by Blake Ferre
“Eager to make a catch, indeed.” Finally, a mission where there’d be no sign of de Vesey or his pesky lips. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Luc sucked on his teeth and grinned. “I’m still ahead of you on that promotion. I’m surprised the capitaine hasn’t come by to thank me for catching Duclos.”
Henri grunted and turned his back on his smug companion. Plucking the top page from the pile of denouncements on his desk, he scanned the accusation. A man accused of owning a collection of banned literature.
A year ago, accusations had held vital facts about vicious enemies of the Republic. Horrible aristocratic villains who’d actively worked to reestablish the monarchy.
He sighed, trying to read the decimal clock on the cluttered shelf above his desk. The Committee’s decision to change the length of minutes and hours only led to headaches and confusion.
With a heavy thwack, the thick wooden office door swung open, striking the wall behind it. “Citizens.”
The capitaine’s deep voice boomed from the hallway. He arched his slender belly through the threshold, as if he hoped it might make him appear larger than he was. Somehow, the man managed to keep the rest of his lanky form outside the office. Both Henri and Luc dropped their quills and stood, their chairs scraping the floor in unison.
“Citoyen Floch, what a surprise.” Luc offered a sly grin, clearly awaiting a congratulatory nod.
“Citoyen Cyrille, I’ve heard excellent things about your work with Duclos. Grabbed him on his way to the city gates, eh?” Floch’s thick lips worked harder than necessary, overly shaping each word. Spittle sprayed with every syllable, making Henri relieved most of it landed on the man’s belly.
Luc beamed with pride. “Only doing my patriotic duty.” He gave Henri the slightest of glances that flaunted his win.
“Yes, well, unfortunately, we have very little on Duclos’s allies. These traitors, the ones listed on Duclos’s artwork—how did he know we were on the cusp of arresting them? He must have been working with someone close to our offices. And what of this peculiar name found on that burned parchment, the Scarlet Crest? I’ve no doubt it’s the name of their criminal venture. If Duclos refuses to speak, we’re sitting in a boiling pot of useless turds.” Floch took one hefty step into the room. “We need to squash the whole crew. Find out who the leader of this Scarlet Crest is and how many are in league with them. Which one of you wants to question Duclos at the prison?”
Henri instinctively stepped backward.
“Citoyen Cyrille, I expect you to get yourself over to La Force and do what you need to do to break Duclos.”
“Yes, citizen.” Luc’s jaw clenched so tightly his face turned an unappealing shade of plum.
“And Citoyen Chevalier.” Floch’s bark drew a gasp from Henri. “I’m disappointed in you. You’ve failed to turn up anything of use. On anyone.” The last four syllables were a high-pitched shriek that nearly made Henri wet his breeches. “You can’t even manage to enforce an execution.”
Henri pressed his fist to his mouth, but Floch’s words hit him hard. The city’s government was a fluid beast. Just one Republican month ago, the queen had been tried and executed. Now people seemed to be under suspicion of treason for the simplest of accusations. How much more was Henri willing to enforce?
Floch inhaled a deep breath, then let out a rolling belch. “I’m accepting a promotion and need to choose my replacement before the month of Pluviôse.” Henri glanced at the calendar on his desk, still trying to grasp the names of the new months. “You’d best learn the Republican calendar.”
“Yes, citizen. Of course.”
“Excellent. I’m counting on you both to succeed.” Floch slowly backed out of the doorway before stomping off. His footsteps were so powerful the door jittered in its frame.
“I’m off to the prison. I’ll crack the truth out of that traitorous old man.” Luc brushed past Henri, knocking the pile of accusatory notes off his desk.
Henri shuffled the pages into several sloppy piles, stuffing some into drawers. He glanced at the accusation in his fist. Some shopkeeper had written a letter voicing his frustration over the Tribunal’s overly rushed trials.
Henri crumpled it, scoffed, then tossed the senseless complaint into the fire. Though he had half a mind to burn the whole lot of them, there could be one genuine complaint amongst them. He was done with office work for the day. His weakness with de Vesey only proved how overrun by exhaustion Henri was. He needed a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, at the theater, he’d catch that seditious actor. Then, he’d set his sights back to that former comtesse.
