by Unknown
"Et bien, ma belle" he murmured, "so the bird has come home to roost."
"Indeed," she agreed, unsmiling. "And I am going to see you dead, Citoyen."
"I think not," he said softly, moving away from the door. One shout would bring the men from below,
but one shout could also precipitate that steady finger on the trigger.
"Ah, but you are mistaken," Danielle replied. "I do not think I will shoot you, though. You do not
deserve such a clean death."
"Who knows you are here?"
"No one." She chuckled. "This is between ourselves."
"Linton?" He frowned.
Danielle shook her head and again gave that strange disconcerting little laugh. "You think, Citoyen, that
I would tell my husband of what passed between us. I would die rather."
Looking at her, so calm, cool, and unexpected, remembering what she had done in the past, St. Estephe had no difficulty believing this. Danielle de St. Varennes would never behave in a predictable fashion and would never disclose the humiliation she had endured at his hands.
"D'accord!" Danielle swung from the table. "We fight, Citoyen." She tossed him an epee as she took up her own.
"And the pistol?" He quirked an eyebrow, bending to pick up the sword that had fallen at his feet. "I do not care for the odds, you understand?"
Danielle placed the pistol on the table and faced him, her sword point resting on the ground in front of her. "Take off your boots, Citoyen. I'll not have you at a disadvantage."
St. Estephe removed boots and jacket as if in some sort of trance. She surely did not imagine she could put up even a fair opposition? Then her sword flashed in a brief salute and St. Estephe realized that he was engaged with no tyro. This slithery slippery creature whose bare feet on the oak floor had more purchase than his stockinged ones, was truly fighting him to the death. She feinted, thrust, parried, her eyes never leaving his as she outguessed his every move. Not only was she nearly twenty years younger, with all the stamina of youth, but she danced across the floor and handled the epee like a duelist,
showing none of the punctilious niceties of the playful fencer.
Behind the half-closed bedroom door, five men took shallow, soundless breaths as they heard the clash
of steel on steel, the soft thud of feet shifting on the boards. They could have interceded at any moment but Justin held them back, an arm across the crack^in the door. It was a calculated risk he took, but one that in the long run paid off.
Danielle allowed St. Estephe to deliver the attack, ignoring the lures that invited her to initiate. Her guard was constant and her opponent began to breathe heavily, sweat rolling from his forehead as his sword was caught time after time in a swift parry and the scrubby little creature laughed in soft mockery, inciting him to further attempts to break through her guard. But Danielle was also tiring, a dull ache spreading down her swordarm from shoulder to wrist. Soon she would need to call for support. She parried a straight lunge in high carte as St. Estephe, nearing the end of his strength, bellowed, "A moi!"
The cry reached the National Guard in the courtyard and they pounded up the stairs, bursting into the room, swords in hand, to face five cold-eyed Englishmen.
Danielle knew now that she was fighting alone. Her husband and friends were fully occupied, one against one. Her own silent battle had to take precedence, however, and ignoring what was happening around her, she pressed the attack, becoming an automaton, fighting the ache in her arm as viciously as she fought her enemy. St. Estephe wanted to wipe away the sweat dropping into his eyes but dared not as
the attack, fueled by desperation, moved into the endgame. When she lunged, he parried too late and
her blade slid over his to bury itself in his chest.
His point dropped as the bright blood spread across his shirt; he swayed and then fell. Danielle stood
over him, making no attempt to pull free her sword.
The battle behind her was soon over. The guardsmen used their swords as best they could but were no match for the grim-faced English lords who had taken advantage of the minute's* warning given by St. Estephe's cry and had been prepared for their arrival.
Justin fought grimly, hearing Danielle's blade clash with St. Estephe's, but he could do nothing to help
her, not until he had immobilized his own opponent. In the deepest recesses of his mind he knew that
she was a better swordsman than himself. She lacked brawn not skill and she had all the divergent imagination of the true artist.
Overpowered, the five wounded guardsmen lay on the floor to be bound and gagged as the manservant
in the wardrobe.
Danielle continued to stand over St. Estephe, her point as immobile as her body.
Justin went to her, placed his hands on the hilt of the sword. "Enough now, Danny."
"No." Her eyes glittered strangely. "I am going to kill him, but I have not decided how I shall do so, yet."
"Your race is run, my love," said Justin, his voice very quiet, as he looked down at the inert body, the glazed eyes, the blood welling from the pierced heart. "He is dead."
Her eyes carried a wild almost feral look and with the gentlest of apologies, Justin slapped her face. She gasped and stared at him in bewilderment. Then she became herself again, life and recognition dawning
in the blank eyes.
"Julian," he said curtly.
Julian took her arm and led her into the bedroom, the others following.
"I do wish my stomach were not so treacherous," Danielle remarked a few minutes later, lifting her head from the chamber pot. "It seems most unreasonable, do you not think?"
"Most unreasonable." It was Justin's voice, Justin's hand dipping the washcloth into the ewer of cold water, bathing her face. "We have now to leave Paris, my love. You will simply close your eyes and do as I tell you. Do you think you can manage that?"
She nodded and said nothing as they bound her hands behind her back, stripped the guardsmen of their uniforms, and became themselves members of the National Guard. Citoyenne Gerard looked at their prisoner, the little thief who had been so convincing and was now caught red-handed in the apartment of Citoyen St. Estephe. She spat and returned to her bed.
This time it was Danielle who hid under the straw as her companions, still in the borrowed uniforms, took the cart unquestioned through the barriere. But it was several days along the road before she was able to talk without stammering and the convulsive shudders left her body.
