The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  “What if I go with him? I want to go with him. I want to—”

  “The more people who travel with him, the less likely he will make it. Do you want him to live or not?”

  A sob escaped her knowing she would never see him again. All these months of being without him, without knowing what he was going through while their child had been growing within her, had brutalized her mind and soul to the point of mania. And now, with their child in her arms, she was being asked to stay in France and live through who knows how much longer without him.

  She kept sobbing and sobbing and…sobbing.

  “Woman, you are agitating me. If you keep crying, I will lay you on my lap naked and give you something to cry about.”

  Swallowing back whatever tears she could choke back, she swiped at her eyes. “I will do anything to…save him. Tell me, and I will do it.”

  “While I will do my best to convince him on my own, if I am unsuccessful, it will be up to you to get those papers into my hands. You have an hour to do it. I will fetch him from La Force upon his release this afternoon. We are incredibly blessed in that Robespierre has tasked me to watch over him and report his activities. Once Gérard has travelled outside of Paris all night, tomorrow at noon, I will deliver the papers to Robespierre and report his disappearance. At that point, I will not be able to protect him from whatever happens. Do you understand?”

  A shaky breath escaped her as she kissed Henri’s head with trembling lips in an effort to remind herself that she couldn’t be selfish. She would always have Henri to remember him by. Always. A strange sense of regal calm overtook her knowing that the only way to save Gérard was to let him go. “I will ensure he gives you the papers.”

  “Good. I will deliver him tonight at your château shortly after darkness falls. Leave the door to the servants’ quarters unlocked and dismiss all of your servants for the night using any means possible so no one sees you with him. Ensure he leaves no later than ten tonight. I will be waiting outside your château to take him to an unmarked coach that will carry him out of Paris to another unmarked coach that will take him to the border. Is that understood?”

  She half-nodded, feeling numb. Her child would have no father. And she would have no husband. Ever. Not after Gérard. No eyes would ever be blue enough. No heart would ever be passionate enough. He had blinded her to all men. “Given I must let him go, I beseech you to prepare him for how things will end so what little time I have with him is not spent in argument. Can you do that?”

  “Consider it done. Expect him shortly after nightfall. You will have an hour.”

  One hour to end what she knew no amount of hours would ever end.

  Although she wasn’t ready to say good-bye to her Gérard or what they had shared, she most certainly was ready to save his life and push him out into a world that needed him more than she did. He was only twenty-two. And his gallant nature and his gallant heart and all the good he would do for the world outside of France was only the beginning of what awaited the ever beautiful Gérard, the Duc de Andelot.

  That afternoon

  La Force, one of many crowded prisons throughout Paris

  Although Gérard wanted to spit and curse and swing at the sky he could barely see beyond the rusting bars, he figured God needed a reprieve from his ever-growing long list of complaints. All that mattered was he was getting out.

  The two dozen strangers crowded into his stone cell were the definition of the sort of panic every human went through when they realized death was near.

  Women silently knelt with their ivory rosaries, their children huddled near, those faces covered with snot from hours of crying, while men, once they realized their shouts were of no use, eventually sat and carved their last messages into the walls with their own shoe buckles.

  Gérard wished he could offer each and every one of them words of comfort, but what was the point of dangling any emotion for them or the world to see? It couldn’t smash stone walls or end a revolution.

  After everything he had endured and seen with his own two eyes, there was no more room for emotion in France. Many buildings throughout Paris, which he had been repeatedly forced to see from the open cart on his way to and from countless prisons, were always burning. The heat from the rising flames that cracked toward the open skies made the sooty air appear as if everything were melting from rippling intensity. It had penetrated his pulsing skin in the same way the blurring faces and shouts of the bourgeois and lowers classes had penetrated his mind.

  And they thought he was the animal.

  Going to and from trials and cart to cart and prison to prison for months at a time, witnessing death on the streets of Paris had become the norm. Barely a week earlier, his open, mud-spattered cart had clattered past the corpse of an old neighbor, Vicomte de Laroche, an elderly titled man with four grandchildren he always boasted to the world about. The elderly man always had a smile for his fellow French and was often seen tossing coins to impoverished children.

  Vicomte de Laroche had lain mangled, the blood from his slit-open throat caked and sprayed across cobbled streets. Those open eyes had stared up to the heavens as flies crawled across his expressionless face and mouth.

  Gérard had almost fallen out of the cart as he rolled by that unmoving elderly body. He had watched as several young men in red wool caps stripped Laroche of his expensive clothing and casually donned it as if they had just gone shopping in the finest district.

  It was something Gérard would remember for the rest of his life.

  He swore onto the memory of elderly Laroche, that the moment he left the walls of this prison, he would ensure everyone in Laroche’s family made it out of France alive.

  Well-exhausted from standing within the overly crowded holding chamber, where he awaited his release, Gérard seated himself back on the dirt-pounded floor beside a young girl of about fourteen. She arranged her mud-spattered gown around her slippered feet.

  She had been shoved into the cell less than an hour earlier without anyone.

  What a fourteen-year-old girl was doing in prison at all was beyond his understanding.

