Trapped by Scandal (4 page)

Guillaume laughed. “Brandy . . . and not that ghastly gut rot you pass off on poor innocents.”

“Oh, aye, only the best for you,
citoyen
.” François touched his forelock in mock humility and disappeared into the crush of people within the tavern.

“Stay close,” Guillaume murmured to Hero, who had no intention of doing anything else. Despite the jerkin, she now felt conspicuous amidst the rough crowd, but she was also comfortingly aware of her companion's height
and the strength in his lithe, slim frame. In just his shirtsleeves, he seemed taller and somehow more powerful than most of the men around them, and he exuded a confidence that was immensely reassuring.

François came back with two tankards. “Best cognac for my friend and his little companion,” he declared, slamming the tankards onto the top of the wine barrel. “That'll be five sous.” He caught the coins as Guillaume tossed them to him. “So where've you been hiding?”

“In La Force,” Guillaume said tersely.

The men around them whistled softly. “What did they pick you up for?” the innkeeper inquired.

Guillaume drained his tankard in one long swallow. “Wrong place, wrong time,” he said. “Same with my friend here.” He slapped Hero's shoulder amiably. “We gave them the slip when they were taking the last lot of aristos to Madame Guillotine.”

Someone spat in disgust, and there was a low rumble from the group of men that made the fine hairs on Hero's neck prickle. There was something terrifyingly unpredictable about the mood of these Parisian streets, a volatility that could swing from raucous good humor to horrifying violence in the blink of an eye. She sipped cautiously at the brandy in her tankard. It burned as she swallowed but heartened nevertheless.

“Did they take the Latours yet?” Guillaume inquired casually. “Or have they gone to ground already?”

“Aye, bastard aristos gave us the slip,” one of the drinkers declared. “God knows how they knew we were coming for them, the maggots. We knew they were hiding in
the attic, living like rats up there, but when we went for them, they were gone.” There was more spitting amidst a chorus of disgruntled disgust, and Hero kept her eyes fixed upon the dark liquid in her tankard. The one thing she had learned in her days on the streets was to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Guillaume set down his tankard. “There's plenty more where they came from, right,
mes amis
?”

“Aye, and we'll send them all to the guillotine soon enough,” the landlord declared.

Guillaume nodded and adjusted his red cap. “
À bientôt, citoyens
.”

He scooped Hero ahead of him, followed by a chorus of farewells. “Just what in the devil's name is a young English girl doing roaming these streets?” he demanded abruptly as they entered a wider street.

Hero looked up at him, surprised by the note of irritation in his voice. It seemed to have come from nowhere. “I might ask
you
what an English gentleman, and you are most clearly both of those things, is doing here,” she retorted.

“You might ask,” he agreed, “but you would not necessarily get an answer.”

“And I might say the same to you,” she retorted, half running to keep up with him as he lengthened his stride.

He frowned down at her. “I'd venture to suggest that I am more able to look after myself in this murderous city than a young, untried girl.” As she opened her mouth to respond, he shrugged and said curtly, “Well, it's no safe topic for the open street, so we'll have it out when we get somewhere private.”

They had reached Place de la Révolution, where the guillotine stood in the center. The vast square was packed with spectators as the tumbrels rolled across the cobbles. Across the river, on Île de la Cité, the great, grim bulk of the prison of the Conciergerie dominated the skyline. Hero forgot her annoyance with her companion's high-handed tone and averted her gaze from the spectacle in the midst of the square, clinging closer to Guillaume's shadow as they threaded their way to the first narrow bridge across the Seine. The thud of the guillotine's bloody blade and the roar of the crowd were repeated endlessly and could still be heard even when they had crossed the second bridge from the island to reach the left bank of the river. Only when they had turned into one of the lanes leading away from the river did the sound fade.

Rue St. André des Arts climbed steeply from a square just out of sight of the river. Number 7 was tall and narrow like its neighbors. Hero's companion knocked in a swift rhythm against the wooden shutters beside the front door. He repeated the sequence after a moment, and the door opened just wide enough to admit a man. Guillaume propelled Hero ahead of him through the gap and stepped in smartly behind her. The door closed, and she heard the heavy bar drop into place.

She found herself in a dark, narrow hallway. The only light flickered from a tallow candle held by the man who had opened the door for them. He was dressed like her companion in the rough clothes of a sansculottes and stared at her in unabashed curiosity.

“Who's this, then, William?” he asked in English.

“A question I'm hoping to have answered myself, Marcus,” William replied in the same language. He hung his cap on a hook by the door and with a neat flick removed Hero's and hung it beside his own. Her hair, drawn into a tight knot on top of her head, was the color of burnt caramel, rich, dark, and honey-streaked. He had a sudden urge to see it loose. An urge he instantly quelled.

“We got the Latours out, then, I gather.”

“Aye,” Marcus replied, still regarding Hero with interest. “They got 'em out before the city gates closed last night. Our folk should be back before curfew tonight . . . if the gods smile,” he added.

“If the gods smile,” William agreed somberly. He nudged Hero forward towards an open door at the rear of the hallway. “In here, Hero.”

She stepped into a small empty room, where a single lamp burned on a table and a small fire flickered in the grate.

William filled two pewter cups from a flagon on the table and offered her one of them. He brushed aside the recalcitrant lock of dark chestnut hair falling across his broad forehead before taking a sip from his own cup. “A pleasant enough Canary,” he observed. “So, Mademoiselle Hero, who exactly are you, and what the devil are you doing roaming the streets of Paris in the midst of a revolution?”

FOUR

H
ero examined the contents of her pewter cup intently, as if it contained the answer to his question, before saying, “Hermione Fanshawe. My brother is the Marquis of Bruton.”

William was rarely dumbfounded, but he found himself so now. “Lady Hermione Fanshawe,” he murmured. “Sweet heaven, what are you
doing
here?” The earlier note of irritation was in his voice.

“Looking for my brother, if it's any business of yours,” she said tartly. Hero was unaccustomed to being questioned about her activities or her motives. It had been several years since anyone had presumed to have the authority to do so, and while she was prepared to acknowledge that this gentleman had earned her gratitude and maybe the right to a few questions, he certainly hadn't earned the right to pass judgment, and from his tone, it sounded very much as if he was.

His mobile brows quirked, and his expression was quite unreadable. “I think, my lady, you'll find that it is very much my business.” He reached for the flagon. “More Canary?”

She shook her head. “No . . . thank you.” He was in
furiating. How could he possibly say something like that? He didn't know anything about her. When at a disadvantage, Hero had long ago decided, attack was the best way forward. “So, sir, you know who I am. Will you return the favor?” Her tone was curt almost to the point of rudeness, but it seemed merited.

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 quiv
ering 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.