by C. S. Quinn
‘My father might agree with you,’ I draw myself up straighter, ‘but I am loyal to my country.’ A look passes between Lafayette and Jemmy that I don’t like. The kind of thing you might see when adults indulge a child. ‘I will concede that retreat at the Battle of Brandywine was inspired,’ I mutter petulantly, trying to salvage a semblance of impartiality. ‘And the Rights of Man was a well-written piece. If your King ever signs it.’
‘She’s a little peculiar for a lady,’ says Jemmy amiably. ‘Bore you for hours on troop movements and the like, so she will.’
‘Is that so?’ says Lafayette. ‘I have heard you do great things for the abolitionist movement, Mademoiselle Morgan. Though I think France will soon be ahead of you English.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, bristling. ‘England began the debate, and we send our best speakers to educate the French at great personal risk. You only turned to the case after your time in America, and waste your time with words, when you should be taking action.’
He smiles lightly. ‘I have learned patience with age. If the document is signed, Mademoiselle Morgan, I shall have done more for the abolitionist movement than a hundred slave rebellions.’
He casts a final look at me, then seems to decide I am too strange to dally with. ‘And what brings you to French waters, Captain Avery?’
Jemmy shrugs, hands in his pockets, appearing suddenly boyish. ‘Few new shooting pieces, nothing more.’ His eyes slide to me nervously.
‘Nothing I can help with?’ suggests Lafayette, taking a measured look at his expression, then looking back and forth between Jemmy and me with interest.
‘Not unless you know where to find the King’s secret bedchamber,’ I tell him.
Lafayette guffaws, in what I interpret as a grossly overdramatic gesture, leaning forward and slapping both hands on the white fabric of his breeches.
‘She’s keen, I’ll give her that!’ he says, reverting to his infuriating habit of talking only to Jemmy. Too late I realise he imagines Jemmy and I are in some tryst and trying to locate the bedchamber for amorous reasons. A slow heat rises in my cheeks.
‘I am engaged,’ I tell him sharply. ‘To a very good man. The wedding is in a few days.’
For some reason, Jemmy stiffens then makes some business of adjusting the new pistol at his belt.
‘Forgive me,’ says Lafayette, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes and not quite managing to recompose his features.
‘My husband-to-be was foremost in halting your ill-planned attack on the English,’ I say haughtily. ‘You may have heard of Captain Atherton?’
Lafayette’s humour fades away, though not entirely. He glances at Jemmy, hoping for camaraderie at the joke, but Jemmy is keeping his face tactfully neutral, despite a traitorous glow of amusement in his hazel eyes.
‘I apologise,’ says Lafayette, straightening his features with effort. ‘You mentioned you were looking for a bedchamber.’ He opens his hands to Jemmy, imploring. ‘You know how men think.’
‘It is no business of yours why we seek that room,’ I tell him. ‘But it is for no low reason, I assure you.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I cannot help you,’ Lafayette continues, glancing at my furious expression. ‘It’s a very secret room. There were even rumours the Sun King commissioned some very complicated engineering so tables fully set with meals could rise up through the floor.’
‘If you recollect, I was explaining it when you interrupted us,’ I reply, but Lafayette talks on as though I hadn’t spoken, addressing only Jemmy.
‘No servants needed, you see? Meant the meals and so forth could be set out below stairs and raised without a soul seeing what His Majesty was up to.’ He eyes me. ‘It spurred all kinds of stories about debauched orgies. We all agreed he must be up to something utterly abandoned if not even servants were permitted to bring food and drink. The engineering was advanced enough to inform cannon mechanism, I believe.’
‘Fascinating,’ I reply drily. ‘I had no idea French military strategy owed so much to a greedy old adulterer. If you might excuse us, Monsieur Lafayette.’
He bows graciously, giving no indication I have offended him, then turns to Jemmy.
‘Good to see you, Captain Avery,’ he says. ‘I am sorry not to assist you better, but if there’s anything you need, do come to me. I am back in Paris for the duration now, it would seem. Her Majesty is keen to get good value from her new commander.’ He smiles ruefully.
Jemmy smiles back.
