The Revolutionary and the Rogue

by Blake Ferre

  Bless those aptly named slippers.

  Perrin didn’t wait to see the guard’s reaction. Instead, he pulled Quill toward the last door. They slipped inside, closing themselves into the tight, dark supply closet.

  “My lord, I see things have gone awry.” Philippe smiled sadly from the back corner of the darkened room.

  “We’re still here. That counts for something.” The dank smell of mildew and urine filled his nose, but Perrin tried to ignore it. Quill’s wheezing breaths rasped in unison with his own. “Thank goodness for heels.” Quill burst into a silent fit of laughter.

  “Quiet,” Perrin snipped. His hands tremored as he attempted to wipe strands of the tousled silver wig from his eyes.

  “Do I even want to know?” Philippe grumbled.

  “You smell terrible,” Quill whined.

  Perrin pried his drooping prop nose from its place and tucked it into his wool trousers. “I’m less concerned about my stench than I am about Duclos.” He gave a brief summation of his encounters.

  “Chevalier saved us.” Quill clicked his tongue.

  “Perhaps.” Perrin’s ribs stretched as taut as the rope that he’d used to trip those guards. “What happened to you two?”

  “I think I’ve got a problem. I’ve never encountered a man like Lemaire before. Nothing like a prison guard at all, in fact. Dashing. Muscular and lean at the same time, beneath that ghastly uniform. Not that I got the chance to see anything,” Quill grumbled. “Oh, and he’s witty with his naughty banter, just the way I like my men. He smelled like sweet citrus. Clean. I dare say I fancy him…and now I’ll never see him again.” Quill pouted.

  “At least one of us enjoyed themselves tonight.” Philippe sighed.

  “Well, not all of it was fun. Philippe, the bore, interrupted us.”

  “I believe I saved you.”

  “Details. Regardless, I followed Philippe away from my perfect man.”

  “That’s when we heard the commotion. New guards had been posted at the front entrance. Fortunately we weren’t seen right away.”

  “Philippe was much faster. I complained as much, but then two guards came running toward us. Philippe, dressed as a guard, lured them in another direction, and we parted paths. Thought we’d lost them, so I headed here.”

  “I knew you’d likely be in the infirmary, unawares, my lord. So I raced past and called out the warning.”

  “Which only alerted the guards back to me.” Quill scowled.

  “How was I to know?”

  “That warning might have saved us,” Perrin assured. “I’m glad you’re both safe.” Perrin only hoped the same for their other friends. For Chevalier. Would the other guards believe his lies?

  “Yet, here we are, tucked away in a cramped closet.” Quill pouted.

  “I think the guards are gone. We should be able to sneak through the side exit.” When Perrin poked his head through the doorway, silence sang like a beautiful tune. Together, they slipped out and pushed their shoulders into the thick metal door that led to the street on the northern border of La Force.

  Quill cried out when his toes hit the frozen stonework of the street. Perrin winced in sympathy. “Come. I’ll carry you. Crimson Rose isn’t that far.”

  “Clearly dresses were designed to restrain the wearer from running away,” Quill grumbled quietly when Perrin hoisted him into his arms.

  “I’m fairly certain dresses weren’t designed for espionage or breaking into prison.” Perrin chuckled.

  “Well, they should be, dammit.”

  Philippe’s groan trailed behind them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The morning light pounded inside Henri’s head like a lover scorned. Sitting up, he massaged his fingers over his aching neck, which had a godawful strain from his cramped position on the floor. Nearby, on an ill-padded pallet, Duclos groaned and shuddered. Ashford was crouched beside him, whispering words of encouragement.

  “He refuses to drink.” Ashford turned to Henri, a pleading glimmer in his eyes.

  “If we prop him upright, it might ease the way.” Henri staggered to them, lifting the cup to Duclos’s dry lips while Ashford held his shoulders.

