Trapped by Scandal

by Jane Feather

  He responded promptly with a courtly bow. “William Ducasse, Vicomte de St. Aubery, at your service, my lady.”

  “I thought you were English,” she said, puzzled.

  “My father was French, my mother English. The title is my father’s. And if the mob had their way, I would have lost my head by now because of it,” he added with a short laugh that contained no humor.

  Hero felt a shiver prickle her spine, hearing in her head the baying of the mob in Place de la Révolution as the guillotine rose and fell. “Can you not leave the city?”

  “Oh, I could, but I have work to do here,” he replied.

  Slowly, the shards of the conversations she had heard between William and the men at the tavern and between William and the man Marcus began to make sense. There were men, she knew—everyone in London Society knew—who risked their heads helping French aristo families escape the bloodbath that was Paris. It would seem the Viscount was one of them, and the Latour family was one of the lucky ones.

  “My brother . . .” she said hesitantly. “Alec, he came over to look for his fiancée. She and her family came to Paris months ago hoping to save what they could of their assets before they were stolen. There’s been no word from them since, so Alec came to find them. Do you perhaps . . . ?” It seemed too good to be true that she had stumbled upon someone who knew where her brother was, and superstition kept her from asking the question directly.

  “Perhaps,” he responded. At this point, William had no idea whether Alec Fanshawe was alive or dead. If he was alive, he would be trying to get back into the city before curfew with the rest of the group who had extricated the Latour family from their besieged attic. But it was just as likely that the young man would not return safely.

  Hero turned away, her gaze resting on the flickering fire. She thought she understood his hesitancy. “You have seen him, though?”

  “I have seen him.”

  She nodded. “When?”

  “I saw him last three days ago, before I found myself in La Force.”

  She nodded again. “Well, that is something. At least now I know he was alive three days ago, and maybe you can tell me where to look for him.”

  “Maybe.” It was as oblique a response as before, but again, Hero understood what he was not saying. She sipped her wine, trying not to allow optimism to blind her to reality.

  William looked at her, almost absently noticing the delicate curve of her bent neck as she gazed into the fire. The flicker of flame caught the rich mass of colors in the stray locks of hair that had escaped the tight knot once her cap was gone. She was quite tall for a woman, but her willowy slenderness was belied by the hint of curve to her hips and the sideways swell of her breast as she half turned towards him. She would not get away with her boyish disguise for long, he reflected. Not if she stood still long enough for a sharp-eyed watcher to get a good look.

  He said briskly, “Well, I, for one, am famished. Are you not, after our adventurous afternoon?”

  Hero turned fully to face him, suddenly aware of the gnawing hunger that had been her companion for days. For the first time since she’d got off the fishing boat at Calais, she felt safe enough to eat without looking over her shoulder, ready to run at the first sign of trouble. “Ravenous. I don’t even remember what I last ate or when.”

  He went to the door, opening it to call out, “Marcus, is there any food in the house?”

  Marcus appeared instantly. “Our bonne femme left something meaty in a cauldron over the range. God only knows what’s in it, pigs’ ears and tails and trotters, tripes and brains and hearts, for all I know, but it smells good enough. There’s bread and cheese if you don’t fancy the stew.” He stepped further into the room and nodded towards Hero. “So, whom do we have here?”

  “The Lady Hermione Fanshawe,” William said. “She’s in search of her brother. Hero, may I introduce Sir Marcus Gosford?”

  “Sir.” Hero nodded acknowledgment since her present guise didn’t permit the regulation curtsy.

  Marcus looked astounded, casting an interrogative glance at William, even as he murmured, “Delighted, Lady Hermione.”

  Amazing how ingrained habits somehow survived the most unlikely circumstances, Hero thought, her lips quivering a little at this studied formality. “May I help with the food?” she offered.

  “No . . . no, of course not, ma’am. I’ll bring it in, won’t take a moment.”