‘And don’t let your usual vices get you into trouble,’ warns Lafayette, nodding in my direction. ‘Oh,’ he adds, before I can reply, ‘there is one thing.’ He brings his hand to his forehead in memory. ‘If it’s a map of the palace you want, you might try the kitchens below stairs. They often have one. Many staff, big palace, all that. All those maids and footmen need to know which room needs them. Helps keep things efficient.’
He winks at me. ‘The French know a thing or two more than the British about good service.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JEMMY AND I CREEP ALONG THE LONG CORRIDORS OF THE Louvre, careful to avoid being seen. We’re following the most likely route to the kitchens, which will be deep below stairs.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ I say, shaking my head in wonder. ‘You know the Marquis de Lafayette. You might have told me. I’ve been wanting to meet him for years.’
Jemmy is looking at me incredulously. ‘You were rude to him!’
‘Naturally I have my loyalties to England. How do you know him?’
‘Lafayette pulled me out of Boston harbour a few years back.’
‘So you were privy to his campaigns? His troop actions are inspired.’
Jemmy is shaking his head. ‘Sometimes I don’t understand you English at all. Call me a simple pirate, but friend is friend and foe is foe.’
‘Technically, Lafayette and I are on opposing sides,’ I agree. ‘But one can admire one’s enemies.’ To my surprise, Jemmy’s expression twists to annoyance.
‘Lafayette is just a man, Attica,’ he says gruffly, as though something constricts his throat. ‘A good man, to be sure. But there are many such without the lace and fancy titles.’ And he stalks ahead, leaving me staring in his wake, wondering what on earth could be the matter.
‘What is it?’ I ask, walking fast to catch him up. ‘You’re angry I was rude to your French friend?’
His head snaps towards me. ‘We share an oath to be loyal as shipmates to each other. You never told me you’d be married in a few days.’
‘I did!’
‘No. You told me your beloved Atherton was allowing us one last mission before your wedding. You didn’t mention we only had days together … Days to complete it. When exactly do you plan to marry?’
‘Monday.’
‘This Monday?’ Jemmy retains his breakneck stride, shaking his head. ‘Saints alive, Attica. You really think you can find out the reason behind these deaths and match the tide back to England in two days? It will take you that time to arrange for your dress and trousseau, a fine lady like you.’
‘I won’t be needing anything like that,’ I assure him, confused by his apparent interest.
‘Your husband is a lucky man,’ he says drily.
I ignore his tone. ‘What did Lafayette mean by your old vices?’ I ask. It’s a trick to steer him from the subject of my marriage, and I don’t expect him to fall for it, but incredibly he does.
‘I had a penchant for dangerous women back when I knew the Marquis,’ he mutters, looking straight ahead. ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ he adds, ‘I’ve long grown out of it. Let’s get on with finding this secret bedchamber.’
We walk on in uncomfortable silence.
Paintings of classic scenes hang on the walls. We pass a large Raphael of an angel slaying a demon.
‘Why are the French royals so fascinated by Greek myth?’ asks Jemmy.
‘Education in the classics is a way of keeping themselves distinct from commoners. You rath
er prove their point,’ I add. ‘That is a Roman depiction.’
Jemmy tilts his head all the way to the side, as though trying to work out the logistics.
‘The King was considering allowing members of the public to view the royal art,’ I tell Jemmy, ‘but he has dithered for years.’
‘By members of the public,’ says Jemmy, ‘he doesn’t mean the likes of me.’
‘The bourgeois,’ I say, nodding. ‘Property owners.’
Jemmy’s jaw tightens slightly but he says nothing. We pass a row of portraits of the Sun King, each grander than the last.
There’s a clanking of porcelain and a servant emerges suddenly from the end of the hallway, bearing a large tray of bread rolls. Jemmy grabs my waist.
‘Giggle,’ he hisses, ‘pretend we are at sport.’
‘Oh no,’ I hiss back, dragging his hand free. ‘You’ll not get your hands on me that way, Jemmy Avery.’
‘If he thinks us suspicious, he’ll tell Salvatore.’
