Surrender to a Stranger (38 page)

Armand thoughtfully drew his eyebrows together, pretending to contemplate Nicolas’s offer. “That’s it?” he asked after a moment’s silence, his voice tinged with suspicion. “You simply want me to confess?”

“In writing, of course,” qualified Nicolas. “I need you to produce a signed statement outlining your crimes against the Republic of France. Once you have done that, I will present it to the Committee of Public Safety. In exchange for your cooperation you will be spared execution.”

“Why would they be interested in sparing me?” demanded Armand, obviously still not convinced.

Nicolas casually slapped his gloves against his thigh. “France’s prisons are exploding. Paris alone is holding over seven thousand people who are awaiting trial and vehemently protesting their innocence. The guillotine, as impressive an instrument as it is, simply cannot chop heads fast enough. So you see, any confessions that reduce the work of the Tribunal are welcome. Especially,” he emphasized, “if they include the names of your connections and accomplices.”

Armand looked at him blankly. “Accomplices?”

“Those who have aided you in securing false documents, transportation, information, and so on,” explained Nicolas.

“Oh,” replied Armand stupidly. “Those accomplices.”

“Well, what do you say?” demanded Nicolas. “Do you wish to accept my offer?”

Armand hesitated a moment, enjoying the act of keeping Nicolas in suspense. Then he looked at him brightly. “Absolutely,” he exclaimed. “I would be a fool not to.”

“I have quill and paper with me,” offered Nicolas as he produced them from a pocket inside his heavy overcoat.

“How fortuitous,” observed Armand. “Bring them here and I shall write out my confession immediately.”

Armand pulled his chair over to a small table and waited for Nicolas to lay out paper, a quill, and a small pot of ink. He took up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and began to scratch it quickly across the page, writing in bold, sweeping strokes. Nicolas stood by and watched him with satisfaction, obviously pleased with himself at having been able to secure a confession. After a moment Armand paused, scanned what he had written, and signed it.

“Here you go,” he said brightly, holding the paper out to Nicolas.

“So fast?” asked Nicolas in confusion as he took the document. He quickly read through what Armand had written, which was a brief confession of impersonating a member of the National Guard and unsuccessfully attempting to rescue the Marquis de Biret from the Luxembourg prison, for which he was extremely repentant. The confession was signed by Citizen Michel Belanger.

“You know this is not what I want,” grated out Nicolas, his face reddening with fury.

Armand looked at him with feigned confusion. “No?” he returned innocently.

“Do not play games with me,” Nicolas warned, his voice soft and threatening. “You know as well as I that you are not Citizen Michel Belanger.”

“Is that so?” asked Armand with amusement. “How interesting. Pray, do not keep me in suspense, Inspector. Who am I?”

Nicolas smiled darkly. “You, my friend, are the one they call the Black Prince.”

“Am I indeed?” returned Armand, his tone patronizing and slightly mocking.

Nicolas nodded. “You are the same man who sold drugged wine to the guards in the disguise of Citizen Laurent, winemaker.”

“You don’t say?” said Armand. He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “How intriguing. Tell me, have the guards attested to this?”

“No,” admitted Nicolas, his irritation apparent. “Evidently your disguise was good, because those fools say they do not believe you could be the same one.” He stepped in closer to Armand and began to circle him slowly, like an animal closing in on its prey. “But then, they are not aware of your remarkable ability to play any role you please,” he conceded darkly. “They have not made a point of studying your career.” He stopped and stared hard at him. “And they have not had the opportunity to see you in disguise before.” He bent his head so that it was level with Armand’s. “Have they—Citizen Julien?”

Armand met his gaze calmly, looking more amused than interested. He was not about to give Nicolas any indication that he was correct in his assumptions.

