The Revolutionary and the Rogue

by Blake Ferre

  Quill squealed and clapped his hands together, barely holding on to the sweet. “I knew it! Tell me, how was he?”

  Perrin picked a corner of Quill’s treat and popped it into his mouth, savoring the melted sugar. He sucked on his sticky fingers, the sweetness suddenly losing its appeal. “It was a mistake at best.”

  “So, there’s a possibility of another encounter?” Quill swayed his hips as he expertly floated around the room in his satin slippers. “Perhaps you can use Crimson Rose for your dalliances.”

  “That might be our only option.” Perrin clenched his jaw the moment he realized what he’d admitted. “No. I meant…absolutely not. I couldn’t trust him in my bed.” Not with Henr—Chevalier’s history of sneaking.

  “Hmm, well, he saved you from being arrested. I don’t suppose there’s any chance he might choose to abandon his ideals and move to England?”

  “Ha. I’m sure we’ll be skipping uphill, the sun on our cheeks, hand in hand.” Perrin plucked another bit of pastry from Quill’s grasp. “I won’t be bringing him to England. Our joining was a mere moment of weakness. Nothing more.”

  “What if Chevalier sided with the Scarlet Crest and joined our league?” Quill popped the final bit of treat into his mouth and moaned.

  Perrin rolled his eyes. “I doubt our mysterious ally would trust him. Even I worry about Chevalier’s intentions.” A shudder ran through Perrin’s arms as he thought of the missive he’d planted for the officer. Something inside him believed Chevalier was softhearted beneath his monumental ideals. But he’d not join their cause. The seduction might have been an act. Chevalier might have a larger goal in mind…to crush the Scarlet Crest.

  “Well, I, for one, can’t believe I’m about to seduce a prison guard.” Quill huffed. “Pity it won’t be real. I shall simply have to tie him up without the added benefits.”

  “I’m sure the fellow will be swept away by your charms. You’ve a way with rope.” Perrin bit his lip, trying not to smile at the mobcap. It most certainly didn’t suit his friend.

  “I shall simply have to tie the man up and encourage him to speak pleasant naughty things.” Quill winked. “He’ll be tongue-tied and incapacitated…even if he begs for release.”

  “Quill, you’re incorrigible. We’ll make our move tonight.” Perrin gazed at the image of Quill draped in his undecorated gown and ridiculous round cap, prepared to risk his life. “You’re incredibly brave, my friend.”

  Quill waved his hand in a theatrical flourish. “To Stand and Shield.”

  Perrin rubbed his jaw. “Penetrating La Force won’t be an easy task.”

  “La, penetrating a lover is far preferable when given the choice between bed breaking or prison breaking.” Quill wiggled his brows.

  …

  Seated in his office, horribly aware of his colleague’s every rasping breath, Henri failed to write a single legible word. Behind him, the irritating scratch of Luc’s scribbles poked holes in his thoughts. He hadn’t mentioned anything further regarding Henri’s personal confession about his attraction to men, but an icy chill settled over the room in spite of the roaring fire. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Henri had floundered Luc’s pursuit yesterday at the theater.

  Luc growled and crumpled a piece of parchment. “Useless.” He tossed it into the flames, casting a shower of embers.

  Henri’s hand trembled so terribly, he abandoned his task and set his writing utensils aside. He held his breath until Luc dipped his quill in the ink again and began to write.

  Capitaine Floch burst through the door. “Both lazing about the office, eh?”

  Henri nearly fell out of his chair as he grabbed a stack of denouncements.

  “Ah, Cyrille. Good work with Ashford.” Floch strode into the office and grinned at Luc. “Robespierre is pleased to hear of your success in that seditious matter, though we’re disappointed to hear you failed to pry anything useful out of Duclos.”

  “Yes, well, it’s only a matter of time before he confesses.” Luc scratched his scalp, and a flutter of white flakes dusted the shoulders of his indigo wool coat. “Now that we’ve nabbed that dreadful actor, Ashford, we might be able to play the two of them against each other.”

  The capitaine merely grunted. “What about you, Chevalier? Anything with that former comtesse?”

