Trapped by Scandal (7 page)

The man said nothing, but he still looked suspicious. “You want 'em alive?”

She shook her head hastily, and with swift efficiency, he wrung the necks of three scrawny birds, dropping the still- pulsating carcasses into her basket. To her relief, William took the basket from her as she paid the poulterer.

Hero turned away. “What now?”

“Bread, cheese, vegetables,” her companion said in an undertone. “Try to remember the revolution started in the
first place because people were starving and there was no flour for bread, let alone meat for the asking.”

“I know,” she said in the same undertone, flushing a little, shocked at how easy it was to make a mistake. “But I've only ever shopped for hats and dress material before.”

“Just keep your wits about you.”

Hero watched her fellow housewives and copied them, poking and prodding vegetables, sniffing at cheeses, selecting carefully but frugally. Nevertheless, the old, familiar feeling of menace was back with her despite William's presence. There were so many pitfalls just trying to pass unnoticed through the crowds, even though her peasant dress was indistinguishable.

She was moving away from the back of a cart from which a woman with thick forearms and reddened hands was selling loaves of day-old bread when she felt it. Her scalp crawled as if an army of lice were nesting, and the hairs on her nape lifted.

William was a few paces behind her as her step faltered and her eyes slid sideways. Her breath caught in her throat. William moved up beside her, not looking at her as he said under his breath, “What?”

“Over there, in the doorway of that cobbler. The eyebrow.”

William glanced once and said swiftly, “Take this.” He gave her the basket. “Now, walk through the market and take one of the side streets, any one. If you think you're being followed, do
not
go back to the house. Lose him if you can; otherwise, just come back here.”

“And do what?” Her heart was battering against her ribcage.

“Just wait. Do you understand?”

Mutely, Hero nodded and continued to stroll through the stalls, her eyes on a steep and narrow lane, more an alley than a street, that led out of the square and ran parallel with Rue St. André des Arts. Every inch of her skin seemed sensitized, but she didn't dare stop to look behind her to see if she was being followed. On impulse, she moved sideways back into the melee of stalls and carts, pausing casually to examine a mound of cabbages. She glanced quickly behind her. The man with the eyebrow was nowhere to be seen.

“Fine cabbage,
citoyenne.
” The seller held out a head for her inspection.

She shook her head with an assumption of regret.
“Non, merci, citoyen
.
”

He shrugged with resignation, and Hero moved on, glancing once more behind her. She couldn't see the man with the eyebrow and moved with more resolution to the steep side street. It was quieter there, and if she was being followed, she'd have a better chance of seeing her pursuer. She toiled up the hill, changing the heavy basket from hand to hand. It gave her the perfect excuse to pause now and again, glance casually behind her, and listen closely for steps, a change in step, a pause, anything that would indicate a pursuer. But she could detect nothing.

Halfway up, she took a side alley that would connect with Rue St. André des Arts. It was dark and narrow, overshadowed on both sides by shabby houses. Her heart was
pounding again, her breath coming fast as she strained to hear, to sense if anyone was behind her. She knew she could not betray the house, however inadvertently. But she could detect nothing as she emerged onto her own street.

She set her basket down, pressed her hands into the small of her back, and stretched as if weary of the steep climb. No one paused to give her a second glance; no one appeared from the side street, which remained silent and shadowed. Dare she risk it?

Hero picked up her basket and crossed the street. She could access the back of the house by the passageway between two of the houses. It was little more than a corridor, stinking of ordure from the kennel that ran through it, and she had to pick her way over the slimy cobbles. But here she could be confident that no one was behind her. The gate leading into the backyard of number 7 stood slightly ajar, its hinges loose, the latch broken, just like its fellows. She walked to the end of the passage, then turned and walked back. There was no one in sight, and she had no sense of eyes upon her. She listened and could hear no footsteps, just the sound of iron wheels on the cobbled street at the end of the alley, the sharp yelp of a dog from somewhere, a child crying. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. She was alone.

Swiftly, she pushed open the gate, catching her breath as the hinges squeaked. She paused again, listening, peering over her shoulder. Nothing. She slipped sideways through the gate into the bedraggled kitchen yard, glancing up at the very top floor of the house, wondering if the
old man in his garret was watching the gate. The wooden shutters were open, and she thought she caught a shadow of movement across the window. But William had said the old man was safe enough, so what did it matter if he had seen her?

She tried to walk slowly to the kitchen door, to look as if she was just an ordinary housewife with a heavy shopping basket. She lifted the latch on the door and pushed it open, stepping into the kitchen with a warm rush of relief at the familiar room and the circle of faces turned as one towards her.

SEVEN

S
ometime after Hero let herself into the yard of number 7 Rue St. André des Arts, Viscount St. Aubery strolled, hands in the deep pockets of his loose britches, down Rue du Bac. He stopped outside a wine shop, glanced casually up and down the street, and then pushed through the door into the dark, noisy interior, where customers crowded the shelf that served as a bar while the owner filled leather flagons from the wine barrels piled against the wall behind him.

