more than the aftermath of the accident. The girl chattered on nervously, to Sarah’s
growing unease. The nightdress that had replaced her plain traveling costume was of
fine Indian lawn, lavished with ribbons and lace and far too fine for the succor of
some nameless accident victim. And surely all the coach’s injured passengers could
not be lodged in this splendor?
Rose settled Sarah in a chair before the fire before running to the clothespress to
return with another shawl to wrap Sarah’s legs. „Is there aught else I can fetch you,
my lady?“
„I’m afraid there must be some mistake,“ Sarah began weakly, wondering how
best to explain that she was not whatever highborn lady Rose mistook her for.
„There you are, Rose. I must say – “ What the speaker must say would remain
forever a mystery. Catching sight of Sarah, she swept a deep curtsy.
„Your Ladyship! How sad that mis dreadful accident should be the cause of your
visit to my humble establishment – which is, nevertheless, honored by your
presence,“ Mistress Bulford amended firmly.
„Where are the coach and the other passengers?“ Sarah asked, but apparently her
hostess misunderstood, for she replied:
„Jem has just ridden back from Mooncoign, my lady. Dr. Falconer is coming,
with your coach to bear you safe away as soon as you are well enough to travel.“
„What is – where is Mooncoign? I am Sarah Gunningham. I am afraid there has
been some sort of mistake.“
To Sarah’s utter bewilderment, mistress and maid exchanged wide-eyed fearful
glances. Mistress Bulford moistened dry lips before responding.
„You must soil be sadly shaken by your ordeal. Perhaps you would like some tea,
Your Ladyship?“
At her mistress’s gesture, Rose dipped another hasty curtsy and fled. With
Rose’s departure, Mistress Bulford seemed to lose all sense of what to do. She
seated herself upon a low stool at Sarah’s side and gazed up at her imploringly –
almost as if Sarah were some sort of public performance, Sarah thought
uncharitably. Her head pounded abominably, and every bruise she had collected on
the so-rudely-interrupted coach ride burned and throbbed.
But even so, the sense that had warned her of danger in the forests of the New
World warned of danger here. This was more than a simple case of mistaken
identity, and – alone and friendless in an alien land – Sarah must walk as softly as
ever she had in the wilderness.
„Tea will be delightful,“ Sarah said cautiously, and was rewarded by a faint
lessening of the inexplicable tension which gripped her hostess.
„So this is Bulford Hall,“ Sarah hazarded next, gripped by a strong sense of me
absurd unreality of her situation. She, who had always been tongue-tied even in the
presence of those she knew, was now compelled to make small-talk with this strange
Englishwoman who stared at her as if she were mad.
„Yes, Your Ladyship.“
„And you, I collect, must be Mistress Bulford?“ Sarah pursued doggedly. She
smiled, to turn me remark into a jest in the all-too-likely possibility that the woman
was someone else entirely.
„That’s right, Your Ladyship,“ the woman said in tones of relief. „Don’t you
remember? When Bulford and I came to wed it was you as sent as handsome a pair
of silver tankards as ever anyone did see, and said as how the Bulfords might always
look to Roxbury.“
Roxbury. Worse and worse. For a moment Sarah entertained me distempered
freak that she might in fact be whoever Mistress Bulford thought she was – and had
simply run mad – but the vision of that other Sarah, glimpsed in an instant before the
crash, robbed me notion of much of its humor. Sarah’s heart beat faster as she
phrased her next question.
„And so of course you know who I am?“ Innocuously as the question had been
put, it had still been the wrong thing to say. Renewed fear showed in Mistress
Bulford’s eyes as she replied, „Why, you are Lady Roxbury – the Marchioness of
Roxbury – Your Ladyship.“
Chapter 4
A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows
(Paris, Germinal, 1805)
The tall man with the dangerous eyes knew that someone was going to die tonight.
Rupert St. Ives Dyer, Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex, coolly surveyed
the salon from the privileged vantage-coign of the entry-hall. When he had arranged
with the Underground three days ago to meet Avery deMorrissey somewhere here
among these privileged New Men and successful turncoats of the Ancien Regime,
Wessex had been reasonably certain of retaining both his liberty, and his life.
Now he was less so.
A note smuggled up the backstairs of the Hotel des Spheres, Wessex’s residence
on this trip to the City of Light, had tipped him that the Jacquerie – the Red Jacks –
Talleyrand’s secret police – wished very much to have speech of the Chevalier de
Reynard, which nom de guerre was Wessex’s own for the moment. He did not
know if it was the foolish loyalist Reynard, or Rupert, Duke of Wessex, King
Henry’s political agent, who had earned M. Talleyrand’s enmity, and at this moment
it did not matter: the Jacks were only a few minutes behind him.
Wessex had left the Chevalier’s lodgings in the Hotel des Spheres by way of the
roof, but it was only a matter of time before the Jacks took his scent and ran him to
ground. The carte de invitation for this evening’s party had still been on his
dressing-table, after all.
It was foolish to have come – but without him deMorrissey had no chance of
reaching England, De-Morrissey was English, a naval officer who had been interned
at Verdun where he had learned something of interest. Holding this information to be
of more importance than his life, deMorrissey had managed to escape the walled city
and blunder into some members of the Royalist Underground who’d covered his
tracks, at least as far as Paris, But the man hadn’t a word of French, and if the
Royalist Underground had not managed to put him in touch with „Reynard,“
deMorrissey would have been dead long since. And if the Red Jacks had anything to
say about it, he might yet be.