  “Nothing conclusive.” In truth, Henri had been so wrapped up in de Vesey that he hadn’t even thought of de Lévesque.

  “Hmph. See to it that you catch her. You may have saved my nephew on the battlefield, but I’ll not tolerate your continued failure.”

  “If you only give me a little more time—”

  “I’m tired of waiting. The Committee’s new decree gave us more flexibility for a reason. They want results. Since you’ve both failed to progress your missions, Cyrille, you’ll spend the evening scrounging up everything you can on the former comtesse. Chevalier, it’s La Force Prison for you tonight.”

  Henri dropped several denouncements to the floor. “Me?”

  “Him?” Luc sputtered, nearly in unison. “Capitaine Floch, grant me one more night. I swear I’ll pry the names from Duclos. He’s on the verge of confessing. I can feel it. Besides, you know Chevalier can’t stomach the prisons.”

  “That’s Citoyen Floch. Have you forgotten how to address your fellow citizens, Citoyen Cyrille?”

  Luc cast a fierce glance at Henri, as if he were to be blamed for Luc’s mistake.

  “Chevalier will do fine.” Floch gave a firm nod and rubbed his chin. Henri tried to ignore the dark smudges of whatever grime stained his callused fingers. “The prison is not the executioner’s scaffold. It shouldn’t trigger his…condition.”

  Henri swallowed, the lump in his throat as large as a boulder. “Why me?”

  “Would you rather I sent you to guard the Place de la Révolution? Protect the scaffold while the guillotine severs treason at the neck?” Floch asked.

  “No. Prison sounds lovely.” Henri’s stomach gurgled, and bile rose to his mouth. He clamped his hands so tightly that his sharp, untrimmed nails nearly pierced the skin. Not wanting to chance fainting over a droplet of blood, Henri relaxed his muscles.

  “That’s the spirit. We need to squash those traitorous followers of the Scarlet Crest. Better yet, see if you can sniff out any spies while you’re at it. Their organization has to be stealing information about our investigations.”

  “You think one of our own is a spy?” Henri choked.

  “Indeed. Careful with those denouncements on your desks. Don’t let anyone else read them.”

  “Of course. Yes.”

  “Good. Keep your eyes open at La Force this evening, Chevalier. I don’t want anything to happen in that prison tonight.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Perrin drew the hood from his wool cloak over his forehead, careful not to jostle his hairpiece. Though the thick fabric combatted the bitter wind that struck his cheeks and chin, the damp chill in the air still nipped at his skin. Glancing up at the cloud-stained sky, he was thankful for the deep cerulean cover of dusk. With the darkened streets and the disguise he’d pieced together, he stood a decent chance of evading recognition.

  Though the guard uniform was a necessary part of the plan, the discomfort from the wool was less than pleasing. Not to mention, the silver wig scratched his scalp, the false nose threatened to fall off at any moment, and the worn gray cloak had been doused in a pungent odor to make it smell like the prison.

  Behind him, the sound of Quill’s clipping heels faded. Guilt nipped at his conscience, and Perrin looked over his shoulder. Several paces back, Quill wobbled, avoiding the uneven piles of muck. The poor fellow struggled to keep up in his ill-fitted heels.

  “Is it your ankle?” Perrin cursed himself for moving too hastily and fretting over his own disguise.

  “No. I’m just trying to avoid soiling
my skirts.” Quill yelped as he dodged a puddle of slush.

  Halting a moment, Perrin waited for his companion to reach him. “Sorry. I’m eager to be done with this.” He rubbed his numbed cheeks.

  Quill hefted his petticoats to his knees. “And you think I look forward to entering a prison?”

  “Of course not.” Perrin shuddered from another brisk wind. “I’m lucky to have you.” This time, it was shame that cast the chill under his skin.

  Over the past months, Perrin had been too consumed by grief to consider the other people in his life. Those who offered unyielding love and support. There were no words that could express his gratitude.

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not doing this just to help you… I’m in it for the prison guards.” Quill waggled his brows, easing the tension from the imminent danger they were about to face.