After a hasty walk, Henri didn’t find himself at his own building. Somehow, he’d meandered directly to de Vesey’s estate. As he stared at the steps, his skin warmed from the memory of de Vesey’s sweet lips. Non. He ought to concentrate on other accusations and leave de Vesey alone.
Just as Henri was about to turn around, sharp whispers came from the side of the house.
Intéressant.
It was probably only the staff chatting about their master. Possibly divulging secrets. Now that he thought about it, perhaps a small listen would be in order.
Henri wedged his body between the plaster wall and a bare topiary he’d used to access the passage before. Though the tiny path was too tight for comfort, he managed to squeeze through. Two steps in, he fumbled into a pile of slush. Merde.
To his luck, the voices continued, no one seeming to have noticed his intrusion. He waited a few moments before tapping his boot against the wall, releasing the frigid muck.
“I won’t do it. I don’t care what our leader wants.” De Vesey’s voice was unmistakable.
“You’ll put us all at risk if you’re not cautious. Keep your guard up and use your senses. And be careful tomorrow. Meet me only for the drop-off at intermission. Once it’s done, be gone as fast as you can. You mustn’t set foot in that theater.”
“Why?”
“Please, just trust in the Scarlet Crest’s wishes.” The words were a mere whisper in the chill of the air, yet Henri recognized the name without a doubt.
Footsteps clomped toward Henri. He spun on his heel and darted out of the little nook, avoiding the puddle of muck he’d already suffered. The moment he reached the main street, he hid behind a square column and watched for the visitor to emerge.
Ashford. That damned actor.
Someone up above had to be playing some sort of prank on Henri. Of all people. De Vesey had to be involved with Ashford as well? Incroyable. Two nights ago, Henri would have rejoiced over such a discovery. Now, his skin grew cold. The information would keep him a step ahead of Luc in catching the conspiring actor, but his stomach twisted if it meant he’d have to confront de Vesey once more. Curse those lips and that tempting tongue.
Henri ought to remove himself from the whole ordeal. The makings of freedom required a stronger resolve than his.
He needed to rid himself of de Vesey. The insufferable rogue had infected Henri with doubt…and the gluttonous desire for another kiss.
Chapter Nine
Exiting the crowded theater during intermission, Henri couldn’t help but admire the actor’s skill. It was no wonder he had so many enthusiastic supporters. The man was dashing indeed. Ashford had stood on the stage, performing a piece that boldly presented the new Republican calendar. One might be able to excuse it as wholesome support of the new months. But, equally, there had been a sense of a seditious undertone.
The performance had begun with a parade of actresses swarming around Ashford, each clad in one of the many costumes the Republic had designed to represent the recently named months. These symbols of the Revolution’s success—and the ruination of the ancien régime—held Ashford’s character captivated while a woman in rags begged and pleaded for bread. The meaning remained questionable. Had the thespian accused the country’s leaders of holding insignif
icant issues with greater importance than the country’s ailments? Or did he praise the new calendar as a step toward saving the people?
The worst of it was, Henri personally found the scene humorous. Memories of those stuffy attendees at the former comtesse’s salon filled his mind. Cockades and buttons. Several times, Henri had to bite his lip to hold back his snickers.
The audience crowded into the foyer. Murmurs of heated discussion hung in the air, stretching a nervous energy across the room. As he wove through the befuddled patrons, Henri searched past clusters of chattering citizens for any sign of de Vesey. If that rogue appeared, Henri wanted to be the one to catch him. He’d not allow a pair of alluring green eyes to sway him from his mission tonight.
A wave of heat crept up his neck just as Luc strode to his side, gesturing to a gathering of nearby officers.
“Seditious filth. I’ll see to it the actor doesn’t step on the stage again. I’ll have him in shackles before we clear the theater.” Luc slapped the folded program into his palm with several brisk strikes.
“But you don’t have a warrant.”