From the moment of his arrest Nicolas had been intent on proving he had successfully snared the Black Prince, and was furious when François-Louis was unable to confirm this. Armand suspected Nicolas’s need to trap him was partly for his own personal satisfaction. The idea that he had caught the man who had stolen Jacqueline from him was sweet vengeance indeed. Such a remarkable achievement was also certain to impress the Committee of Public Safety, and would undoubtedly be generously rewarded. But at the moment Nicolas lacked proof. The Marquis de Biret had written a letter to his betrothed asking for help, but there was nothing to suggest that Citizen Michel Belanger had been acting on behalf of Jacqueline de Lambert, or that he was the one known as the Black Prince. Knowing that Nicolas was desperate to prove he had caught an important enemy and make himself a hero to the Republic gave Armand a perverse satisfaction in denying him that proof. And whether they ultimately decided he was the Black Prince or not, he would die before he revealed the names of those who helped him with information, false documents, and transportation.

“I am afraid you are mistaken, Inspector,” he declared nonchalantly.

Nicolas ignored his denial. “You have plagued the Republic in many forms this past year,” he continued as he began to circle again. “Young and old. Male and female. Constantly changing your face, your hair, your character, and your accents. You have been a formidable enemy, always managing to stay just one step ahead of revolutionary justice.” He stopped circling and stood in front of him. “But your days as a counterrevolutionary and royalist sympathizer are over, my friend.” He smiled, an expression of victory stained with bitterness. “You sealed your fate the day you stopped me from taking what was rightfully mine. You remember the moment, don’t you?” he demanded softly. He leaned in close to him. “I always meant to have the little bitch, one way or another. But you interrupted us. And then you took her away.” He straightened up again and began to pace the confines of the cell. “I paid for that, I can tell you. The chief inspector lets the Black Prince take a condemned prisoner right out from under his nose. They threatened to arrest me. They said I must have been an accessory, because of my prior personal relationship with the former Mademoiselle de Lambert and her family.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I was the one who arranged for her father and brother’s arrest, and there they are saying I must have helped her. Ironic, don’t you think?”

Armand politely tried to stifle an enormous yawn and stretched his arms high above his head. “Forgive me, Inspector Bourdon, I am sure this story of yours really is fascinating, but as I do not know the people of whom you speak, I am afraid I can only offer limited interest.”

Nicolas’s face hardened into a mask of hatred and contempt. “Well, Monsieur le Prince, perhaps this will hold your interest a little better,” he snarled. He began to pace again. “I know you are the Black Prince, and I intend to see to it that you are tried and convicted as such. I don’t give a damn if it takes months, years, or the rest of your worthless, miserable life, do you understand? You can sit and rot in this stinking cess pit until you confess, or until I have the necessary proof to see you executed as such. But think carefully about the cost of remaining silent,” he warned. “First, you will lose your health. Bad food, stale air, cold, damp, cramped quarters—these things will quickly take their toll on your body. And of course, as the months and years go by, your youth will fade into the past. All you will have will be your memories, which will become distant and cloudy. Finally you will start to lose your mind, as your life becomes a chain of endless, empty, meaningless days and hours and minutes, with no beginning and no end. So let me know when you are ready to confess, Monsieur le Prince,” he stated triumphantly. “You can either have a speedy trial and be executed with dignity, or you can exist in these subhuman conditions and die an appallingly slow, lingering, filthy, humiliating death.”

Loud, deep, even snoring filled the confines of the tiny cell. Nicolas turned to see the subject of his discourse sound asleep, with his head resting on one shoulder and his long legs comfortably stretched out in front of him. His expression seemed serene, as though he were blissfully unaware of the horrors Nicolas had just described to him. Nicolas ground his teeth together in frustration.

“Guard!” he barked through the small grille in the heavy wooden door. He turned to look at Armand as he waited for the guard to let him out. “As you wish, my friend,” he spat between clenched teeth. “Stay here and rot for as long as you like.”

Jacqueline spent the morning in her room, seeking to isolate herself from the rest of the world. She knew eventually she would have to go downstairs and face François-Louis, but first she needed time to herself.

Armand had been captured. Her worst fears had been confirmed. Somehow, something had gone terribly wrong. The National Guard had been there waiting for him. Perhaps there had been an error in his plan. Or perhaps his luck had simply run out. Either way, he had been shot, possibly even injured fatally, and François-Louis had left him there.

