The Revolutionary and the Rogue

by Blake Ferre

  For a smidgen of a moment, Henri felt pity for him. The aristo was most certainly haunted by something. Henri opened his mouth, hardly believing it possible for a man such as de Vesey to feel pain.

  Before he could speak, de Vesey’s eyes darkened. “Perhaps you could tell us what you were doing at Crimson Rose last night?”

  Henri dropped his spoon with a loud clank. How foolish of him to forget their positions. The man had only feigned his kindness and flirtations to uncover what Henri was up to. He glanced at his soup, wondering if they’d poisoned it.

  “My lord.” The manservant hurried into the room, carrying a silver platter with a folded letter. Henri nearly rolled his eyes. The aristocracy and their inane need for men to bow before them. Men like Henri’s father had lowered themselves to the whims of undeserving aristos…only to be trod upon.

  He eyed the letter as de Vesey plucked it from the tray. Upon opening the parchment, he drew his lips into a tight line.

  “Citoyen Chevalier, I’m afraid our time together has come to an end. For now.” He pushed out of his chair. “I’ve business to attend to.”

  Henri’s gaze dropped to the parchment. The only part visible was the sender’s name. The Scarlet Crest.

  Of all the peculiar things… He leaned closer, but de Vesey must have noticed Henri’s sneaking, because he hastily slipped it into his coat pocket and turned on his heel. “My manservant, Philippe, will see you out.”

  Henri’s jaw gaped as de Vesey strode out of the room. That was it? And why was Henri so disappointed at the sudden shift in mood?

  Though it appeared he’d lost his chance to learn anything new about the aristo, Henri could be patient. He’d lurk around de Vesey’s estate, find a good hiding space, and wait.

  Though Henri had barely slept or touched his meal, a surge of determination coursed through his veins. As soon as de Vesey emerged from his home, Henri would follow. Whatever was in that message had unnerved the aristo. And Henri hungered to uncover his secrets.

  …

  Once all was quiet and Quill had retired to his bedchamber, Perrin crept out of the house and headed directly for Crimson Rose, against the letter’s warning. Standing at the gate to his residence, Philippe awaited him. “I wondered if you might do something foolish, my lord.”

  “I have to warn Crimson Rose about those officers. I suppose you’ll be coming with me, then?”

  “Indeed. But I don’t like this.”

  “Very well.” Perrin knew better than to tell Philippe not to come. The manservant would only have followed him anyway.

  The streets were eerily empty, but it made the journey much quicker this time around. Opting to sneak to the club’s back entrance—in case there was trouble afoot—Perrin knocked on the door until someone answered.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” the doorman at Crimson Rose hissed at Perrin through the partially opened portal. “We’re closed for the foreseeable future.”

  “Please let me in. I must speak with Guillaume.” Perrin wedged his arm through the gap, prying the door farther open. “There were men here last night. Officers in disguise.” Perrin stuck his head through the threshold.

  The doorman sighed but held Perrin back. “You must leave immediately. We already knew about the officers. You’re putting us all at risk.”

  “Wait—how did you know the officers were here?” Perrin asked.

  The doorman glanced out at the street before answering. “Our members are only granted access by presenting a silver signet. For our protection, we created a false password in case nosy officers sought access.”

  “De Vesey. Philippe.” The club’s owner, Guillaume, waved the doorman aside. His sharp eyes flicked from Perrin and Philippe to the street with a nervous twitch. “The moment those officers said the phrase ‘brandy thief,’ we had our eyes on them.”

  Philippe stepped closer, peering over Perrin’s shoulder. “How did you know they were officers and not just spies or…”

  “We recognized the two immediately. They’ve been following Duclos around town. Hadn’t even bothered to alter their likenesses. Only their clothes. We had Duclos sneak you to the back of the club while I distracted the officers by salting their wine.”

  “Why are they after Duclos?”

  Guillaume’s jaw strained before he responded. “You know Paris these days. Everyone has a denouncement or two against them. Now, it’s time for you to return home and do what you’ve perfected over this past year. Hide.”

