by Regina Darcy
“No!” François strode off, jabbing Lord Markingston in the chest with the knife. “Who are you really? Why are you asking so many questions and running off your mouth like that?”
The Earl straightened up. The painter was more savvy and cautious than he had even given him credit for. He decided to take a chance and cast off the ruse altogether.
“You are right to be prudent, François. This is a very dangerous game you are playing.”
“I’ll ask you again,” the artist growled. “Who are you?”
“My name is indeed Bartholomew James, Earl of Markingston. I am a… representative of the English government.”
“A spy. Why shouldn’t I turn you in now?”
“Because you and I have a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“My government sympathises with you… let’s say, intense dislike, to say the least… of Napoleon Bonaparte. I have been sent over with instructions to assist you and your group in any manner I feasibly can.”
“My group? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Listen, François, word has gotten around already,” the Earl said, urgently. “People within the intelligence community in my country believe that you are plotting to assassinate Napoleon Bonaparte. Is this true?”
The painter rolled his sharp eyes. “Even if it were true, why would I possibly admit to that, to a total stranger?”
“Because I can help you. Look.” The Earl rustled around in the deep breast pocket of his navy jacket until he produced a packet of papers. “I was supposed to burn these upon arriving. That is because if someone finds them on me, I am a dead man. They are notes from my superiors within the government. I held onto them because I thought that you might need some convincing.”
The artist snatched the papers away from the Earl and began leafing through them. He scrutinised the signet stamps closely and squinted at each word. “These certainly look real, at least.”
“They are real. Please, François. Allow me to help you and your group. I can provide funding, manpower, and even asylum.”
Topino-Lebrun looked him up and down, his eyes critical. Then, he shrugged. “I suppose I have no choice. You seem to know far, far more about our little conspiracy than I even do. Plus, the Marquise certainly trusts you.”
“Really?” the Earl raised his eyebrows. “Does… has she mentioned me to you?”
The painter winked at him, devilishly. “I’d better not say.” Satisfied with the Earl’s credentials, he then unlocked the door. At that moment, a delicate knock sounded through the room. The Earl stepped over and swung open the door. Annabelle stood there, looking bemused and more than a little a bit perplexed.
“Is everything all right, my friends? I heard raised voices.”
“Everything is not well, I am afraid,” Lord Markingston said, sadly. “Your painter friend here drives quite a hard bargain, I must say.”
“True genius doesn’t come cheap, my lord,” Topino-Lebrun said, with a smirk. “I’m afraid if you want my paintings, you have to pay full price — whether or not you’re an old friend of my lady.”
Annabelle smiled and shook her head. “Just like two men, to yell over paintings as if they were a horse race or something.”
“Art is a competitive sport, my dear Marquise,” the painter said, kissing her hand. “And it’s often a contact sport. Never forget that.”
With that, he disappeared out the door and back into the party.
“I am glad you like his work,” Annabelle said, to Lord Markingston.
“Certainly, he’s quite talented. Where do you accrue all these temperamental ‘geniuses’? And when did you become so interested in art?”
“Oh, you know, I have been told that I am quite charming when I want to be.” Her voice was sing-song and playful. She sounded as she had in old times — like a carefree, engaging debutante. The only change were her blue eyes; they were steelier, shrewder now.
“I can certainly believe that,” the Earl said with a smile. Then, impulsively, he took her hand and kissed it. Without another word, he left the room and vanished into the crowd. Her blue eyes wide, she stared out after him as he walked away.
FOUR
Annabelle sat contentedly in her favourite armchair, as the members of her salon swirled around her. She was truly blessed to know such talented individuals. Some of the greatest artists, scientists, singers, and thinkers in France — and the continent of Europe as a whole — were gracing her humble home this evening, exchanging their ideas, banter, and drinks.
However, there was one person who Annabelle did not see — not yet, anyway. Lord Markingston had yet to turn up. She wondered if he would come, after all. He had seemed to appreciate reconnecting at the Baroness’s ball, but he had not called on her since.
He seemed more eager to dredge up the past than her. She preferred not to discuss the incident with the Duke of Sherringham. It was far too painful to talk about at the moment. She just wanted the Earl back in her life, in some capacity.
Did she still love him?
She wondered that, sometimes. In fact, sometimes, the Marquise found that her disastrous first marriage had stripped her of her very ability to feel loved and give love. Her relationship with the Marquis had been so toxic and draining. He made her feel worthless and stupid most of the time. That marriage had left her shattered, even so many years after her husband’s passing.
The gossips around Paris said that that was why she had such an impressive salon — she gathered fascinating, worthwhile people around her to compensate for her own broken self-image.
Annabelle supposed that this was not too far off, but she did also sincerely enjoy watching culture and wisdom being exchanged between so many luminaries.
She wondered about the Earl. He had not been married in the four years since their separation. Did he ever replace her? Did he have a fiancé back home? Or was he lost too?
Just then, she caught sight of the man in question. He looked dashing in a long green coat, with the firelight caught in his auburn. He smiled in her direction and strode over to greet her.