  When Duclos swallowed his first sip, Henri felt as though he’d won a great battle. It reminded him all too much of his father’s final days. A pit of regret engulfed his stomach. Henri had aided his cohorts in gathering the evidence against these men. But he’d been foolish enough to envision a fair and just trial. Duclos had suffered horribly and hadn’t yet met with the Tribunal. Now, in his current state, he was in no condition to defend himself. If the Tribunal didn’t allow him time to heal, Duclos would fail. He’d die for this. And Henri refused to allow it.

  “I’m so sorry.” It was a pathetic attempt at comfort, but he had no other words to describe the rigid horror weighing him down. All that he’d fought and worked for was a lie.

  “Huh. You really are a good man?” Ashford’s lips were downturned in contemplation. “You care for de Vesey?”

  Henri gave a firm nod before he even thought it through. Yes, he did care. Not that he could ever pursue Perrin. Not now.

  “I’m not admitting that I fully trust your loyalty to us, but it wasn’t so very many days ago that de Vesey seemed on the brink of wasting away. You enliven something in him I thought long lost.”

  A booming voice barked from the corridor, causing Henri to spill the water.

  “Where is he?” Floch growled, swinging the door open with a powerful thud. “Chevalier. What are you doing in the infirmary?”

  Henri leaped away from Duclos just as Luc peered from behind the capitaine.

  “Don’t tell me you were aiding these prisoners.”

  His chest constricted, and he rubbed his dry eyes; the lids were painfully crusted together at the corners. “These prisoners have been poorly treated.”

  Floch’s face held no inkling of his feelings. “And?”

  “Chevalier, you’re too soft of heart.” Luc drew a finger down his hooked nose.

  Henri gestured his shaking hand at Duclos. “You nearly tortured this man to death.”

  “What does it matter?” Luc flicked something from his nose. “The man’s condemned to death already. I saw an opportunity to gain the names of more traitors, and I took it. I’d do it again.”

  To his disgust, Capitaine Floch nodded in agreement. “Citoyen Cyrille is right. I’m disappointed in you, Chevalier.” He exhaled a deep groan. “Since the former queen’s death, the city has been in an uproar. Traitors sprout all around us. Rival countries salivate at the opportunity to sink their teeth into France’s heart. If a few traitors must die in order to secure our newborn republic, then so be it.”

  Henri bit his tongue, reminding himself not to speak against the Committee in front of his cohorts—not if he didn’t want to end up in a cell himself. “You’re right.” The words stirred gravel in his throat.

  Floch grunted a satisfied appraisal before his chiseled frown reappeared. “What happened last night? Under your watch.” He wrapped his arms over his outstretched belly; it was a wonder the man didn’t fall backward.

  Henri glanced at the buttons holding Floch’s waistcoat in place. Not the military standard. A fleur-de-lis. Hardly appropriate.

  “Are you staring at my buttons, Chevalier?” He sniffed.

  Henri quickly cast his gaze to the floor. What a pathetic condition for an infirmary. It hadn’t been cleaned in a good long while, given the amount of dirt and grime.

  Floch grunted. “Earned these from the first aristo I saw to the guillotine.” He grinned, revealing a green speck between his teeth. “Stop ogling my buttons and tell me what the hell happened.”

  Henri hastily explained that two guards had run down the corridor, chasing after a woman. But Henri denied having seen such a person. After scouting La Force Prison’s ever
y nook and cell for escaped prisoners, he and the other guards had found nothing.

  “And you don’t know who it was? Which prisoner escaped?”

  “The guards insisted they were tripped by unknown attackers, then tied up together. No one else spotted said phantoms. And all prisoners are accounted for.”

  “But they chased a woman! They couldn’t have tied themselves up.” Luc huffed. “If no one escaped, someone snuck in.”

  “I’ll question them myself.” Floch’s lips formed the words with overly large stretches.

  Luc narrowed his eyes. “What about Lemaire? He was posted at the front gate last night.”

  “Lemaire didn’t see anyone come in or go out,” Henri lied. Lemaire had confessed to his flirtations when Henri had found him tied up in a back room, claiming an alluring stranger had bound him. Henri had urged him not to tell another person, fearing the Committee might punish Lemaire for leaving the gate unattended.