It was not unforgivable that he had done so, she realized. After all, Armand had insisted that he go on. She knew if Armand felt he was going to die, he would not want it to be for nothing. But somehow the idea that Armand was dead was inconceivable, unacceptable, impossible. After all, François-Louis had seen him captured, but he had not seen him die. Jacqueline knew if Armand’s injuries were severe he would not last long in the harsh, septic conditions of a Paris prison. But somewhere between logic and likelihood was a small, radiant spark of hope, a slim chance that he had survived his injury and had not yet been executed. It seemed so unlikely she almost brushed it aside, but the alternative was accepting the fact that she was responsible for Armand’s death, and that was so devastating she decided to cling to the fragile possibility that he was alive. Which left her with two choices. She could either remain in England and pray for the improbable chance that somehow Armand could escape on his own. Or she could go to France and try to help him.

By the time her maid came knocking at her door to announce that Monsieur le Marquis was waiting to see her in the music room, she had made up her mind. She went down the stairs with a sense of purpose she had not felt in weeks, and she drew comfort and strength from it. There was no more time to wallow in a sense of helplessness, feeling sorry for herself and angry at God for destroying her life. Everything had suddenly become incredibly simple. Armand was in danger and he needed someone to help him. Jacqueline would go to France and try to get him out of there. She had no idea how she would do it, and she knew the chances of her being successful were almost nonexistent. It did not matter. All that mattered was Armand needed her. She would try her best not to fail him.

Lively music was filtering down the hallway from the music room. When Jacqueline reached the doorway she saw François-Louis seated at the pianoforte merrily playing a gavotte while Laura sat in a chair and gazed at him, her eyes bright and round with admiration. She looked quite pretty in a low-cut gown of white satin striped with pink and decorated with small clusters of pink satin flowers. François-Louis was almost as pretty as she was, in his silvery white wig and an apple-green frock coat over a silk waistcoat of buttery yellow with green embroidery. Great quantities of lace puffed out from his sleeves, flouncing up and down as his pale hands danced effortlessly over the ivory keys. This is my betrothed, she thought to herself, and she was stunned at how strange that seemed. François-Louis had come from her world. He shared her history and her convictions, he understood the beliefs she had been raised with and knew firsthand what the revolution had cost her. In another time, in a different music room, that would have been her seated before him in a pretty day gown, watching him with open pleasure as he entertained her with his musical proficiency and his easy manner.

The piece ended, and Laura began to clap enthusiastically. “That was wonderful,” she exclaimed, her voice high and sweet, like the chirping of a bird. “Simply wonderful. Oh, but you cannot stop now, François-Louis, surely there is something else you have not yet played for me.”

François-Louis stood up from the piano and dramatically laid his hand over his heart. “Mademoiselle Laura, for the sunshine you bring when you enter a room with that beautiful smile of yours, I would play until I had exhausted my entire repertoire, and then, just to keep you near me, I would start at the beginning of your father’s musical library and not stop until I had played every last note.” He stepped away from the piano, bowed low before her, and then took her hand from her lap and pressed a gallant kiss against it, causing Laura to sigh prettily and beam with pleasure.

“Perhaps I must—come back later,” stammered Jacqueline awkwardly in English, feeling like an intruder. She vaguely wondered why the flirtatious little scene she just witnessed did not annoy her for any reason other than that it seemed so contrived and silly.

François-Louis straightened up and smiled, obviously not disturbed in the least that Jacqueline was there. Laura seemed a little more startled, but she did not appear to be uncomfortable with the fact that the man Jacqueline was engaged to marry had just been fawning over her. If anything, the look she gave Jacqueline was strangely triumphant, as if she had set out to prove something and had been successful.

“Jacqueline, we are pleased to see you,” said François-Louis pleasantly. “Are you feeling better today?” He was smiling but his eyes were slightly wary, as if she was a stranger to him and he was not quite certain how to deal with her.

“I am fine,” replied Jacqueline, disliking immensely the insinuation that her behavior last night was due to the fact that she was unwell. “You wished to speak to me?” she demanded stiffly. Now that she had made the decision to help Armand, every moment was precious. She was not about to waste time sitting here listening to François-Louis play the pianoforte.