“Bernard.” William nodded at the man, elbowing his way to the front.

“
Citoyen
.” The owner set a tankard in front of his new customer with a nod of acknowledgment. William raised it in a toast and drank, smiled his appreciation as he turned with his back to the counter, and surveyed the men and women gathered around the small space. After a moment, he pushed himself away from the counter and threaded through the crowd of drinkers to a shadowy corner, where a man sat alone at an upturned wine barrel, hunched over a tankard of rich ruby-red wine.

William gestured with his head to the empty stool on
the other side of the wine barrel and, receiving a wordless nod in exchange, straddled the stool, setting his own tankard on the barrel. His companion at the barrel was dressed in serviceable leather britches and jerkin, a pair of fine leather boots on his feet and a sword at his waist. He was clearly a more substantial citizen than his fellows in the wine shop, who all wore the standard uniform of the sansculottes.

“So, Armand?” William inquired softly.

“So, Guillaume . . . the St. Juliens,” the other responded in the same undertone. “The parents went to the guillotine this morning.”

William drank from his tankard, only his narrowed eyes showing he had heard his companion. “The daughter?”

“Marked for execution with tomorrow afternoon's cull in Place de la Révolution. She's held in the Conciergerie.”

William nodded, drained his tankard, and stood up. “My thanks, Armand.” His hand rested for a moment on the makeshift tabletop, then lifted. Armand's hand slid swiftly across and then disappeared into his lap. William turned and walked out of the wine shop, his expression somber even as his mind worked swiftly, selecting and discarding possible plans for effecting the escape of Alec's fiancée from the very steps of the guillotine.

“Where's William?” Marcus asked, looking over Hero's shoulder as she stepped into the kitchen.

“I don't know, exactly.” Hero closed the door behind
her and set her basket on the table with a sigh of relief. “We were in the market in the Place St. André, and I think I saw the eyebrow . . . the Lizard. William told me to come back, making sure I wasn't followed, and—”

“And you weren't?” Stephen interrupted sharply.

Hero shook her head. “I'm as sure as I can be that no one saw me come here. I don't know where William went.”

The men in the kitchen exchanged grim looks. “If the Lizard's onto us, we'll have to close down and move on,” Marcus said after a moment.

“But how could he be?” someone asked, then added, “Unless he's been following Hero.”

Hero began to feel uncomfortable, as if she were somehow being held responsible. “He can't have followed me from Calais,” she protested. “I've only been in Paris for three days.”

“When you were arrested, did they question you?”

“No. I was at the St. Juliens' house in Rue St. Honoré. The mob was tearing it apart. A fight simply exploded around me, and I got caught up in it somehow, and the mob just carried me along with it until soldiers—or whatever they were, guards of some kind—appeared at the end of a street, and there was a skirmish, and everyone disappeared. I was trying to help a man who'd been injured, and the guards grabbed me, and the next thing I knew, they were throwing me through the door to the cell in La Force where I met William.” She looked around the circle of eyes fixed upon her. “They didn't even ask who I was.”

“The Lizard has his tentacles reaching into every prison, guard post, and gatehouse in the city,” Alec said. “It could
as easily have been any one of us who caught his attention. Even William.”

“True enough,” Marcus agreed. He stood up to examine the contents of Hero's shopping basket. “Who's good at plucking chickens? We may as well get on with dinner while we're waiting for William to get back.”

The awkwardness passed, and Hero relaxed again, discarding her shawl and bonnet. She finished unpacking the basket while Stephen took the birds into the yard to pluck and dress them. They were roasting on the spit over the fire when William finally came in.

“Something smells good.” He sniffed hungrily.

“Where have you been?” Hero asked.

“Following our friend,” he responded. “You're sure no one followed you?”

“As sure as I can be.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. I kept the Lizard in sight for a good while after you'd left, so it was only a question of whether he had any cohorts.” He poured himself a goblet of wine from the flagon on the dresser. “We're safe for the moment, I think, but the dogs are getting too close for comfort. We'll need to make a move soon.”

“But what of Marie Claire and her family?” Alec asked, unable to conceal his anxiety.

“I had a meeting with Armand just now.” William glanced at Hero, explaining. “Armand is one of our paid informants in the Committee of Public Safety. We have a rendezvous point if he has any information for us. He was there this afternoon.” He turned back to Alec, regarding him with a degree of compassion. “The Marquis and his
wife went to the guillotine this morning . . . I'm sorry, Alec.”

Alec had paled, but his expression remained resolute. “And Marie Claire?” There was not a tremor in his voice.