  Perrin pressed his lips together as shame singed his chest. “I deserved that. But I won’t sit back knowing my friends are in danger.”

  “In this case, you must.”

  Perrin still had too many questions. “Some conniver who goes by the name of the Scarlet Crest sent me a warning that this club is closed indefinitely and to stay away from Duclos because he’s been marked. What does that even mean? Why has the club closed? Who is the Scarlet Crest?”

  “Quiet. Don’t speak that name in the open.” Guillaume flicked his gaze across their surroundings again. “There are eyes and ears in every nook.”

  “Please, my lord. Let’s leave.” Philippe tugged Perrin’s cloak, urging him away from the door.

  Perrin glanced back at the empty street. “There’s no one there.”

  “Don’t be fooled. Spies linger about, eager to nab enemies of the Republic.” Guillaume rubbed his forehead. Though a few gray hairs had sprouted at his temples, Guillaume’s mane burned auburn in the low amber lighting. Adorned in a scarlet coat with fine golden buttons, he still played every bit the fop he longed to be.

  “Please, if there’s anything I can do to help…” Perrin wasn’t sure what that would be, but he needed to keep his friends safe.

  “I appreciate your concern. I do. But the best thing you can do for us all is go home. Wait for my word.”

  “Is Duclos here? Is that why you didn’t want me to come?”

  Guillaume groaned. “I forgot how incredibly stubborn you can be. And foolish.”

  Philippe had the nerve to snicker from behind Perrin. “Indeed, my lord. You’re a difficult man to reason with when your mind is set on something.”

  “I’m just worried about Duclos.” Perrin knew he didn’t deserve to be a part of this—not after he’d turned his back on his friends this past year. But now that his eyes were open to the current state of affairs, he couldn’t simply close them again. “Why would the Scarlet—er—person, whoever they are, plead with me to help fight for humanity if they only intended for me to sit at home and wait?”

  “Because the original scheme was a failure. That’s all I can share for now. It’s better for you to know as little as possible in case you’re questioned for any reason. Everything is ruined.”

  “What’s ruined?” Perrin latched his fingers on the doorframe as Guillaume made to close the door.

  “Duclos already knew this day might come. Like you, he’s been warned. I bid you farewell, monsieur.” Guillaume whispered the final word.

  Monsieur. The Committee’s decree to abandon the old titles of the aristocracy had been implemented before Julien’s death. Men and women were now called citoyens, or citizens. Odd that Guillaume had risked that tiny gesture of defiance.

  “Come, my lord.” Philippe rested a hand on Perrin’s shoulder and pulled him away from the door.

  “Stay safe.” Guillaume offered them an apologetic look before closing it.

  Philippe continued to guide Perrin away from the club. “I told you we had no business coming here. You must learn to think things through. Let’s head home before Quill notices we’re missing.”

  Damnation, why was the man always right?

  As they wandered farther from the club, Perrin glanced down either side of the dank, lifeless alley that had only last night burned with a fiery ruckus. The atmosphere of rage was gone, but a w
hirring energy still brewed beneath the cobblestone.

  Though he was exhausted from the past day’s events, a newfound energy pulsed through his body—a reminder there was still something left for him in this miserable city. Perrin had often wished he’d died in Julien’s stead. Now, he had the chance to help those who’d cared for Julien. It was what his lover would have wanted.

  “I’ve done enough sitting around this past year. I don’t care what Guillaume or the Scarlet Crest have said. To hell with their warnings. I must find Duclos.”

  “My lord, if he’s to be arrested, you’ll only put the rest of us in danger.” Philippe shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “We should go home, where it’s warm. We’ll form a plan, once we have more information.”

  “And what if we lose our chance to help him? Waiting be damned. Let’s go.”

  “My lord?” Philippe scurried after him as Perrin raced out of the alley. “What did I tell you about making hasty decisions?”

  “That the best things come to those in haste?”

  Though Philippe groaned, a nagging pain in Perrin’s stomach told him there wasn’t a moment to lose. He sensed something was wrong. Worse than Guillaume was letting on. Yesterday, Duclos had been eager to speak with them. If officers were involved, if Duclos was to be arrested, they simply could not wait.