“The green coat looks nice,” she said, allowing him to kiss her hand. “It matches your eyes.”
“Thank you, my lady. This is quite an extraordinary assemblage that you have achieved here today.”
“Ah, yes,” She waved her hands around, dismissively.
“They all know I am a terribly boring person, so they show up for me out of pity.”
He leaned closer. “I highly doubt that. To me, you are the most fascinating person in the room.”
She smiled and wagged her finger. “Very charming. Make sure not to let the Baroness to get her hands on you. She is on the prowl tonight and she simply adores charming men — especially Englishmen. She will eat you alive.”
“Isn’t… isn’t she married? To the Baron Dumont?”
Annabelle shrugged, mischievously. “Does that matter?”
“So those are the wild French values I have heard so much about. Do you miss anything at all about the home country?”
She looked up at him, a softer expression coming across her face. “Oh, every day. Yes. I actually think about my home quite often. I especially miss the rain.”
“You miss the terrible weather?” he teased.
“I love the sound of the rain. I love to walk in it.” She scrunched up her nose. “You know that, of course.”
“I do.”
“I miss the people. I miss the slower pace, sometimes. Paris is amazing, but it is a lot of contend with sometimes. And I certainly miss my family and friends. What about you? The word through the rumour mill is that you have done quite a lot of traveling yourself during… since we last saw each other.”
“Your sources are well-informed,” he said, with a mysterious smile. “I love England. But it has been interesting to get the chance to travel wildly. I even visited the Americas! Our former colonies are quite an interesting place.”
“On busines
s?” she asked.
“Of a kind. Yes, you could say business.”
“How mysterious and intriguing,” she teased, with a slight eyeroll. “You are quite a mysterious person, Lord Markingston.”
He shrugged, good-naturedly. “I am full of surprises, my lady. But I cannot hold a stub of a candle to any of the greats you have brought together in this salon.” He looked around, and then winked at her. “I will let you get back to your other guests. It was nice seeing you again.”
Then, before she could protest, he turned on his heel and made a beeline for the corner where all the artists were viciously arguing over the merits of Sir Joshua Reynolds.
FIVE
The Earl left Annabelle, his heart swelling. He truly enjoyed speaking to her. She was a witty, smart, and enchanting woman — more so now than when he first loved her, all those years ago in Blairdale. They had both grown and matured so much since those silly days of dancing and drinking.
Perhaps, in the future, there would be a chance to become more than friendly acquaintances once more.
He resolved to write a letter to the Duke of Sherringham the moment he returned to England. He realised now that he had acted cruelly and horrendously, out of pride. He only hoped he could repair his old friendship, as he had mended fences with Annabelle.
The Earl approached François, who gathered a group and ushered everyone into a room down the hallway from the dining hall and parlour, where most of the activity was happening.
Lord Markingston stared out the window as the conspirators all gathered. It was starting to snow outside. Christmas was nearing, he realised.
Once the plotters had gathered, François pointed at the Earl and began to speak.
“Comrades,” François said. “I present to you the Earl of Markingston. He is an agent of the English government. He has offered us all… assistance… in the matter that we are all concerned with.” Some of those gathered began to protest, but the artist swept aside their concerns. “I have vetted him. We can trust him. He would like to learn more of our plot and then speak to us.”
Lord Markingston stepped forward, his mouth set in a grim line.
“The world can see that France is being poisoned from within. Not by her people, but by a despot who has seized control. You may view me with suspicion. I understand this. What right does England have to interfere in foreign affairs? I also understand that sentiment. But the fact is, I believe that England can help you fulfil your desire to live as free people in your own country again. I come offering you funds, arms, manpower, and even asylum, in the wake of the dark but necessary task you have set out for yourselves. I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about your plan.”
The artist — who seemed to be the ringleader of the plot — stood back up.
“With pleasure. We too have felt the chilling effects of Napoleon Bonaparte’s seizure of power. We believe him to be a despotic tyrant, bent on personal glory, rather than achieving glory for France. As such, we are not afraid to die in pursuit of his end. We feel that any sacrifice is worth it, in the pursuit of France’s freedom. We plan to surprise Bonaparte and his crowd at the opera house some time very soon. The opera in question is a piece called Les Horaces, about the Horatii, a group of brothers who gave their lives to fight for Rome.”
Lord Markingston blinked. He could tell that this group of well-meaning but slightly pretentious artists saw themselves as the second coming of the strapping, patriotic Horatii. In fact, the painter’s own mentor, Jacques-Louis David, had famously painted the trio of warriors several years ago. The opera had been carefully picked for its symbolism, not any sort of strategic or tactical advantage.
“What happens after you kill him?” Lord Markingston asked. He knew that he simply could not get behind some slapdash attempt to achieve glory by some desperate artists.
“France becomes free again!” the painter declared.
“I mean, realistically. Who takes over?”
