The Forbidden Rose

by Bourne, Joanna

  “I could pick their pockets while they were doing it.” The rattling ceased. He wrapped an imaginary apron around his middle and became the serving boy in a café, deft, practiced, silent. They were chameleons, these Englishmen.

  Guillaume was the most changeable of them all. He’d been out since early morning, gathering facts and rumors. He wore the crumpled blue smock of a market laborer. Althea had cut his hair short and rubbed in powdered ash. He was gray-haired now. The scar was gone. Every long crease of his face was a separate and deep seam. His eyes hid in a network of wrinkles. She did not know how he managed that.

  She had watched him leave this morning to walk the streets of the city. He changed, even as the porter opened the gate. He became another man. Abruptly, between one step and the next, there was something wrong about his left shoulder and arm, as if they had been pasted together hastily and jiggled before the parts dried. He looked clumsy. He did not look in the least like Guillaume LeBreton.

  It could not be easy for a man to play so many parts, so long. In the home that she would make for him, he would be only Guillaume. Only himself.

  Guillaume set his empty cup in Hawker’s hands. “I’ll go back to the stalls of Les Halles. The market men know what’s happening, if anyone does, and know it first.”

  “Far be it from me,” Carruthers said, “to give orders to an Independent Agent, but I could use you here, winnowing reports. I have plenty of eyes and ears walking around. I’ll send the boy out to the markets,” she looked at Hawker, “and see what he can drag back for me.”

  “Good enough. I’ll—”

  The door pushed open. A young man came in, moving quickly. He was sixteen or seventeen, pale-haired, with a scholar’s face. His eyes skipped from one person to another, lingered on Hawker, then went back to Carruthers. “The man I was watching . . .”

  “Victor de Fleurignac.” Carruthers hooked a chair with her foot and scooted it back for him to sit in. “You can talk. And you don’t have to kill Hawker after all. He’s mine now.” She gave a tight smile. “We’re all relieved. What about Victor de Fleurignac?”

  “Fouché visited just after nine this morning. Stayed twenty minutes. Three messengers came between ten o’clock and noon. Then nothing. An hour ago the old man showed up. The older de Fleurignac. The marquis. He opened the door with a key and let himself in. He hadn’t come out when I left.”

  Fifty

  DOYLE COUNTED DOZENS OF MEN OUT ON THE streets all walking fast, going different directions. There were no carriages, no carts, no wagons. No women but the one walking at his side. Everyone expected fighting to break out when troops from the Convention came to arrest Robespierre. Maybe a good, rousing riot.

  He’d brought Hawker and young Pax with him, which was half an army. Maggie strode beside him like a Valkyrie. He didn’t envy Cousin Victor when he faced Maggie. If Victor had hurt her father, she’d probably tear him apart with her bare hands.

  That’s another reason I’m going to kill Victor. So she doesn’t have to. He didn’t want her to carry around the knowledge that she’d killed somebody.

  The shops were closed and locked up and barred, with the owners inside, armed and waiting, ready to fight off the mob if looting started. But the cafés and taverns were open, packed so that men stood up to drink. Everybody had a newspaper, reading, trading them back and forth. Arguing. Spreading rumors. He could hear them as they walked by.

  “Robespierre’s called the Sections to rise in his defense.”

  “The Garde is marching against the Convention. My brother-in-law told me.”

  “They’re ordered to their barracks.”

  “The Gendarmerie’s out. They’ve lined up in front of the Convention. They have cannon.”

  “. . . declared him outlaw. Declared Robespierre himself outlaw.”

  Nobody knew what was happening.

  The pop pop of gunfire sounded from the direction of the Seine. That’d be from the Hôtel de Ville. But it was troops firing into the air, not a real battle. There was a different rhythm to a real fight. They’d have people running away in this direction if anyone was getting hurt.

  The rumbling in the air that sounded like thunder a long way off—that was the mob.

  The tocsin sounded again, starting at Notre Dame in the center of Paris, spreading out. The church bells, as many as had been left hanging in the bell towers, had been ringing for an hour now, sounding the alarm. No one knew what to do about it though. Everybody who owned a uniform had put it on and headed into the streets, waiting for somebody to pass out orders.