“We’ll get one. Don’t worry. I’ve sent a messenger directly to the capitaine. By the time we’ve arrested Ashford, we’ll have our warrant. Besides, the Law of Suspects has granted us fewer restrictions on arrests. The guidelines aren’t that precise any longer.”
Henri adjusted the tricolored sash around his waist, pretending not to be as furious as he was. The patriotic flare weighed him down, more like iron chains than dyed fabric. With his every step, the loose tails caught between his legs, making it difficult to keep pace with Luc.
Henri needed to remain focused. If Luc caught Ashford, he’d likely earn that promotion. Henri had to separate himself from his conniving cohort to sneak around and perform his own search. Perhaps even corner de Vesey while he was at it. He scowled as another rush of heat attacked his face. Clearly de Vesey’s kisses had robbed him of his better judgment.
“You’re about to witness history, Chevalier. Right now, our men are sneaking backstage, ready to pounce.” Luc puffed his chest. “We’ll close this theater tonight. You can count on it.”
“Now? You’re not waiting for the end of the performance?” Henri forced a smile, though his palms were unbearably slick and his cravat practically strangled his neck. “Or wouldn’t it be better to wait a few days? To keep an eye on the enemy until we know who else is involved?”
Henri needed more time to get to the bottom of this Scarlet Crest business before Luc did. He was certain his cohort would act in haste and ruin any chance of uncovering the full extent of this treasonous venture.
“We must act now.” Luc palmed the hilt of his sword like a child playing soldier. Henri wondered if the officer had ever used it.
“The play wasn’t blatantly seditious. It might not hold up to the Tribunal’s assessment.” Using his program as a fan, Henri flapped the damp parchment in front of his face.
“Of course it was seditious! You spent half the first act looking at the audience. It’s no wonder you didn’t spot it.” Luc waved a finger in front of Henri’s face.
Henri once again shifted his patriotic sash. He couldn’t piece together what a mediocre actor, an artistic aristocrat, and an ill-mannered English viscount had to do with one another.
“You look unwell. We need to strengthen your resolve, Chevalier.”
Henri cleared his throat and swallowed. “The air is thick and hard to breathe.” The room was now so packed he wondered how he’d ever spot de Vesey or Ashford before Luc grabbed them.
Luc groaned. “For God’s sake, go search the exterior of the theater. You’re distracting me.”
“S-sorry.” Henri was just as eager to separate himself from his cohort. If Luc’s men were indeed infiltrating the theater from the back entrance, Henri wouldn’t have much time to act.
Outside, a light dusting of snow twirled from a heavy layer of clouds. The tiny flakes landed upon the secluded courtyard, where a figure paced around an empty fountain. Illuminated by silver moonlight, the familiar face caused Henri’s blood to heat. His body thrummed with excitement.
Desperate not to frighten de Vesey away, Henri gripped the hilt of his sword and descended the steps quietly. He paused when a second figure approached the fountain. Clad in a heavy cloak with a hood that hid their face from view, the disguised person confronted de Vesey. A flicker of white passed between their hands. A message?
Henri’s heart pounded in his chest. He needed to snatch whatever it was before Luc found them.
A sharp breeze struck his cheeks with a numbing slap. As he neared the figures, Henri glanced over his shoulder, hopeful that the officers were now gathered in the backstage area. Far from view.
The cloaked figure turned to Henri and cursed. Ashford. In a swift motion, the actor retraced his steps to the backside of the theater.
“Stop!” Henri called in a strained voice as he fumbled to draw his blade. He hurried to the retreating figure, confronting Ashford head-on. Desperation pulsed through Henri’s veins as Ashford lifted his chin, his lips drawn into a snarl.
“No use trying to run. Officers are searching for you backstage.” The unexpected warning spilled out of Henri’s mouth. Non. It wasn’t a warning; it was a threat. Henri aimed the tip of his blade over Ashford’s heart.
“Go on. Run me through with your sword. I don’t think you have it in you to harm an innocent man.” Ashford’s taunt dug into Henri’s stomach, twisting his insides.
“You call yourself innocent? Then you’ve nothing to fear about facing the Tribunal.”
Ashford pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can’t seriously be foolish enough to believe I stand any hope of a fair trial.”