  All too soon, the rusticated stone pattern of the prison walls came into view. Towering above them with a great many rectangular windows, La Force was made up of two rather large buildings. One had been constructed as a women’s prison, and the other—a converted aristocratic estate—housed the men. From the exterior, it seemed a veritable maze.

  “This could take all night.” Perrin wondered how they’d ever find their friends.

  “If we’re lucky, we’ll live that long,” Quill said solemnly.

  Up ahead, Philippe poked his head around the corner where the Rue du Roi de Sicile terminated, signaling the all-clear with two flicks of his finger to his chin.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting our fortunate guard.” Quill winked, strutting toward the small alcove that marked the prison entrance.

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Exactly where I want you,” Quill sang.

  Perrin trailed his friend, curious to meet this prison guard who worked for their cause.

  Lemaire was perhaps two or three inches taller than Chevalier, with broad shoulders. The man was so large he took up much of the doorframe. His onyx hair was wild and stuck out in a haggard manner. Yet his skin was smooth and lacked the grit one might expect on a soldier. His lips were long and slender, his teeth much whiter than Perrin had expected.

  “Citoyens, welcome. What business do you have? A bribe, perhaps?” Lemaire rubbed his hands together and turned his gaze to Quill. “A lovely companion for my bedside?”

  “La, you do have a naughty mind, haven’t you?” Quill batted his lashes and planted his fingers upon Lemaire’s black cravat.

  Oh dear, the two would be a handful together. Perrin cleared his throat. “I take it you’re Lemaire.”

  “The very one. Our mutual friend mentioned you’d be here tonight.” Lemaire’s umber eyes lost the lighthearted sparkle he’d given them moments before. His gaze darted around the perimeter, checking that all was still clear. “Your wonderful friend here will join me in the prison as my alibi. The first corridor houses some of the guards’ rooms. We’ll inhabit the nicer one with a decent pallet and stage our tryst.”

  “A man who knows what he wants. How splendid.” Quill waggled his brows, earning a wink from Lemaire. “In all seriousness, what happens if we’re discovered?” Quill’s voice hitched with worry.

  Lemaire tucked his hand under his black wool cloak and withdrew a parchment from his partially unbuttoned navy waistcoat. “This map shows the locations of possible exits.”

  He unfolded the parchment and pointed to their current position, then to the route they would take. “If anything should go wrong, escape through either of these two doors. The one on the far end is your best bet. It’s rarely guarded. And if you need to evade a pursuer, you can use the nearby storage closet.”

  Lemaire continued to show them the direction of Ashford’s cell and pointed to the guard post at the base of the stairs. “As we speak, the guards posted there will be on their rounds. Retrieve the actor first, then head to the infirmary, where they’ve taken the artist.”

  “The infirmary?” Philippe asked in a worried voice.

  “Indeed. It’s not good, so I’ve heard. You must act swiftly.” Lemaire handed the map to Perrin along with a large iron key. “Remember to walk with purpose should you encounter any other guards. Be proud of your prison stench. Best of luck.”

  “Thank you.” Perrin wanted to ask more about the helpful guard, but he had more pressing matters at hand.

  “My dear, shall we?” Lemaire turned to the door and offered Quill his arm, then glanced over his shoulder. “Give us a few moments before you enter. I’ll knock on the door when it’s clear for you to come through.”

  As the pair entered the prison, a gust of wind swept through the tightly spaced street, sending a shiver across Perrin’s arms. They were insane to do this. And yet, a pulse of excitement thrummed through his veins, bringing more satisfaction than the smooth burn from a fine brandy. Perrin felt alive.

  When at last there was a knock on the thick wooden door, Perrin and Philippe peeked inside before creeping into the low-lit prison. A slight giggling noise came from a closed door to the left of the entrance. Perrin imagined their turnkey friend would be quite tied up for some time.

  A long corridor stretched before them. Though the stone walls were lined with an ample supply of sconces, only a handful actively illuminated the way with an amber glow. Either the prisons couldn’t afford the candles or the guards had failed to trim the wicks.