  Surprisingly, she appeared to be taking it well. A bit too well. Earlier, she had been humming a ditty as if she were waiting for a friend at a coffeehouse.

  Lowering his gaze, he dug his fingers into the frayed wool of his breeches in an effort to remain calm knowing there was nothing he could do to help her or anyone else in this prison.

  Several roaches with dangling antennas crawled out from beneath the cracks of the stone wall beside him. They paused in stealth unison.

  The girl beside him frantically removed her slipper from her right foot and turned, raising the slipper above her head, waiting for their approach. When the roaches ticked in a group in the opposite direction (for they must have known she was anything but receptive to a visit), she shoved her stockinged foot back into her mud-slathered satin shoe and leaned her head back against the hard stone wall.

  Gérard shifted his jaw and wanted to point out to the girl that it was ridiculous to worry about roaches given what awaited her. But seeing it could very well be her last hours of her life, it didn’t seem fair to say anything but, “Well done. I doubt they will ever come back.”

  She set her chin in pride and seated herself beside him. She then eyed him and said in broken French, “Do…they…” She scooped fingers toward her mouth to indicate what she was trying to say.

  Christ. She didn’t even speak French. This fucking war was being waged against everyone. He angled toward her, his brows coming together. He spoke slowly in French, “What… language do you…speak?”

  She paused and eventually managed, “Anglais.”

  Astounded, he sat up and quickly offered in English, “What are you doing in this prison?”

  Her mouth opened and closed in astonishment. Her green eyes brightened. “Heavens, above! You speak English. And quite beautifully, might I add! How do you do?” She shook his hand, then hugged him and froze, her nose
wrinkling. She released him and edged away. “The French certainly do stink.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Are you in here for long?” she asked.

  “No. Not much longer.”

  Her slim brows came together and flickered. “You cannot leave me! While this has been quite the adventure I plan to put into poetry, no one here speaks any English. And my French is not what it should be. You have to help me. They barely understand anything I say.”

  His chest tightened. “Where are your parents?”

  She jabbed a finger toward the wall. “Back at the house too many streets away. We have not been able to leave France since the revolution broke out. We were visiting Mama’s family at the time, and Papa decided it was best we all stay and chronicle what was happening. Only far more happened than he had ever bargained for. Mama slaps his arm about it every day given they closed the borders and…here we are. We get along rather well with everyone, seeing we have more than enough money to share with whoever needs it, but I was outside this morning and these…two soldiers with red caps were shooting their pistols at a dog and laughing about it. So I…threw a rock at them and…” She grudgingly huffed out a breath. “My French is not what it should be. But I do know one thing. I am set for trial.” She paused. “I will get a lawyer, yes?”

  Fuck. What the girl didn’t know was the Revolutionary Tribunal had long done away with trials. He had actually been one of the last to have seen such ‘justice’. The Tribunal was now sending everyone straight to the guillotine. No matter the charges. Less paperwork. “Do you know the address of your parents?”

  She rubbed at her nose. “Nineteen Soubise.” She hesitated. “You seem very kind.” She smiled. “What is your name?”

  What it would always be despite what the revolution sought to destroy. “Gérard. My father was guillotined a few months ago, which makes me the Duke of Andelot. Seventh generation now.”

  Her brows shot up. “A duke? I never thought I would be sitting next to a duke in prison. At a supper table, yes, but not in prison.”

  That was actually funny. But he still didn’t have it in him to laugh.

  “My papa is a marquess,” she added. “A British one. My name is Lady Madelaine. I will be sixteen in ten months.”

  A British aristocratic girl of fifteen sitting in a French prison awaiting death for throwing a rock. France had lost the last of its fucking mind. He eyed those around him, ensuring there were no men who might take an interest in her. “Keep to yourself and stay close to other women. I will ensure the moment I leave this holding cell that I get into contact with your parents. Hopefully, we will be able to get you out by tonight. All right?”

  A breath escaped her. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  He tapped at her forehead. “Next time, keep those rocks to yourself.”

  “You French are so easily agitated.”

  “What gave it away? The guillotine or the men holding the rope?”

  She set her chin on her knees and scooted closer. “Are you married?”

  He puffed out a breath. Even at fifteen, they only had one agenda. “No.”

  She paused. “Are you looking to marry?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “Damn right I am. I have an incredible girl waiting for me.” Or he hoped she was waiting. The very thought of Thérèse not waiting after everything he had been through would only— “There may even be a babe. I have no idea. These défenseurs officieux refuse to tell me anything. No letters or visitors or a spit of information for months. Even now, I have no idea how much longer before I get out.” Savages.

  The hope of tomorrow was what had kept him from the hell of today.

  She paused again. “Is she pretty?”

  Bright azure eyes he missed beyond breath flashed in his mind. He swallowed. “Yes. Very.”

  Shouts of riled, faceless people beyond the prison walls echoed through the barred slits above his head and into the small stone chamber. He glanced up toward the narrow slits that revealed a bright blue sky.

  He groaned and swiped at his unevenly shorn hair. It was taking foreveeeeer.