  Twice they passed small troops of gardes marching in formation.

  Maggie stalked along, keeping an eye on the streets, listening, but not panicked. He had to remember she’d been in this city through four years of violent revolution. She was a veteran of riot.

  “Papa picks this moment to come out of hiding,” she fumed. “Paris is a powder keg and a thousand men have fuses in their pockets. I have told him Victor is our enemy. So today, he goes home. When I am through strangling Victor, I will strangle Papa.”

  A new sound prickled the air when they turned onto Rue Palmier. Someone was playing Bach. The Italian Concerto. Fine playing. It was very fine playing indeed. “That would be your father.”

  She nodded brusquely and speeded up. “Papa’s there. He would play Bach at the world’s ending.”

  De Fleurignac has all his fingers working. At least we’re not going to walk in on a corpse.

  “In case you’re wondering,” she stopped at her door, “I don’t play like that.”

  He didn’t have to knock. The majordomo, Janvier, threw the door open before they got to it. “Thank God you’ve come. He’s going to send the master to the asylum at Charenton.”

  “Who? Victor?” Maggie swept ahead of him, past the steward, into the foyer. “I will not allow Victor to send Papa to a madhouse. Why is Papa here? Did he say?”

  “He came to challenge Victor to a duel.”

  She growled, a deep, feline, impatient sound. “Papa will not be permitted to kill Victor, either. They will lock him away if he begins killing people.”

  Janvier said, “I hid his swords in the kitchen, behind the brooms.”

  The entry hall was empty. No voices anywhere in the house. No footsteps. Nothing to hear but music and distant gunfire. Janvier had got the servants out of the way. Good. He took hold of Maggie’s arm before she went charging into the salon. “Not yet. Your father duels?”

  “He’s a brilliant swordsman.” Whenever she talked about her father she got a little crease between her eyes. “I’ve kept him from slicing up any number of rival mathematicians over the years. And political philosophers. And a few poets.”

  “I don’t kill people. Not unless I have to. I generally don’t have to.” You’ll never have to worry about me, the way you worry about your father. You’ll see.

  Hawker and Pax did a little cross-and-jostle work over who’d go through the door first. Hawker won that round. Once in, they separated just as far as the entry hall would let them and stood glaring at each other.

  “There has been no duel. Monsieur Victor said he would not fight with a madman.” Janvier closed the door softly. “They argued loudly, all up and down the house. Madame Sophie retired to her rooms, discomposed. And your father began to play the pianoforte, as you hear. Angrily. Victor sent for his two men, the canailles who do his bidding about town. They have just arrived. Mademoiselle, they have brought pistols.”

  That would be their old friends, the Jacobins who’d chased them across Normandy. The ones who’d hauled him off to prison. And they were armed. It just kept getting better and better.

  “I hid the master’s gun in the pantry. I can bring it to you, mademoiselle. Or to you, monsieur.”

  Doyle had his own gun. That was why he was wearing this damned uncomfortable coat.

  I don’t want to kill a man in front of Maggie.

  “Let’s play this a different way.” He waved Pa
x close.

  “Section headquarters. You know it?” Pax nodded. “They’ll have some pack of gardes milling around. Tell them Robespierre’s man, Deputy Victor de Fleurignac, is here, in this house.”

  Maggie said sharply, “No.”

  Pax hesitated.

  “Go,” he told him. “Do it.”

  Pax yanked the door open and pounded out into the street, already running.

  He watched Maggie take hold of anger in both hands and wrestle it down. The air shimmered around her. “I will decide what is done to my cousin Victor.”

  But they both knew what had to be done. “He plans to kill your father. That’s why he sent for his jackals. His men are here to say your father went mad and attacked.”

  Her throat worked. “We are safe while Papa is playing. It demonstrates that his hands are occupied with the music and not with strangling Victor.”

  “He’ll come to the end of this piece in five or six minutes. I have to be in there when he finishes.”

  “We will both go in. Victor won’t kill Papa if I’m here to accuse him. And he does not dare kill all of us.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping. Can I convince you to wait out here?”

