey and his two ridiculous friends skittering off. With no sign of Duclos, Henri opted to follow the others. He couldn’t lose his chance to get his hands on those parchments. Masked well behind the shadows, Henri grinned and slipped after the aristos. Perhaps he’d learn more about this de Vesey scoundrel as well.

  Chapter Three

  Groggily sliding out of bed, Perrin struck his toe on the thick wooden corner post. He hopped on his uninjured foot, slipped on the edge of the rug, and collapsed on his backside with a painful thud.

  Splendid. Not only was his head splitting because he’d not slept a wink, now the rest of his body ached as well.

  Exhaustion and bodily aches aside, his heart thrummed with an eager fervor for evening to arrive so he could finally meet with Duclos and perhaps learn who the Scarlet Crest was.

  Perrin’s mind spiraled with worry, frustration, and…the unforgettable image of those hawklike eyes.

  As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, he couldn’t expunge Chevalier, that ill-tempered nuisance of a revolutionary, from his mind.

  Perrin tapped the back of his head on the firm parquet flooring in several thumps, but the self-inflicted pain did little to purge the images of Chevalier’s wide lips or his beautifully extended neck. Lord, what would Julien think of Perrin now?

  Turning onto his front side, Perrin shifted his weight onto his knees and folded his body in two, forehead pressed to the floor. Julien’s hazy
image with his familiar soft smile not only warmed Perrin’s flesh, but also haunted him like a specter in his memories and his heart.

  Well before the fall of the Bastille, Julien had escaped his cruel family’s wrath and arrived in England seeking London’s branch of Crimson Rose. However, the eager fool had gone to the wrong door. Perrin had swooped in before he’d propositioned a drunken gentleman who likely would have put Julien behind bars. In return, Julien had captured Perrin’s heart. A heart that would never fully mend.

  Perrin’s fantasies grew dim. A new face replaced light, delicate Julien. The blasted dark-eyed, chisel-jawed revolutionary, Chevalier.

  Unfolding himself, Perrin scrambled onto his feet and strode to the washbasin. After dipping his fingers into the chilled water, he splashed his face in an attempt to wash Chevalier from his thoughts.

  The simple act also offered a satisfying breath of normality. Though he hated to admit it, Perrin was tired of feeling miserable.

  Stepping away from the basin, Perrin strode to his wardrobe. He leaned on the intricately gilded door and selected an undecorated burgundy justaucorps with fabric-covered buttons. While he drew the matching breeches up to his waist, two sharp knocks struck his bedchamber door.

  Philippe entered, carrying a silver tray. “My lord, you’re dressing yourself?” His tawny hair was tied neatly in a simple queue, his cobalt suit crisp, as if he hadn’t been out all night.

  “Quill doesn’t need to see me naked.” Perrin strode past Philippe to the chest of drawers, pretending to search the contents. “Though he might not protest,” he jested.

  “And telling jokes?” Philippe arched a brow. “Who are you, and what have you done with my master?”

  Perrin winced. “Have I truly been so miserable to be around?” Yes, yes, he had.

  “I believe it’s safer if I decline to respond, my lord.” Philippe grinned.

  “Can you please not call me that? You are my friend. I simply happen to pay you for certain household duties that you insist upon performing even when not asked.”

  “Given that you are my friend, you shall simply have to accept the manner in which I choose to address you, my lord.”