Lowering his sword, Henri blinked at the retort. “Of course. Even an enemy of the Republic deserves a chance to prove their innocence.” Henri set his jaw. If Luc’s statement about the Law of Suspects further loosening the restrictions on arrests was true, Henri was no longer so certain.
Ashford flung his hands in the air as if Henri had spoken the most amusing joke. “Ha! Your beloved Tribunal sends groups of people into trial at a time. Trials are turning more and more into merely a confirmation of identity. The jails are so overcrowded, they simply don’t have the time to thoroughly review each case. You call that justice?”
Henri clamped his jaw. In truth, he’d felt the Comte de Bertram hadn’t been offered much of a trial, but was Ashford’s accusation correct? That had to be a falsehood. “You lie.” He ought to call for the other officers, to alert them of Ashford’s presence. He was supposed to be arresting the bastard. Yet the actor’s words rattled him.
“Don’t. Please don’t hurt him.” De Vesey strode toward Henri with raised hands. “He’s a good man.”
A good man? Henri pressed his blade closer when the actor tried to make a move.
Ashford growled but raised his hands in defeat. “At the very least, I need to make sure the others are safe. This is not their fault.”
Henri’s blade wavered. The man’s concern for his fellow actors tugged further at Henri’s heart.
He opened and closed his mouth, unsure on how to proceed. Perhaps a small part of him didn’t think Ashford was all that dangerous. Wasn’t art meant to be a form of expression? Hadn’t Henri and his fellow revolutionaries fought for this very right? To speak openly of their leaders? He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his head to stop spinning. Mon Dieu, there was no justification. This was wrong. It was treason. And yet, a pesky seedling of doubt had lodged itself into his heart.
A gunshot cracked from within the theater walls. Henri flinched, lowering his weapon. He didn’t try to stop Ashford from running off this time.
“Ashford, you can’t do this!” De Vesey moved to chase after his friend, but Henri halted him with the flat edge of his saber.
“Get out of here, de Vesey,�
� Ashford called over his shoulder. “If I don’t return, tell Kit that I’m sorry.”
“No! What are you doing?” de Vesey cried out, eyes wide and skin pale in distress, attempting to evade Henri’s blade.
“Ensuring the others are freed!” Ashford soon disappeared behind the backside of the building.
Catching de Vesey’s arm, Henri halted him from making a monumental mistake. “He’ll get himself caught.” He dropped his sword and grabbed de Vesey with his other hand, nearly causing them both to tumble onto the icy filth beneath them.
De Vesey fought against Henri’s hold. “Let me go, damn you!”
“Come with me. Hurry.” Surely Henri had lost his mind. Aiding a potential enemy of the Republic?
De Vesey’s brows twisted as he stopped squirming in Henri’s grasp. His emerald eyes darkened with contained fury. “Unhand me.”
Henri’s throat tightened. “Stop fighting me. I’m trying to help you.” An urgent need burned within him, intent on keeping de Vesey safe.
“I must help him.” De Vesey spoke with sharp, stabbing beats, making another attempt to run. But his weakened limbs were no match for Henri’s strength.
“You can’t. It’s too late.” Henri shook him, hoping to knock some sense into the man.
“You don’t understand,” de Vesey spat, still thrashing to free himself. “He’s my friend. I’ll not accept your protection while he’s condemned to the blade.”
Friend? An aristo risking his life to help a mere actor? Henri couldn’t fathom it. De Vesey defied his understanding of aristocrats. If Henri’s father and sister were here to see this, they surely would have reminded him that aristocrats couldn’t be trusted.
Raised voices could be heard nearby. Against his better judgment, Henri tightened his grip and propelled de Vesey forward. “You’re coming with me.”
“How did you know I’d be here? Why weren’t you with the other officers? You were spying on me last night.” De Vesey stumbled, succumbing to Henri’s lead. The two slammed into an iron fence, and the bars clanged as Henri took the brunt of the blow to his backside. The bars pressed into his muscles, vibrating through him. He envisioned the prison cell that would likely hold them both if this absurd dance of theirs continued.