Reynard/Wessex lifted his quizzing-glass and surveyed the room with
maddeningly languid affectation. La Belle Paris was not what she had been in the
days of Wessex’s boyhood, but to the casual observer she had made a phoenixlike
recovery from the bloody events of the „glorious“ ‘93 – at least assuming one had
no memory of her original splendor. In this modern incarnation the appointments
were a little too opulent, the talk a little too loud, and dress and manners veered
self-consciously between Republican and Imperial.
Wessex allowed his quizzing-glass to drop and nicked imaginary grains of snuff
from the lapel of his wasp-waisted celadon silk evening coat as he shook out his
ruffles. He was dressed slightly beyond the cutting edge of fashion, and on a lesser
man the mode might have appeared ridiculous, but not upon my lord Wessex. He
had me height, the carriage, the killdevil black eyes to support any freak of fashion,
and enough cold swords-edge charm to beguile any lady save Madame la
Guillotine herself.
Wessex descended the three shallow steps to the black-and-white tiled floor of
Princesse Eugenie’s drawing room. The Red Jacks were only moments behind him
– and deMorrissey was in the miniature summer house in the Princesse Eugenie’s
garden. Wessex might, just, have enough of a lead to winkle deMorrissey out of the
garden and along the route prepared for him. Just.
A hand fell heavily upon the immaculate brocade of Wessex’s coat. „My dear
Chevalier, how fortunate indeed that I should find you here.“
Wessex turned, and raised his glass to regard the smaller man. So now I know
who it was that gave Talleyrand my scent.
M. Grillot was round, red-faced, and ambitious. He was a frequent visitor to the
shadowy half-world in which Wessex lived his real life, and mis time had managed, it
seemed, to lay his gaff upon quarry of note.
„Fortunate, my dear Grillot? Fortune favors the brave, it is said,“ Wessex
answered idly, in the person of the Chevalier de Reynard.
„And my very dear Chevalier – it was brave of you indeed to venture among us!“
Grillot could not quite repress a smirk at the cleverness of his own double meaning.
Wessex-as-Reynard made an elegant leg, slowly. Almost he reached for his
quizzing-glass again, but not quite.
„No, Monsieur Grillot,“ he said cordially to his betrayer, „it was you who were
the brave, to venture to attend a party with such a potential for dullness. And your
bravery is my good fortune – do let us celebrate it in a glass of wine.“
Wessex’s French was flawless, but then, French had been one of the civilized
accomplishments only a generation ago… in the world that had preceded the
Revolution, before the self-anointed Emperor of France’s bloody conquest of half
the world.
„But of course, my dear Chevalier.“ Grillot was minded to relish his triumph.
„The Princesse keeps an excellent cellar and a dull guest-list, eh?“ He linked arms
with Wessex and the two men strolled away. No one would expect „Reynard“ to
make the bow to his hostess. The license of Eugenie’s gatherings was nearly as
proverbial as their dullness.
Wessex smiled. Certainly Madame la Princesse should thank him – after tonight
no one would ever again call one of her soirees dull.
Grillot and Wessex passed a number of small knots of conversants debating
everything under the sun in fervent obsessed voices. Only a few of them glanced up
from their talk to mark „Reynard“ and Grillot’s passing. The attraction of Eugenie’s
salons – aside from the excellent table she kept – was that one might meet anyone
and talk of anything here. From crop-headed Incroyables and their slovenly damsels
to the properly corseted and bewigged haute bourgeoisie, eyes and tongues burned
with the light of the Idea – the Idea that France had the moral obligation to enslave
half the world.
The two men reached the buffet. Wessex shook back his lace and poured wine
for them both. Grillot gazed with affected distaste at „Reynard’s“ fantastical mode
of dress.
„But my dear sir, what would you have me do?“ Wessex protested blandly,
catching the direction of Grillot’s glance. „All the world knows that Man’s natural
state is to be at war, and yet some of us are not meant for rude martial exercise. We
must each choose our battlefield where we may.“
Grillot snorted and tossed off his wine. Wessex poured him another glass. Above
the buffet the wax candles in their gilded wooden garlands burned with a steady
white light multiplied in the mirrors that hung upon the walls.
„Ah, the battlefield….“ For some reason, Wessex’s choice of words was a
source of particular amusement to M. Grillot. „But there are battlfields and
battlefields, are there not, my dear Chevalier?“
Grillot was not a subtle man. Any person not already awake to his treachery
would surely be alerted by the gloating in his voice now.
„It is entirely as you say.“ Wessex obstinately continued to act the part of the
foolish and oblivious Reynard.
„But you doubt me, my dear Reynard.“ Grillot’s smile grew more feral as he
spoke. „Perhaps you will find a walk in the garden a spur to the intellect?“
If Grillot had expected Wessex to deviate from Reynard’s persona by one iota,
he was to be sadly disappointed.
„Certainly my good Grillot, if such is your desire,“ Wessex said urbanely. But in
his pocket, where no one could see, his fingers tightened upon the butt of a very
small pistol.
The Princesse Eugenie’s little garden was meant to be seen at night. Narrow padis
surfaced in white stone and crushed seashell curved around ornamental plantings
designed to encourage assignations. A high wall concealed the garden from the street
and from the prying eyes of neighboring houses. Grillot stopped just short of the
tiny, ornamental gazebo.
„But you will wonder, my dear Chevalier, that Madame la Princesses garden is
so quiet?“
„Will I?“ asked Wessex politely. He glanced behind him. They were out of sight
of the house. Good.
„The English boy who was here now awaits the Jacquerie in the kitchen – but he
will not be lonely long. Madame la Guillotine’s kiss is one that he will remember for
eternity – thus perish all such enemies of France!“
There was a sudden shout from the house. Grillot fumbled a bulky and obvious
pistol from his pocket, undoubtedly already primed and loaded and carried on the