  “No.” She stared, unblinking, at the salon door. “I understand why you sent for the gardes. You think Victor must die and you want our hands clean. You think he’ll try again to kill Papa, if he fails today.”

  “Your father. You. Me. Your friends in La Flèche. Probably some other folks along the way. He’s got a taste for it now. He’s not going to stop.” When a dog goes bad, it has to be put down. Anybody in sheep country could tell you that.

  “I have known Victor all my life. All my cousins, even the most distant ones, are gone. He is the last of the de Fleurignacs.” She breathed deeply, painfully. “Family is everything. I will tell him the Garde is coming to arrest him. I will give him a chance to escape.” Even as she spoke, she shook her head. “It will not save him. He will not run. You heard what your Paxton said. Fouché was here this morning. It must be that Victor has made some pact between them and changed sides yet again. He will trust Fouché and Fouché will betray him. When Robespierre is arrested, Victor will follow him to the guillotine. We will be his death, you and I.”

  “If he stays after you warn him, he’s made his own death. Some men, even you can’t save. Let’s go.” He turned to Janvier. “Keep the servants away. Don’t let her aunt come down, whatever happens.”

  Janvier’s half bow acknowledged authority. “Oui, monsieur. Madame Sophie has taken sleeping powders and—”

  Maggie stopped. “Mon Dieu. Aunt Sophie.”

  “One thing at a time, love. Let’s deal with Victor. Maybe he’ll take off for Kiev and save us all some trouble.”

  The doors to the salon opened smoothly. Maggie walked in beside him. Hawker fell into step behind, soundless, a stoppered bottle of excitement, his hands a twitch away from his knives. Hawker didn’t need to be told to protect Maggie. He’d just do it.

  Four men waited for them in the salon. Maggie’s father was bent over the pianoforte, oblivious, deep in the final chords of the third movement. Victor stood by the hearth, pretending he was in control of the situation, looking as menacing as a man can when he’s standing next to a gaggle of china shepherds and woolly lambs. He wasn’t carrying any obvious weapons. The two henchmen were off to the side, both armed. The one Maggie had slashed across the face was going to be fairly grotesque even when the scar healed.

  That is a man who wants revenge. I’ll get rid of him first.

  Hawker slipped into place between Maggie and the pistol scarface was bringing up to point. He did it so smoothly, it looked accidental.

  Bach wound to a conclusion. Maggie’s father set his hands on his knees, shook himself, and took note of what was going on. “What are you doing here, Marguerite? No. Never mind. It’s not important. Run and fetch me my swords, girl. I am going to skewer your cousin like a suckling pig.”

  “We have discussed this, Papa.” Ignoring guns, ignoring Victor, she stood over her father and put her hands on her hips. “There will be no more dueling. Why did you come here? Victor is trying to kill us, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I am not,” Victor snapped.

  She ignored that, too. “You have walked into his hands. Do you have any least vestige of a reason for doing this?”

  “I’d be a poor father if I didn’t gut him for you. He won’t duel, though. My brother’s child, and there’s no honor in him.”

  “Of course there is no honor in him. A man of honor does not feed me poison in my evening tea. He does not bring armed men, capable of countless evil deeds, into my salon. He does not let them point pistols at me. He does not . . .” She threw her hands up.

  “I rescind my challenge.” The old man frowned. “I will hire assassins instead. I have made the acquaintance of several Italians who are suitable.”

  “De Fleurignacs do not hire assassins. It is not honor-able to ask someone to do your killing for you.”

  The marquis appeared struck by this. “You are right. If Victor will not with duel with me, I will use poisonous reptiles. It should not be difficult to find one. I’ll ask Jean-Paul what he recommends.”

  “You’re not going to kill anyone with snakes, Papa. And Jean-Paul will not help you. Besides, I think it would not work. Snakes are unreliable.”

  Damn, but this is like marrying into the Borgias. He picked up a statue, a bronze Pan. Heavy. Very pastoral. He didn’t look at the scarface Jacobin who was edging sideways, trying to get a clear shot at Maggie.