  “No need, we’ll eat in the kitchen.” William moved to the door. “If you need the outhouse, Hero, it’s this way, behind the kitchen.” He gestured ahead of him down the corridor.

  “Thank you,” Hero said. Taking care of her personal needs had been rather hit-and-miss in the last week. Hedges and ditches and public outhouses in unpleasant city hostelries were not easy to negotiate as a woman in general, let alone in disguise.

  The kitchen was hot and steamy and filled with the most delicious aromas emanating from a great iron cauldron hanging over the fire in the vast range. Marcus was lifting the massive pot from the stove with both hands, and William moved swiftly to make space on the stained pine table in the middle of the room. Hero ducked out of the back door and into the small kitchen yard, disturbing a couple of black crows pecking at something unrecognizable in the dirt. Their indignant caws followed her into the outhouse, which, as expected, was primitive and noisome, but at least she was certain she wouldn’t be disturbed.

  When she returned to the kitchen, it was clear to her that she had interrupted a conversation. Neither man appeared disconcerted as she walked in, but there was something in the air that told her they had been talking about her. For the moment, she was content to let it rest, but anything they knew about her brother she would know before she laid her head on her pillow that night. If, indeed, the luxury of a pillow was afforded her.

  “Sit down.” William gestured with his head to the bench on the far side of the table as he ladled stew into bowls. Marcus set two crusty loaves on the table and filled pewter cups with dark red wine.

  “So how did you get to Paris, Lady Hermione?” Marcus inquired, swinging a leg over the bench as he sat down.

  “Please, I answer to Hero,” she said, flashing him a smile as she inhaled the rich scents from her bowl. “A fishing boat from Dover. It landed at Calais, and I made my way from there.”

  “Hero, then.” Marcus gave her a quick smile in return, asking through a mouthful of stew, “How many passengers were on the boat with you?”

  “Just one other . . . a man. We did not introduce ourselves,” she added with an ironic smile, breaking bread to dip a crust into her bowl.

  “What did he look like?” William regarded her over his wine cup.

  Hero frowned. “It was dark and very windy, hard to see properly. Besides, he was swathed in a boat cloak, and I wasn’t anxious to draw attention to myself.”

  “So you can’t give us a description?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She ate the sopping crust of bread with relish. “I could draw him if we had pen and ink, paper . . .”

  “But you can’t find the words?” William was looking at her quizzically.

  She shook her head. “No, but I can fashion the image from my head onto paper. It’s just something I can do,” she added, sounding almost apologetic.

  The two men once more exchanged looks. “I can probably scrounge some paper and ink from the old man upstairs,” Marcus said. “In return for a bowl of stew and a crust of bread.” He got to his feet and fetched a bowl from the dresser.

  “Are you certain he’s safe?” William asked with a frown, once again flicking aside the persistent lock of hair.

  Marcus shrugged. “As safe as anyone these days. It’s all a risk.” He ladled stew into the bowl.

  William nodded. “True enough.” He handed Marcus a thick chunk of bread to accompany the stew. Marcus nodded and, still chewing on his
own mouthful, disappeared into the kitchen yard.

  “Who else lives in this house?” Hero asked, washing down a mouthful of stew with a deep draught of wine.

  “There are no fixed inhabitants,” William replied. ­“Except for an old man in the garret who’s always lived here. He keeps himself to himself, and we do the same.” He refilled her cup from the flagon. “The garret can only be accessed by the outside stairs.”

  “Can he be trusted?” Hero glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the door to the yard, repeating William’s question to Marcus.

  William shook his head. “We don’t take chances. We keep him sweet, and we keep out of his way. When the owner of the house ran at the start of the trouble, the old man took advantage of his absence and set himself up as landlord. We pay the rent, supply him with wine, and he seems content enough. I suspect he’s no more interested in drawing attention to himself than we are. The Committee of Public Safety could as easily turn on someone they suspected of making money out of the revolution as on an aristo. They’re not choosy when it comes to naming enemies of the state.”