‘Well, he’ll never believe a fine lady would cavort with the likes of you.’ For all his glittering weaponry, Jemmy’s plain dress and boots make it clear he is no noble.
‘Commoners will believe anything of the aristocracy,’ he shoots back. ‘Trust me. And do not flatter yourself I am in such a hurry to lay hold of you,’ he adds in a furious whisper. ‘If I want a lady I win her fair and square.’
The tray-carrying man is nearing our part of the long corridor.
Realising our limited options, I narrow my eyes at Jemmy, pursing my lips in annoyance.
‘Get your fan out,’ says Jemmy. ‘Conceal us behind it and he’ll assume the worst.’
It’s a good suggestion, and I grab at where my matching red fan hangs at my waist, but the clasp is tight from lack of use and I can’t easily free it. The servant nears, openly regarding us now.
Jemmy puts a hand at the top of my dress, where the velvet squeezes my bosom. Glowering, I rip my fan free, tearing the fabric, and rap him hard enough over the knuckles to crack the ivory casing.
‘You naughty man!’ I say in a high-pitched voice. He pulls his hand back, shooting me an aggrieved look.
‘Just a little fun, your Ladyship,’ he says, pushing me against the wall hard enough to bang my head. ‘Before your husband arrives.’ I put a hand behind my bruised scalp and glare at him.
The servant is in close range now. Jemmy looks meaningfully at me.
‘Ha ha ha,’ I manage unconvincingly. Jemmy lets a hand drift down my lower back and squeezes a handful of flesh behind my thigh. ‘Unhand me,’ I whisper, staring daggers at him.
‘All part of the show.’ He winks.
The servant walks on, shaking his head disapprovingly.
‘You see?’ Jemmy says, still clutching me as the tray-bearer walks out of sight. ‘Servants will believe anything of ladies. I only just realised,’ he adds, taking in my malevolent expression and then dropping his gaze to where I keep my knife, ‘you are all restricted by your fine dress. I think I like you better this way. Less lethal.’
I twist my arm up, freeing my knife, and setting the blade at Jemmy’s throat.
The rapid movement causes the thick fabric of my sleeve to tear loudly. Jemmy swallows, looking down at the blade.
‘No need for that,’ he manages, his tone a degree higher than usual.
I lower the knife and straighten my clothing. ‘Have I upset you? We are quits then. It will take a very expensive seamstress to repair this velvet.’
I stride off down the hall, letting Jemmy follow behind, rubbing thoughtfully at his throat.
‘The servant came from that door,’ I say.
I glance back at Jemmy, who has recovered himself.
‘Ready?’ I ask. ‘Below stairs must be that way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ROBESPIERRE WALKS QUICKLY INTO THE SECRET apartment, hands twitching at his sides. He pauses for a moment at the large door before beating out the complicated tattoo.
The door is opened by a large pockmarked guard, who beckons Robespierre inside. The room is every bit as decadent as he’d imagined, a veritable shrine to hypocrisy and greed. With effort, he prevents himself from shaking his head in contempt.
At the back of the room, on a large table, is the showpiece Salvatore boasted of. The poor girl from the brothel, stretched out like a provocative piece of meat. She is dressed – or rather, partially dressed – in the Roman fashion, and the corruption of Robespierre’s democratic ideal brings a hard feeling of rage to his stomach.
His fury at her ill-treatment delays him a full few moments in placing the familiarity of the girl’s pose. She has been styled to mimic a famous painting.
Robespierre has heard of the tasteless obsession of the nobles for acting out famous paintings with half-naked women. The hypocrisy of disguising lechery as high-minded art appals him beyond words.
He stands awkwardly, as though wondering where to place himself. His eyes drift again to Centime, exposed in torn robes. His small mouth is set hard, a flash of pain flares in his pale eyes.
Salvatore turns from his business dealings to eye his visitor. He still holds a rifle he has been showing laid across his arms. Noticing the lawyer’s nervousness at Centime’s display, he laughs unpleasantly.
‘Here he is,’ says Salvatore to the room at large. ‘Our little rat.’