  Henri wiped his brow with a damp hand. Much had changed since that first night he’d encountered de Vesey. Not so long ago, Henri had spat at the aristo’s feet, and now Henri was lying to his commanding officer to keep the rogue safe. But when he compared de Vesey and his friends to Floch and Luc, he sided with de Vesey. Though he and his friends were considered enemies of the Republic by law, they were kinder men by heart.

  Henri’s father’s largest gripe with the aristocracy was their unkind nature. The horrendous manner in which they treated people. His father would never have believed a kind aristo could exist back then. Now, Henri wondered if his father might also side with de Vesey.

  A rumbling growl crept up Floch’s throat. “The Committee is displeased by last night’s breach, Chevalier.” When Luc snickered, Floch shot a fiery glance in his direction. “Citoyen Cyrille, you find your fellow citizen’s failure humorous? Tell me, have you had any luck with that former comtesse? Haven’t found any evidence, have you?”

  Luc clamped his jaw shut. “Not yet.”

  “You’re both disappointments,” Floch barked.

  “What if members of the Scarlet Crest were here last night?” Luc blurted with frenzied words. A desperate statement. “I say the two guards are telling the truth, and the Scarlet Crest’s rogues—or their leader—snuck inside the prison on a rescue mission.” Luc pointed to Ashford. “These prisoners must be moved to a more secure location.”

  “We can’t transport them,” Henri stammered. “Look at Duclos. How can we move a man in his condition?”

  Capitaine Floch stroked the corners of his mouth, dragging them into a deepened frown. “Citoyen Cyrille is correct. They must be moved as planned. If Duclos dies, it’s one less execution to bother with.”

  Henri’s throat tightened at the heartless response. Not even the vile Comte de Bertram had deserved such dishonorable treatment. It went against everything Henri had worked for. But he slowly dipped his chin, like a good Committee officer.

  A sharp pain twisted inside his chest, his ribs grabbing hold of his heart. The infirmary around him faded from view, and he saw his father huddled where Duclos had once been. Ragged hair knotted over his shoulders, a dark wiry beard, and sunken cheeks. His father looked up at him with saddened amber eyes. Let me go, he’d said. Henri had wondered in that moment if his father had meant to grant him the kindness of death or if he’d wanted Henri to move on with his life.

  As the room shifted and Duclos replaced his father, Henri silently vowed to save him. Not only for Perrin’s sake, but to right one of the Committee’s wrongs—one of Henri’s wrongs.

  …

  Slouched over the backroom table at Crimson Rose, Perrin pressed his forehead to the roughened edge of the aged wood grain. After last night’s devastating failure, their ragged crew huddled around the cozy room, bodies worn and hopes smashed.

  A new message from the Scarlet Crest had arrived earlier in the hands of a scrawny lad, who’d delivered it along with a package of meat from the butcher shop. The missive’s content was far less encouraging than previous communications.

  Dearest friends,

  After last night’s unfortunate circumstances, I’m sorry to inform you that our comrades have been transported to the Conciergerie. If we don’t act quickly, it won’t be long before their hair is shorn and their necks are exposed for the blade.

  I’ll send word once I know more.

  The Scarlet Crest

  “This doesn’t bode well. Our leader always has a plan in mind. I’m sure he’ll send word soon with a more assuring message.” Guillaume’s left eyebrow twitched while he plucked at a wiry gray hair that twisted upward. “Things didn’t used to be this unpredictable. With the introduction of the new laws, our plans have become increasingly difficult. The Committee’s power grows each day.”

  The cruel bite of helplessness gnawed Perrin’s insides. He’d failed his friends just as he had with Julien that fateful night.

  “If only I could have carried Duclos. We were so close.”

  Quill set his half-eaten chunk of gritty Parisian standard brown bread on his plate and placed a palm over Perrin’s fist. “You did everything you could. Don’t abandon hope. Duclos is still alive. Ashford is with him.”

  “Our leader will help us.” Guillaume adjusted his uncharacteristically ill-tied cravat. The top button of his waistcoat was fastened in the wrong hole—Guillaume’s customary well-groomed facade had eroded. “Last night’s setback was unfortunate. However, we must remain confident.”