  Even worse, he couldn’t remember the last time food had touched his lips. It had been two or three days. He was beginning to feel his limbs wanting to float away from his body as a result of it. He wanted a massive roast smothered in gravy with the bone still wedged into it and he wanted…brandy. Especially brandy. He wanted it so much. So. Much.

  But what he wanted even more than food and brandy or anything else was…Thérèse. She and only she and that laughter and that wit and those bright, playful eyes could strip away all of this festering, festering darkness that clung to his mind and his soul like oozing tar.

  Bringing trembling hands to his lips, he folded them and attempted to believe God was still somewhere listening, even though within his heart he sensed He wasn’t. How could He be? He was far too busy listening to countless screams throughout all of France.

  Gérard could still smell the acrid stench of thick smoke clinging to his disheveled hair and clothing. Smoke that had leached into the prison from surrounding fires. Everything smelled of burnt dreams and fallen walls, but above all else, it reeked of senseless murder.

  Aside from the strewn bodies and decapitated heads spiked across the city like ornaments meant to honor the coming of the devil, his father and his king had long joined them. He hadn’t grieved for his father at all. But for his king and his godfather he had shed countless tears. He hadn’t even had the chance to thank the man for gifting him with papers that ultimately saved his own life.

  After all that he had seen, Gérard would never consider himself French again. British was what he was and would always be, like his mother. British, like his aunt who still lived in London. British.

  Eyeing the narrow wooden door that remained closed, he leaned further back against the stone wall as the sobs of children and women echoed around them.

  A loud clink of a key being turned in the rusty lock broke through the din, eerily echoing in the small space.

  Everyone scrambled to their feet, waiting.

  Including Gérard and his new British friend.

  The door banged open.

  An older gentleman dressed entirely in black with the Republic’s tri-colored sash draped over his coat, strode into the room followed by three soldiers.

  “I am Citoyen Durand,” he announced.

  The man announced it every time he entered as if they were all idiots incapable of remembering a name.

  Durand eyed them all and then pointed at Gérard. “You. Citoyen Andelot. Come with me.”

  Citoyen? No. He was not putting up with any of that given he was on his way out. Gérard pointed back at the man. “I am not Citoyen. I am Monseigneur de Andelot. Allow me to repeat that, piss-taker. I am Monseigneur de Andelot.”

  Durand lowered his chin. “Are you wishing to stay in prison, citoyen? I would be more than happy to re-introduce you to the rack you were tied to barely a week ago.”

  Uh…no. Fortunately, he was on his way out and still had money. His lawyer had assured him the Republic was not interested in taking the estate. Yet. Which meant he had a lot of gold to bury and a list of people to get out of France. If they were still alive, that is.

  Quickly turning to the girl beside him, he grabbed her face with both hands and forced her to look up at him. “If your parents do not come for you, my lady, I will,” he rasped. “Keep to yourself and trust no one. Do you understand?”

  She half-nodded against his hands.

  He tweaked her freckled nose. “Be brave. Get those roaches.”

  She put up a hand.

  Turning, he brushed off his trousers, knowing he would never have to sit on a floor ever again, and setting his shoulders, walked toward the open door.

  He walked. No more of him being dragged. He was walking like a duke and a man.

  The soldiers pointed their bayonets straight at his head.

  So much for duke or man. Knowing th
e protocol, he grudgingly set his hands on his head and followed Monsieur Durand out into the dank stone corridor, the slap of Gérard’s bare feet echoing. His pulse roared wondering if Thérèse would be waiting for him.

  It was the one thing that kept him breathing through the shackles that held him and the studded whips that had gouged his back. Her. The hope of them.

  A narrow door was unlocked, and with his hands still on his head, he was let out to a brightly lit brick courtyard outside the prison leading to a set of massive gates where countless soldiers directed a long line of carts with countless prisoners who had yet to be admitted.

  He squinted against the bright, shimmering sunlight and dragged in a slow, deep breath of air that did not fester with the smell of feces or urine. He wanted to remember this moment. Freedom. And this time, when out in the world, he’d make damn sure his back wasn’t facing the wrong people.

  Durand held out a folded parchment. “Carry this with you at all times whilst in public. It will ensure you are not arrested until called upon by Citoyen Robespierre himself. You are not allowed to leave Paris or you will be arrested and found guilty of being an enemy of the Republic whose penalty is death without trial. You may remove your hands from your head and are free to leave.”

  Gérard lowered his hands and snatched the parchment. Robespierre could kiss his arse. He wagged the parchment at the man. “Tell Robespierre a full decanter of brandy laced with arsenic will be waiting for him over at my house. Have him come by any time. Any. Time.”

  Durand narrowed his gaze and gestured toward a black lacquered coach. “That be yours. Now off with you! Before I put you back in and have them lash off whatever is left of your skin.” The man glared and swung away, yelling out to surrounding soldiers to open the gates.

  Adjusting his frayed and well-stained linen shirt, Gérard eyed the coach that had an emblazoned letter of S with a sword going through it. He squinted at it but was unable to make a correlation. S? Who the hell was S?

  He quickly made his way toward the coach as a pock-marked man in sailor clothing opened the door and unfolded the steps, revealing the black buckled shoes of a man wearing red, clocked stockings and black knee breeches.