Epilogue
August 1794
The Earl of Linton strolled into the sun-filled nursery at Danesbury early on the morning of August 19, 1794. He was in search of his son. Viscount Beresford was three years and one month old and, as usual, had disappeared.
Tante Therese apologized in voluble French for the fact that she had mislaid le petit and Justin refrained as always from the caustic comment that it seemed just a trifle careless to mislay such a bundle of energy by eight o'clock in the morning.
"He will be in the stables, my lord." Maddy bobbed a curtsy. "We do not worry because John will watch over him. I will fetch him immediately."
"No, I shall fetch him myself," Linton said easily. "But was he not told to stay in the nursery until I came for him?"
"Yes, my lord," Maddy dropped another curtsy. "But.. ." She hesitated, reluctant to appear forward.
"But what, Maddy?" her employer encouraged.
"I do not think he cares for the idea of Lady Philippa."
"Ah," Justin said with total comprehension. "But he has not yet met his sister, so perhaps we can forestall the prejudice." He smiled—a smile that Maddy returned in full.
"Is My Lady well, sir?"
"Very well, thank you. And Lady Philippa is every bit as vociferous as her brother, four hours into the world."
Justin left the nursery and went in pursuit of the errant Nicky.
Four shire horses stood in the stableyard, tethered alongside each ot
her, waiting to be shod. This breed was the pride of every farmer with their rippling shoulders, powerful hocks, necks that could take the strain of any dray, plough or cart, and Nicholas, Viscount Beresford, was fascinated by them. They came rarely into the stableyard and he awaited their arrival with an enthusiasm that far exceeded the news of a baby sister.
Linton saw a pair of sturdy legs in nankeen britches disappear beneath the belly of the first shire horse.
"Nicky?" he called, reaching the horse and laying a reassuring hand on the powerful rear. The animal's skin rippled in confirmation of the touch and Nicky, three horses away, contemplated an escape route in the hay bales stacked the other side of the yard.
"Nicholas!"
The child stood beneath the belly of the fourth horse. Experience had taught him that that note in his father's voice boded ill for further procrastination. With a resigned sigh, he made his way back through the living tunnel of heaving chests and bellies and huge hooves that with one kick could smash his fragile bones to pulp, and popped up at Justin's feet.
"Bonjour, papa."
"Good morning, little ragamuffin." His father returned the greeting with an exasperated shake of the head. "You are quite repulsively dirty, child. Were you not told to stay in the nursery until I came for you?"
Nicholas said nothing, but examined his boots with a studious air.
"Mmm," Justin murmured, with a twitch of his lips. "Well, since today is your sister's birthday, I will grant you a dispensation. But you cannot make her acquaintance as dirty as you are. Let us go back to
the nursery and clean you up."
"Don't want a sister," Nicky muttered, trotting beside Justin.
"Oh." His father's long stride shortened. "Would you have preferred a brother?"
"No," Nicky said definitely. "Don't want eiver of 'em."
Justin swung him into his arms, brushing back the fair curls from the child's brow. "It's a little late to do anything about that, my son. But I feel certain you will become accustomed to the idea eventually."
Justin waited in the nursery while Nicholas was washed and brushed. Danielle, of course, wouldn't notice whether he was grubby or not.
She was sitting up in bed, looking pale but incredibly fresh after her ordeal of the night. Lady Philippa, after her own ordeal, slept in the crook of her mother's arm.
"Where'd she come from?" Nicholas demanded, climbing onto the bed.
Danielle exchanged a look with her husband. "Nicky, love, I told you. She was growing in my stomach."
"Well, why can't she go back? She's all red and crinkly."
"So were you when you were just born, like Philippa." Justin sat on the bed and took his daughter so that Danielle could hold her son who settled against her breast, sucking his thumb, a dreamy look in his dark eyes.
She was twenty-two now, Justin mused in the quiet sun-filled room, but the events of the last five years seemed to have wrought little change on the heart-shaped face or in the eyes that were still as full of curiosity as ever. They had been five years marked with blood, violence, and terror and Danielle had experienced all three, side by side with her country struggling to free itself from the chrysalis of the past
as she also fought to escape her own.
"What are you thinking, my love?" she asked with a soft smile.
"Of the last five years," he answered. "Of the day I first met you." He chuckled. "I do not think you are so very different now from that scrubby brat."
"Now that is not kind in you," Danielle protested. "I am a respectable matron with two children."
Justin shuddered. "You must promise me never to become a matron! If you must become respectable, then I daresay I shall adapt, but matronly never!"
"I do not suppose we shall have any further adventures," Danielle said with a mournful sigh. "I think I shall miss them, Justin."
He gave a shout of laughter. "You see you are not at all respectable, my brat. Well, I regret to inform you that I have had enough adventuring to last for a lifetime and since I shall not permit you to have any without me, you must accustom yourself to the idea that you will no longer go adventuring."
"Quite so," she murmured. "As you command, my lord." Her eyes were lowered with the submissive docility that always set off every alarm bell in his head.
"Little devil," he said and, ignoring the presence of his children, kissed her soundly. "I do not think I will ever be able to manage you." It was said with a degree of satisfaction with which, judging by Danielle's fervent response to his kiss, she heartily concurred.
The same August sun that bathed the four members of the house of Linton shone that day on the Assembly in Paris as a city, sickened by blood, called a halt to the Terror and the great cry went up: "Justice pour tout le monde." It was a cry from the heart of France, the cry that began the revolution
and opened the door for the butterfly of the future.