  Racing along a row of townhomes, nearing the pungent odor of the Seine, Perrin hurried toward Duclos’s residence. Philippe’s frantic footsteps trailed behind in sporadic clicks. Perrin maneuvered through a thin layer of fog, eager to reach the corner of a crooked side street that had a decent view of the river. Not much farther down, the backside of Duclos’s angular home came into view. Though the estate had often been filled with illumination, the fact that wavering lights now appeared in every window didn’t bode well.

  Perrin paused at the arched gateway that led to Duclos’s gardens. With fumbling steps, Philippe came to a sudden halt beside him and braced himself on the stone as he caught his breath. “Does this urgency…have something…to do…with your new friend? The revolutionary?”

  “I can assure you, he’s not my friend,” Perrin said. “Come. There’s something wrong. Duclos wouldn’t have every room lit.”

  With barely enough space for his shoulders to fit, Perrin shoved through a web of branches and brick, wrapping his arms over his chest to protect himself.

  “My lord? The officer? Chevalier.” Philippe clutched Perrin’s shoulder, nearly dragging them both to the ground.

  Perrin clung to the wall, casting dust and grit upon them. But he managed to hold Philippe steady. “If he’s tracking Duclos, I need to know why. What on earth has Duclos involved himself in?”

  “Forgive me if I’m worried that another reason for your haste has something to do with the way you were looking at Chevalier earlier. You’ve become obsessed with taunting him.”

  Perrin winced, wishing his body didn’t warm at the very thought of that pest Chevalier. “He perplexed me. That’s all. I can’t figure out if he truly saved that family from the tumbrel or staged the good deed to lure me into the crowd.”

  Perrin, fool that he was, still wanted to believe the officer might possibly be good, beyond his misguided ideals. Perhaps he’d truly had sympathy for that woman and her children.

  A brisk wind swept over them, and Philippe’s cape snapped across his face, tightly hugging his torso. The poor man fought the powerful wind, finally yanking the fabric into submission. “It was foolish to bring an officer into our home.”

  “Don’t say it. I already know. I act without thinking.” Perrin rolled his eyes at Philippe’s pointed nod.

  “He’s likely angling to earn your trust in order to spy on you. Or perhaps he aims to distract you. For all we know, he might be following us at this very moment.” Philippe glanced over his shoulder.

  Perrin clenched his jaw. He couldn’t forget that Chevalier had been at Crimson Rose last night. “He’s turned up twice already.”

  “Chevalier must have staged this,” Philippe whispered. “Did you not stop to think how this Scarlet Crest character learned of Duclos’s pending capture? Perhaps the officers of the Committee purposefully leaked the information so they could entrap us.”

  Did the manservant have to be so perceptive?

  “I don’t know what to think.” Perrin pushed aside the climbing rose plants that drooped across the path, blocking their way. The thorns glistened with a sheet of frost like a thousand menacing blades waiting to strike.

  Philippe traced a finger over a twig, snapping it in two. “Then why are we heading directly to Duclos’s home, knowing it’s likely what Chevalier hopes for?” Their heavy breaths stormed through the silence that hung between them. “Risking your life won’t bring Julien back.”

  Perrin clutched the folds of his cloak over his heart. “I can’t sit idly, waiting for something to happen,” he murmured under his breath, not wanting the neighbors to overhear. “I need to know Duclos is all right. If you don’t want to help, you should leave the city and protect yourself. Quill can escort you to London.”

  Philippe’s gaze darkened. “I won’t leave you, my lord. You’re all I have.”

  Perrin’s heart warmed. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “Search the house!” a deep voice barked from beyond the wall, jittering Perrin’s nerves. “Tear every room apart until we find him.”

  “We’re too late.” Fear surged through Perrin’s veins. The cold air pierced his lungs, making each breath a staggering torture. He peered over the wood gate separating them from the back of Duclos’s home. Several officers trod through the servants’ entrance, shouting orders to one another.