  Perrin wondered over Chevalier’s frazzled statements about the butcher and the guillotine. The message Perrin had planted had sent the squeamish officer directly into the heart of his worst nightmare. The Scarlet Crest’s leader knew so much about each of them. Their failings and weaknesses. But they knew so little about him. “I fear you put too much faith in our elusive leader.”

  “Our leader is a dear friend who has proven himself time and again. This isn’t how our missions usually run. Can you say the same of your officer?” Guillaume frowned.

  “I trusted the Scarlet Crest, and our leader has done nothing but meddle with us. Where was he last night? Why didn’t he help us?” Perrin smoothed his tangled hair off his forehead.

  “You’ve no idea the dangers he faces!” Guillaume’s cheeks splotched with crimson.

  Quill cleared his throat. “Our leader might not have shown, but Chevalier saved us, didn’t he? He had every opportunity to turn against us last night, but he didn’t.”

  “Chevalier was distraught over Duclos’s treatment.” Perrin nodded, inhaling a wavering breath. “He risked his life to help us.”

  “Or he’s a very skilled actor,” Guillaume countered, “who now holds treasonous evidence against us.” Guillaume paced in front of the hearth. “When we recruited you, we never would have suspected that you’d fall into the arms of a Committee officer.”

  “I haven’t…” Perrin’s throat tightened, unable to define what Chevalier was to him. A pest at times, a siren at others. Kindhearted yet caught up in the evils of the Committee. “I think he can be trusted.” He nodded. “I don’t want anyone to harm him.”

  “You trust him so very much?” Guillaume raised his brows and strode to the side of the hearth, where he knelt next to the dying flames and grabbed the fire iron.

  “Chevalier could have arrested us last night,” Quill reminded them.

  Guillaume stabbed the logs, casting a fury of embers in the air. “Our leader seems inclined to agree. He’s been testing Chevalier.”

  “Testing?” Perrin balked, confused by the defensive anger burning inside him. It felt like a violation of sorts. The Scarlet Crest’s leader was a meddler, and he’d manipulated Perrin. “The note he wanted me to plant for Chevalier to find? That was a test?”

  Guillaume massaged his jaw, pushing his lips forward. “Amongst others. The next is already in motion. The Committee holds a script f
rom Duclos’s home. Chevalier has been tasked to retrieve it.”

  “That seems unfair. Risky.” Perrin’s stomach twisted at the thought of Chevalier getting caught.

  Guillaume pinched the bridge of his nose. “We must act through the appropriate channels, or we risk our entire venture.”

  “But…”

  Guillaume raised his hand. “You want to trust this officer of yours? Then try trusting Julien’s loved ones. Remember that I…that we all cared for him.” Guillaume’s words sliced under Perrin’s skin like a dagger.

  He’d been so wound up in his missions, in Chevalier, that he’d barely realized his grief over the loss of Julien had lessened. Oh, he still thought of his dear Julien and missed him terribly. But Perrin no longer clung to the memories as he once had.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Henri Chevalier,

  If you hope to protect your new friend, retrieve Duclos’s script from Floch’s office. It contains information that is vital to de Vesey’s survival.

  The Scarlet Crest

  Henri stood with his back to the capitaine’s office door, struggling to make sense of the mysterious note that had appeared in his drawer and its treasonous request. If anyone other than Henri had found it… He shuddered over what would have happened.

  A line of officers clad in dark blue justaucorps with their white turnbacks stepped past him. The corridors were astir with citizens and officers bustling about. Along the dark walls rested the splendor of clocks, paintings, and fanciful knickknacks.

  Perrin’s earlier accusations against the Committee sizzled in his chest. Valuables were stashed about the place in a cluttered mess, mocking the very ideals he’d once fought for. The Committee was hoarding the wealth.

  When Henri finally mustered the courage to enter Floch’s office, he stepped into a sprawling room filled with…nothing. Empty. Floch had already packed most of his things. Non. Non. Non. Had Henri mistaken the months of the new Republican calendar? He was certain Floch’s departure wasn’t slotted for another two months.