  A distinct stench filled Perrin’s nostrils. A mixture of sweat, blood, and bodily excretions lingered beneath the foul scent from the tallow candles. Laughter rang from farther down the hall. Perrin motioned for Philippe to be quiet, and they carefully stole forward, following the echoing banter.

  As the map had shown, the corridor ended with an abrupt stop where the next guard post stood at the base of the stairs. Through a small, barred window in an arched metal door, he spotted two guards sitting at a table, drinking and playing cards. He turned to Philippe and shook his head. It appeared the guards were not making their rounds as their friend had assured. Instead, the lazy miscreants had decided to enjoy themselves.

  Retracing their steps, Philippe pointed beneath a nearby door. “No light through the cracks. I think it’s empty. We should take another look at the map.”

  Pushing the door inward, Perrin peered into a dark, gloomy room. Though there was a small window over a plain desk, it did little to illuminate the space. The unlit fireplace appeared to be a deep cavern, sucking light out of the room rather than providing it.

  “I’ll fetch a candle, my lord.” Philippe disappeared, then returned carrying a small light. It would have to do.

  After reviewing the map, Perrin tipped his head back.

  “What would you have us do, my lord? Wait?”

  “We’ve no time. Our best bet is to follow the path as originally planned. If Duclos’s condition is as dire as I fear, we haven’t a moment to lose.” Perrin snaked his hand along the worn doorframe. When his finger met a deep gouge in the wood, he exhaled. “We’ll have to ambush those guards.”

  Philippe sputtered. “My lord? Ambush? We should go back to Quill and Lemaire.”

  “And do what? Use them to create a larger stir? Possibly draw attention to them? No. The predicament remains. We can do this. We need an element of surprise.” He traced his finger over the jagged edge of the scratched wood, an impromptu plan forming in his mind. He snapped his fingers. “We’ll garner their attention and draw them to us.”

  “Draw them to us? Isn’t the point to sneak into the prison and sneak out?” Philippe’s eyes bulged in horror.

  “Yes, well, the plan’s changed…perhaps to our advantage. Since the guards are supposed to be on patrol, we could simply pretend to take their places.”

  “My lord, that’s too dangerous. What if they call for help or attack us?”

  “It’s a risk we must take. Here.” Perrin hurried to the corner of the ro
om where a pallet rested beneath a small, dirt-coated window. He lifted a roll of twine that had been formed into a pillow.

  “Twine, my lord? We face trained guards who have pistols and blades, and you propose to counterattack with worn rope?”

  Perrin tugged a portion of it, pleased with the firm resistance. “It’ll hold. Take one end to the room across the hall. Hide behind the door, leaving it open just a crack. Hold your end of the line. When the guards come our way, we’ll tug it taut at the height of their ankles.”

  “Trip them? Even if it worked, they’d get up and attack us.”

  Perrin nodded. “You make a good point. We’ll have to bash them over their heads with something to disable them long enough they won’t cause a stir.”

  Raking his fingers through his frazzled hair, Perrin surveyed the little enclosure for a weapon. Though he found little of use, a large metal basin sat upon a writing desk. A tiny drip trickled from the ceiling, plunking inside it. Next to it, a tall pitcher collected offerings from another leak.

  Thank the Republic for failed renovations.

  Lips twisting to the side, Philippe slowly nodded, though the lines over his brow told Perrin he wasn’t fully invested in the scheme. “You’re mad. But it might work.”

  Stroking the brim of the basin with his right hand, Perrin wished he’d brought some manner of weapon other than a gun. Even the clang from the metal pitcher might rouse more guards. He tipped the basin and pitcher, emptying both before tossing the pitcher to Philippe.

  With a final shake of his head, Philippe snuck across the hall. “This one’s empty as well.”

  “Excellent.” Wedging himself behind the door with his legs pressed to his chest, Perrin mustered his courage. The air in the room was sharp from the cold and thick with dust.

  “How do we go about this?” Philippe asked from across the hall, casting aside Perrin’s momentary reprieve.

  “Quiet, they’ll hear you,” Perrin whispered.

  “Isn’t that the point?”