“Marked for execution at Révolution tomorrow afternoon, which gives us little enough time, but we're lucky to have any.” William gave him a reassuring smile. “Gather round, children, and I will tell you my plan.” He swung a leg over the bench at the table and cut himself a hunk of cheese.

The noise was the worst of it. The girl barely noticed the chafing of the rough rope at her wrists, the stench of the crowds, the blur of faces filled with hatred and menace surrounding her, but the noise was unendurable. It seemed a million voices were raised in a baying cacophony emerging from the sea of open mouths clamoring at the sides of the wooden cart, where she stood desperately trying to keep her feet as it swayed over the cobbles, swung wildly from side to side as the crowd leapt against the tumbrel, hanging on to the railing, hurling abuse, fists and staves raised in a wild fury.

Marie Claire St. Julien closed her eyes as if blindness would offer her some protection from the violence around her, but she could not block out the noise. And then something, some sound, seemed to separate itself from the pandemonium surrounding her.

“Marie Claire . . . Marie Claire.”

The sound was insistent, low and yet penetrating. The
girl opened her eyes, looked around, trying to see past the ugly, vicious faces, and she caught the vivid green stare fixed upon her as if it could bore into her skull. She knew the face, knew those eyes, the heart-shaped face. But her brain would not accept what her eyes were seeing.

“Maire Claire.”
Again, that insistent voice, demanding her attention.

“Marie Claire, it's me. Hero. Listen to me.” A hand came out, reaching for Marie Claire's arm as she swayed close to the edge of the cart when it bounced over the cobbles. “Get near the back so that you'll be the last off. Now.” And then the face disappeared as a woman waving a cudgel pushed Hero aside and she lost her grip on the rail, half jumping, half falling back into the crowd, only just managing to keep her feet.

Marie Claire looked wildly around, returning finally to her senses, feeling herself alive again in the midst of this horror. Hero jumped up against the cart again, waving her hand. “Move to the back.”

It was hard to move in the violently swaying cart, her hands bound behind her, but somehow she managed to inch through her fellow victims, squeezing her way to the rear of the tumbrel as they lurched from side to side. Now she could hear the screaming of the crowd from Place de la Révolution, and the smell of blood was strong in the air. She thought she would be sick, but then Hero's face appeared at the rear of the cart, just for a moment, but it was long enough to keep Marie Claire conscious of her surroundings.

The cart halted suddenly, sending its occupants tum
bling backwards against one another. The vehicle was one of a line stretching across the Place to the stark silhouette of the guillotine against the reddening sky of late afternoon. For a moment, Marie Claire's eyes were mesmerized by the blade as it fell, seemingly so very slowly, from the sky amidst the roar of the crowd. Then the cart lurched forward once again as it moved up to take the place of the one in front. For an excruciating ten minutes, the cart moved forward as the ones in front disgorged their victims at the steps of the guillotine. And Hero kept pace, her face popping up whenever Marie Claire thought she must have dreamt her.

And then came the moment when the gate at the rear of the tumbrel in front was lowered and the victims were hauled out to the square, instantly surrounded by men with pikes, who pushed back the crowd seething forward to hiss and spit as the condemned were prodded towards the blade, which had never paused in its relentless rise and fall.

Marie Claire pressed back against the rear of the tumbrel as it lurched forward to the place immediately in front of the steps. The gate was lowered. She saw Hero's face once more, at the opened rear of the tumbrel, as she stumbled forward in the midst of her fellow passengers, unable to halt her progress, pushed and pulled as she was by filthy hands. She half fell out of the cart and, even as she seemed to lose her footing, felt hands grab her, push her down under the waving arms of the crowd. She was being pulled along, so fast she could hardly keep her feet on the ground, desperately trying to keep her balance with her bound hands, her eyes fixed on the cobbles beneath her
feet, confusion and terror engulfing her, making her faint with dizziness. But the hands that held her were strong, and amazingly, she could hear the thud of the blade and the roar of the crowd receding. Her head seemed to spin, and the world around her faded into blackness.

“Marie Claire, sweetheart . . . sweetheart, it's all right. You're safe now. I'm here.” A remembered voice penetrated the dark, and she swam upwards to awareness again.

Alec was kneeling on the ground, holding her up against his shoulder. Someone else was cutting through the rope that bound her wrists. Marie Claire leaned sideways suddenly and vomited into the kennel. Alec thrust his kerchief into her hand, and she lay back helplessly against his shoulder, wiping her mouth, her gaze slowly taking in the faces looking down at her.

“Hero?” she managed to say. “I saw Hero.”

“Yes, you did,” a man said briskly. He was standing over her, a tall figure exuding a power and strength that seemed to enfold her. He was dressed in rough peasant garb, a red cap on his dark head, but he spoke English, and while his tone was almost brusque, there was compassion in his tawny gold eyes. “And you'll see her again. But for the moment, we have to get off the street. Can you walk?”