The plotters murmured among themselves. They clearly did not appreciate some snobby foreigner sweeping in and lecturing them on how to depose a tyrant.
Lord Markingston himself was also becoming quite uneasy with the whole situation. He had expected a group of rag-tag but ready revolutionaries. He thought they would have come up with a replacement for Napoleon, at the very least. But no. They were completely clueless beyond the actual assassination itself. This was more like a salon-within-a-salon of artists longing to become martyrs.
“May I ask, how did the seed of this plot initially get planted?”
“Napoleon’s abuses against our freedom,” the painter responded, tersely. “Even people in his own government have come to us, speaking of his tyranny.”
People in his own government. “I just must make sure before… before I lend any support at all, of course — there is no chance that you have all been entrapped by an agent provocateur, right? It concerns me that some of Bonaparte’s own officials might be giving you ideas.”
The plotters revolted at this — standing up, hurling accusations at the English agent, and generally shouting out angry words. Lord Markingston sat calmly throughout the outburst.
“Earl Markingston,” François said, his tone now unfriendly. “Everyone involved with this movement is fully committed. We are insulted that you would even insinuate that we could allow traitors into our ranks.”
“I do not come here to deride you,” the Earl said, tiredly. “I am merely trying to help. But if you want to succeed, you need to think this idea out more. You need logistics. You need weapons. You need solid contacts within the government. You need to start meeting somewhere other than this salon. Otherwise, you risk just getting yourselves killed and playing straight into Napoleon’s hands.”
“We care not for our own lives,” François spat. “If we are to become martyrs for freedom, so be it. We are all prepared to die for what we believe in.”
“Are you also willing to sacrifice the life of those around you?” The Earl asked, with more anger than he intended to convey.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Your patroness, the Marquise De Sange.”
“Bah! She knows none of this. She is no revolutionary, although she does share some sympathy with our cause. We have not jeopardised her.”
“You are operating this little scheme straight out of her salon. She may not know anything, but I guarantee you, it will look to the authorities that she does. If you lot are caught, she will certainly be implicated and killed along with you.”
This seemed to give François and the others some pause. From what Lord Markingston could tell, the painter and his comrades did genuinely admire the Marquise. “That is unfortunate… of course, we don’t intend for others to get hurt through our noble enterprise, but if what you are saying is true, then, she is already condemned along with the rest of us. There is no sense in stopping now.”
“Please, see reason, gentlemen,” the Earl pleaded. “At least consider postponing your mission until you have thought this out a bit more.”
“You would have France suffer as Napoleon reigns? You would have us sit around and do nothing?”
“No! As I have told you, I am here to help you. But that means speaking up when I see a plot doomed to fail.”
This vehement statement caused the conspirators to quarrel among themselves once more. In the end, the continued their planning, largely ignoring the English interloper’s suggestions and recommendations. Eventually, he gave up speaking altogether, as he was only succeeding at irritating the plotters.
Sitting in silence, the Earl crossed his arms, but said nothing. He felt so incredibly uneasy about this whole operation. These men were amateurs, not trained assassins. They were certainly endangering Annabelle. He decided that he needed to keep an eye on her. If the plot unravelled, she could be implicated and arrested — or worse.
As the meeting wound down, he considered just telling her everything. But what would she make of him — a common
spy? After he had so self-righteously rejected her years ago, could she ever accept him if she discovered that his life revolved around collecting secrets and stirring up trouble abroad?
SIX
Slowly but surely, all of the guests began to drain out of the De Sange residence. The Marquise kissed and waved at everyone as they filtered out into the snowy air. It had been quite a fascinating session, and it would be the talk of Paris for weeks to come.
Once she was certain that everyone was gone, Annabelle stoked the fire in the parlour and flopped down on the sofa as the maids cleaned up the remnants of the salon. The guests had left glasses of wine, plates of holiday treats, and even a few coats and scarves, all over the place.
“That was quite a crowd,” she declared.
“I agree,” a familiar voice said. She sat straight up, alarmed. Lord Markingston stood there, smiling at her.
“I am sorry, my lady. I have overstayed my welcome. François and his friends certainly can talk a man’s ear off about art.”
“That is certainly true! He has a lot of passionate opinions. I hope you did not cross him — or if you ever request a portrait done in Paris, he will spread the word and sabotage you.”
“No, no we were certainly in agreement for the most part. Anyways, thank you for the invitation. This has been a most fascinating event. I will be heading out now.”
“Wait.” She held out her hand. “Stay.”
Annabelle and the Earl stood there, frozen for a moment.
Each looked a bit shocked by her request.
“Would you like to go on a walk with me?” she asked, after a moment. “I have a lovely garden out back.”
“I… I think — yes, I would like that quite a lot.”
They both bundled themselves into their heavy coats and then strolled outside. Annabelle’s garden was the only good thing her husband had left her — the rest of the house had come from her own fortune. The space was small, with a winding path circling a little fountain in the centre. It was simple, quiet, and calming. Now, in the bleak winter, it was coated in a thick layer of snow.