  “My lord, we can’t stay,” Philippe urged in a wheezing plea. “It wouldn’t look good, us loitering about Duclos’s garden.”

  “Damnation.” Perrin slowly stepped away as regret and fear smoldered beneath his skin.

  “Search the streets!” The shouts grew louder as Perrin and Philippe retraced their steps through the narrow pathway.

  Perrin quickened his pace, though a glimmer of hope danced within his chest. The officers hadn’t found Duclos. But from the sound of the footsteps, the men were gaining on them.

  Chevalier. The name popped into his mind with heated fury. Philippe had been right. The officer must have had something to do with this. False Knight. Conniving Knight.

  “If I ever run into that damned swindler again, I’ll strangle him.” Perrin pushed out of the tight passage and froze.

  Chevalier, that irritable leech, stood on the opposite side of the street. Eyes theatrically wide, locked onto Perrin’s.

  “You,” Perrin snarled.

  Chevalier placed his hand on the hilt of his officer’s sword, glancing between Perrin and the growing noise from beyond Duclos’s home. Not giving the sneak a chance to draw his blade, Perrin ran toward him. Putting all of his weight into the blow, he plowed into Chevalier, knocking them both to the street.

  Chevalier huffed from the impact, blinking with surprise. Perrin held him down. “What’s your aim?” he hissed.

  Anger boiled through Perrin’s limbs, surging to the point where his fist gripped Chevalier’s poorly tied cravat. He longed to wrap his fingers around that thick neck…and…goodness it looked firm.

  Chevalier latched his hands on Perrin’s hips. “My aim? To catch a traitor. Tell me something, aristo, why are you staring at my neck? All your feigned hospitality won’t save yours from the guillotine.”

  Perrin hastily released the cravat and braced his hands on either side of his captured officer. “You’re the one who’s afraid of the guillotine.”

  Chevalier stared daggers at him.

  Two firm hands latched around Perrin’s shoulders, pulling him back. “My lord, now. They’re coming.”

  “I should strangle your deceitful neck.” Perrin grabbed the lape
ls of Chevalier’s coat and propelled the back of his head against the cobblestone, almost feeling bad as the scoundrel winced from the impact. Though it served him right for stabbing Perrin earlier that day. “Did you stage this to entrap me? Just as you set up that little show with the mother and children on the street?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Chevalier squirmed.

  “You’re not worth it.” Perrin staggered off the alluring—no, foul—Chevalier.

  “My lord, now,” Philippe urged.

  Perrin spat on the street at Chevalier’s feet, just as the officer had once done to him. “Stay away from me and my friends.” He whipped around and hurried after Philippe, cursing the uneven cobblestone for making his legs wobble.

  When they reached the tall gate in front of Perrin’s estate, Perrin paused and clung to the iron bars before pushing it open. He could barely move his legs, let alone climb the ungodly steps leading to the front door. After all those months of sitting around the house, the past day’s efforts had taken a toll on him. He’d surely be unable to move a muscle come morning.

  As if the world aimed to torment him further, a young lad raced out from the shadows. “Is one of you de Vesey?”

  “Who wants to know?” Perrin looked over his shoulder, wondering if this was yet another of Chevalier’s tricks.

  “Didn’t give me a name. And his face was hidden. Paid well enough.” The lad stretched his hand forward and glanced between Perrin and Philippe before handing the folded parchment with a crimson seal to Perrin. “Here. Whichever one of you goes by de Vesey, take it.”

  No sooner had Perrin taken the note than the young boy raced into the shadows.

  “Shall I try to follow him, my lord?” Exhaustion was painted across the lines on Philippe’s face.

  “No. You likely wouldn’t learn anything. If you could even catch him.” Bless his friend’s noble offer, but Perrin refused to put him through further strain.

  “Very well, my lord.” Philippe stepped closer, hovering over Perrin’s shoulder. “What does the letter say?”

  Perrin carefully broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. But the moonlight barely illuminated the page. “Let’s step inside. Grab a candle so we can read it.”