Robespierre’s discomfort at the semi-naked woman falls away, replaced by something unreadable behind the round glasses. The Marquis, Robespierre cannot help but notice, has a dead quality to the eyes. A void – or perhaps, a hunger. Yet there is also something very corporeal about Salvatore, with his disturbingly red lips and smatter of dark chest hair peeking above his snowy collar. Something fleshy.
‘You disapprove of the art, monsieur?’ continues Salvatore, emphasising the lack of title. ‘Naturally a man such as you does not make a business of studying paintings. Perhaps we can find you something a little more low-brow. Wait …’ He extends an accusing finger. ‘Now I recall. The lawyer is unmarried. Bathhouses are your vice, perhaps?’
He shares a smile with his fellows. There are rumours about the virtuous Robespierre.
‘As a boy I was fortunate enough to receive a scholarship from the local monks,’ says Robespierre. ‘We studied the classics. This is The Rape of Persephone, is it not?’ He nods to Centime’s display. ‘I was unsure at first because the original depicts laurel bowers and you have used linden.’
Salvatore’s dark features cloud.
‘Be careful you do not forget your station, monsieur,’ he says.
Robespierre bows elaborately. ‘I only seek to understand the greatness of my betters. Naturally I lack the sentiment to perceive art as you do.’
Mollified, Salvatore nods. Then his expression darkens again. ‘Search him.’ Salvatore gestures to his guard.
‘As you can see,’ says Robespierre in his nasal voice, ‘I am unarmed.’ He holds his slender hands in the air.
Ignoring this, the men approach Robespierre and proceed to pat him down. He bears this affront calmly, but there is a hint of rage deep in his light blue eyes, if you cared to look for it.
‘You will not take it amiss,’ says Salvatore, ‘if I do not trust a man who has turned on his own kind.’
The Marquis’ expression changes completely as he addresses the aristocrats in the room, bowing courteously.
‘My noble friends,’ he says, placing the rifle in his hands on a nearby table, ‘please allow me and the commoner a few moments’ privacy. The adjacent room has been laid out for your enjoyment. Food, wine and girls selected by Centime.’ He allows himself a smile. ‘As you know, she has an expert eye.’
He opens a door on the far side of the room, offers a glimpse of a chamber beyond where candlelight glistens on naked limbs and tables of sweetmeats.
The nobles file out, leaving only Salvatore, his guards and Robespierre, whose eyes drift back to Centime.
Frowning, Salvatore clicks his fingers at he
r.
‘What are you waiting for, Centime?’ he demands. ‘Go entertain our guests. We have several large consignments arranged and I want those men to leave happy or you’ll have me to answer to.’
Snatching up her robe, Centime gets to her feet and trips quickly from the room, covering herself as best she can as she leaves. Salvatore watches her with a greedy expression, the corner of his mouth turned faintly upwards.
He turns back to Robespierre.
‘You are braver than I thought to come here in person,’ says Salvatore. He removes a gleaming knife from his belt. ‘It would be in my interests to kill you now.’
Robespierre’s expression doesn’t change. ‘One such as I am beneath the notice of a great Marquis,’ he says. ‘The deer-hunter does not waste a bullet on a stray bird in the field.’ There is the barest hint of a smile playing at his pale lips.
‘Very good.’ Salvatore nods. ‘And you are correct. Not to mention, your information has proved useful. I shouldn’t like to be in your skin if your fellow republicans discover you have been betraying them.’
Robespierre makes a strange little half-bow.
‘I have more information for you,’ he says in his high, clipped voice. From his neat coat he removes a piece of folded paper and holds it out. Salvatore takes it, opens it and his dark eyebrows lift.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he says finally, ‘you are quite the snake.’
Robespierre doesn’t reply.
Salvatore takes a breath, looking hard at the picture.
‘You are certain?’ he asks.
Robespierre only nods.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JEMMY AND I ARE NOW DEEPER UNDERGROUND, BELOW THE main rooms of the Louvre. There is an aptly subterranean feel both in layout and smell. A warren of damp, low-ceilinged corridors with no thought to decoration or appearance, in complete contrast to the grand rooms above.
‘A map of the palace for servants,’ says Jemmy, looking around the dimly lit tunnels ahead. ‘Surely it would be in plain view.’