  Hero nodded, glancing over her shoulder again as the door opened and Marcus came back into the kitchen. He set an inkpot, a quill pen, and a single ragged sheet of coarse paper on the table. A smear of blood decorated a corner of the paper. “Sorry about that. I gather something from the butcher was wrapped in it.”

  Hero wrinkled her nose, but at least the blood was dry. The quill was blunt, and the ink in the pot was little more than a clogged film at the bottom, but she did what she could, watched by the two men. “Do you think you’ll recognize the man I traveled with?” she asked, sketching swiftly, as if capturing something before it could leave her. “Why would you?”

  “Anyone traveling secretly from England to France these days is either with us or an enemy,” William said. “It’s not a journey anyone makes for pleasure anymore.”

  Which made sense, Hero reflected, shading the image with a few deft strokes. “There. That’s the best I can do with the tools I have.” She frowned at her handiwork before pushing the paper across to William. “One of his eyebrows was oddly shaped, like a question mark. Do you see?” She pointed with the tip of the pen.

  William stared at it. “Yes, I see.” He passed the paper to Marcus. “What do you think . . . the Lizard?”

  “Could be, with that eyebrow,” Marcus agreed, holding the sheet closer to the candlelight. “Did he speak at all, Hero?”

  “Not to me, but he said something to the fishermen. Not much, but he was French . . . or at least, that’s what I assumed. Who’s the Lizard?”

  “An agent of the Committee of Public Safety,” William replied. “A dangerous man. We’ve been watching him for quite a while. He’s a hunter.”

  Hero absorbed this in silence for a moment before saying, “A hunter of men . . . men like you, who are helping families get out of Paris.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Is that what Alec is doing at the moment?” Finally, she asked the question directly.

  “Yes, he was helping to get the Latour family out of Paris and to the coast. If all went well, he and the others will be back here sometime tonight.”

  Hero nodded. It merely confirmed what she’d thought. “Do you know what happened to the St. Julien family? Alec was here to look—” She stopped in mid-sentence at the sound of a brisk rap at the kitchen door behind her.

  Marcus was already on his feet as the door opened and a man slipped into the kitchen, closing the door quietly behind him. He, too, was dressed as a sansculottes, his red bonnet pulled low over his forehead.

  “Stephen. Is all well?” William greeted the new arrival by filling a pewter cup with wine.

  “Aye, we all made it through the gates before curfew,” the man said. “We split up as usual through the city . . . the rest’ll be here in their own time.” He took the cup with a nod of thanks and sprawled with a sigh of exhaustion onto the bench at the table. He frowned at Hero. “Who do we have here?”

  “Alec’s sister,” Marcus supplied. “The Lady Hermione Fanshawe.”

  “Good God,” Stephen said simply, and drank deeply from his cup.

  William chuckled. “That was rather my reaction. Food?”

  “If there is any.” Stephen regarded Hermione with frank astonishment. “Alec said nothing about a sister.”

  “He didn’t know I was coming,” Hero told him, bristling a little at the sense of being discussed as if she were some exhibit in a museum.

  Marcus set a bowl of stew on the table in front of Stephen. “Hero, let me introduce Stephen Baynard, one of our little band of brothers.”

  “Hero . . . welcome.” Stephen nodded matter-of-factly as he took a spoon to his stew. “A woman might be useful to us, William.”

  “Certainly,” William agreed.

  “What’s Alec going to say to that?” Marcus asked, refilling tankards from the flagon. “I doubt—”

  “Just a minute.” Hero interrupted him sharply. “Alec has nothing to do with what I choose to do or how I choose to do it.”

  William smiled. Hero’s reaction didn’t surprise him in the least. “Which of you is the elder?”

  “Alec, by two minutes,” Hero replied.

  “I thought there was rather more than an ordinary family resemblance between you,” William observed.