  This is risky as hell. I wish she wasn’t here.

  Behind him, Victor said, “Who is this man you’ve brought here? Whoever you are, get out. You’re meddling with family matters that are none of your concern.”

  Everybody ignored him. He left his post by the fireplace and came closer, trying to get a look. “I know you. I’ve seen you before. Where do I know you from?”

  The gun was still pointed at Maggie. Not yet. Not yet. Without turning, he said, “I’m Maggie’s husband.”

  “She’s not—” Victor straightened. “You’re him. Without the scar. You’re the prisoner. You’re LeBreton.” He whirled, shouted and pointed. “Kill him. Kill this one. He’s an escaped prisoner. Shoot.”

  The gun wavered away from Maggie.

  Now. He threw the statue. It hit the gun and knocked it aside.

  He grabbed a silver box from the table as he lunged by. Brought it down on the Jacobin’s face and heard him scream. He grabbed the man’s gun hand. Cracked the elbow over his knee and heard it break.

  The pistol bounced away on the carpet. The Jacobin’s eyes rolled up in his head. Without a sound, he went white and crumpled.

  One down.

  He let his man slide limp and roll onto the carpet. Hawker had dealt with the other one. The thin melancholy Jacobin had his hands in the air, gun pointed at the ceiling. Hawker’s knife pricked his throat.

  Maggie scooped the gun up from the floor, fast about it. Not getting in Hawker’s way or joggling his knife, she helped herself to the pistol the other man held. She took a place, straight and intent and merciless as a Fury, confronting Victor. The gun in her left hand pointed to the floor. The other was steady and unwavering on her cousin.

  “Marguerite, put that down.” Victor held his hands up, palms outward, placating. “Be careful. It’s loaded.”

  Maggie didn’t turn a hair. She looked good, armed.

  She said, “Of course it is loaded. Why would I point a gun at you that isn’t loaded?” Her father padded up behind her. “No, Papa, I will not give you a gun. I will keep both of them. If I want him dead, I’ll do it myself. I am perfectly capable of pulling a trigger.”

  Some low complaining from her father.

  “Neither of us will kill him. Even animals do not rend their own families. Because he has become a viper, shall we do the same?”

  “That’s enough. Stop this,” Victor said.


  Didn’t the man see Maggie’s face? He might as well have been arguing with a fire.

  Slowly, Maggie took one step and then another toward her cousin. “What am I to do with you? Even when the world becomes sane again, you will not. You will always be malignant.”

  “You bring this brigand into my home to attack my men. You hold a gun pointed at me. You’re as mad as your father. I’m the one who’s saved this family, year after year. I am the de Fleurignac heir. I am—”

  “It’s over, Victor.” Distaste, sadness, and anger warred in her voice. “I have asked myself why you did this. Maybe you were afraid. You feared for you life at the hands of your revolutionary friends. Maybe it was greed for the inheritance.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You will never get close to us again, Victor. Not to Papa. Not to me. It is the end between us. You will leave, now, and you will not come back to the house again.”

  “You are so sure of yourself. I wouldn’t be.” Behind a tight mask of rage, Victor was thinking about killing them. Planning how and in what order. How he’d get away with it.

  Armed men rattle and clank when they walk. A small troop was coming up Rue Palmier, getting closer. Pax had done his work.

  Doyle said, “Maggie, we have company.”

  She’d heard it, too. “We have sent for the Garde, you know. You have time to get away, if you leave now. Take the back way out, through the kitchen. I will delay them.”

  “They won’t arrest me. I’m a friend of Robes—” Victor realized that wasn’t going to work. “I am a friend of Fouché.”

  “Fouché is nobody’s friend. Run, Victor.” Even now, she’d save the bastard if she could. “If you stay, the laws you have made will eat you up. Hide in the country. In a few months they’ll forget you. Everyone is sick of bloodshed.”

  “I have nothing to be afraid of.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Victor’s eye. “Fouché promised I won’t be arrested.”

  You’re about to find out. The Jacobin on the floor was down with his arm broken and a cracked head. He wouldn’t be a problem. The other one hadn’t hurt anybody that he knew of.