  Another alerting rap at the door brought another figure slipping stealthily into the kitchen, and the introductions began again. Despite her irritation at being discussed sometimes as if she weren’t there, Hero was pleasantly surprised to find that none of the men actually seemed shocked at her presence or her disguise. Their London selves would have been horrified at the very idea of Lady Hermione in such a place and in such dress, but then, she reflected, in their present incarnations, they were hardly recognizable themselves. And they’d seen and experienced more than enough horrors to find nothing shocking. She settled quietly on a corner of the bench, listening to the account of the rescue of the Latour family as men continued to slip in from the dark beyond the kitchen door.

  It was close to midnight when the door finally opened to admit the Marquis of Bruton. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment leaning wearily against it as his eyes ran across the gathering, counting his fellow conspirators. “Good, we all made it,” he said with a sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he pushed himself off the door. Then his green gaze fell upon the figure at the end of the bench.

  “Hero. What the hell are you doing here?”

  The intensity of relief at the sight of her brother had stunned Hero into immobility at first, but now she jumped up from the bench and ran to him, flinging her arms around him. “Thank God you’re safe, Alec. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I went to the St. Juliens’ hôtel on Rue St. Honoré, but it had been ransacked. The mob were burning and looting in the courtyard. I was so afraid you had been caught up in it.” She leaned back in his arms, looking at him as if she would devour him whole. “How could you leave me all these weeks without a word? Didn’t you know how frantic I’d be?”

  “There was no way to get word to you,” her brother said, his hands on her shoulders, gripping tightly. “It never occurred to me you’d come into this pit of hell after me.” He gave her a little shake.

  “Perhaps it should have done,” William remarked. “From what little I’ve seen of your sister, Alec, I would have expected nothing less.”

  Alec took his eyes from his sister at last and blinked rapidly, as if to dispel a dream. “How . . . how did you find her? Or, I mean, how did you get here, Hero?”

  “It’s a long story. Why don’t you sit down? You’re dead on your feet.” Hero pushed him towards the table, once again in charge of the situation. Her brother made no demur. Since early childhood, he had relied on his sister’s strength as she had relied upon his. Quarreling was something quite foreign to t
hem both.

  He sat down and drank deeply from the wine cup someone passed him. “Tell me this story.”

  FIVE

  William sat at his ease, one hand curled around his wine cup on the table, one leg crossed casually over the other, watching the twins as Hero told her brother the story of her journey and the last few days in Paris. He noted almost absently that while the family resemblance was powerful, Hero’s hair, escaping now from its pins as she talked animatedly, was of a much richer and more complex hue than her brother’s, and her eyes seemed larger, wider apart, and a more vivid green.

  William had spent little time in the land of his mother’s birth and was not well versed in the intricacies of the aristocratic families that made up England’s elite Society. He knew almost nothing about the Bruton family, except that the Marquis possessed vast estates in Hampshire and vast wealth as a result. He himself had a more modest estate in Norfolk, inherited from his mother, and he kept lodgings in Half Moon Street in London for his occasional visits to the city, but his heart lay in France. He had grown up on his father’s country estate in Bordeaux and spent most of his young adulthood in Paris in the grand mansion of the St. Aubery family on Rue Varennes, from where he had entered the closed circles of the French court. When the first rumblings of trouble among the people of France had been heard and they had demanded that the King call the Estates General for the first time in generations, William’s sympathy had been with the people and their grievances. He had joined with two other aristocrats, members of the First Estate, the Comte de Mirabeau and the Duc d’Orleans, in voting with the people’s Third Estate when it declared itself the National Assembly.

  But how quickly that early promise of rational, legal redressing of ancient inequalities had degenerated into the terror that now ruled the country. Disgusted by the violence, the indiscriminate brutality that followed the orderly beginnings of the revolution, William had devoted himself to getting his threatened compatriots to safety. And now he found himself questioning his French self. This country could never feel like his home again, and he had learned over the last months to appreciate the selfless bravery of these English gentlemen who fought by his side.