Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10)

by Monique Martin

  Simon pulled a chair next to where she sat on the small sofa and took her hands.

  “You did the only thing you could.”

  It took Elizabeth a moment to understand what he meant. She shook her head. “I killed a man.”

  The words felt strange and heavy in her mouth.

  Simon nodded and waited patiently for her to sort through her emotions.

  She looked down at their joined hands. “I’m not sorry,” she said finally and then looked up into his eyes, fearing recrimination. “I took someone’s life, and I should feel sick, but I don’t.”

  The overwhelming feeling of anger and fear at almost losing her child boiled up inside her again.

  “I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Simon squeezed her hand in silent support.

  Her thoughts finally coalesced into something coherent, and then she felt sick.

  “He was in the way of what I needed, what I wanted. And I killed him. Am as I as bad as they are?”

  Simon tugged on her hands. “No.”

  She was ashamed; she could barely look him in the eyes.

  He knelt in front of her and lifted her chin gently. “No,” he repeated, as strongly as before. “You didn’t murder him in cold blood. You did what you did out of self-defense. You did it to save Charlotte. To save all of us.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not the same thing at all.”

  She let out a shaky breath and nodded.

  Simon touched her cheek tenderly. “You are nothing like them.” His own voice grew rough. “You are bloody amazing.”

  Elizabeth laughed through coming tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and sniffled.

  “You know, you have a handkerchief.” He looked toward her bosom.

  She laughed again and pulled it out. “I keep forgetting.”

  She wiped her face and felt almost herself again. “Do you think it’s over now?”

  He nodded, but she could see the worry still in his eyes.

  He moved to sit next to her. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “All we can do now is wait.”

  Their mission might be almost over, but it would all be for nothing if the others didn’t succeed.

  She settled her head on his chest. “Do you think they’re all right?”

  “They have to be.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  DECEMBER 6, 1777 - PASSY, France

  The sound of raised voices followed by a slamming door woke Travers up. He pulled on his robe and padded toward the door to his room. He paused to listen, but the voices were gone. Maybe it was a dream? His sleep had been filled with strange and disturbing images. Probably a temporal wash, he thought as he walked back to bed. It was early; the sun was barely rising.

  His feet were cold against the wooden floor, and he hurried toward the beautiful Aubusson rug. As he did, he heard another door close, but this one wasn’t down the hall. It was downstairs and loud enough to awaken the entire house.

  Out of the window, he saw a woman crossing the lawn, a long cape floating out behind her. She turned—Quincy.

  She was soon joined by her husband, in a state of half-undress. He grabbed onto her arms and yanked her back around. He shook her, and she tried to escape his grasp. It was all very dramatic. Too dramatic.

  Despite that, Travers instinctively wanted to go down to help her, but he stopped himself. This was not a woman in danger. This was a theatrical play put on for his—for everyone’s—benefit.

  The two argued loudly. He caught snatches of their conversation and it was clear they were fighting about Franklin.

  Finally, her husband stormed back inside. She glanced up at the windows, clearly hoping to see if their play had a large enough audience. Travers was sure it did. They’d been loud enough that anyone in their wing would have awakened.

  She pulled the hood of her cloak up and slowly walked back inside.

  “And scene,” Travers said as he turned away from the window and wondered what the second act would hold.

  He did not have to wait long.

  Midday found both Victor and him, along with Franklin, at a local café the doctor liked to frequent. Franklin was in the middle of a story about inventing swim fins for his hands as a boy in Boston when Lord Dubois came tumbling into the room.

  “Franklin!” he roared.

  Silence fell and Franklin smiled. “I am old, to be sure, but not deaf yet.”

  Dubois was half-drunk and half-crazed, or so it seemed.

  “You are a villain, sir,” he said as he bumped his way through the tables to the one where Franklin sat.

  “To some, no doubt.”

  Dubois thumped his chest. “To me, sir. I thought you were here to seduce the king, not my wife.”

  That was the sort of indelicate talk that could get around. Victor stood.

  “I think you should leave, sir.”

  Dubois focused his eyes, as best he could on Victor. “I shall not. This man is not who you think he is. He is not a virtuous man.”

  Franklin laughed. “I have never claimed such a title.”

  “Nor could you with your bastard son.”

  Victor moved to grab Dubois and bodily remove him from the room.

  The omnipresent spark in Franklin’s eyes died as he stood and held up his hand to stop him.

  “Do not speak of him.”

  Travers knew some of the history of Franklin and his only surviving son, William. He’d grown to prominence in politics, like his father, becoming the Governor of New Jersey. There was just one problem. He was loyal to England, a betrayal that had destroyed their relationship and haunted Franklin.

  “No?” Dubois said, turning around to address the room as a whole. “Is he an embarrassment to you? A man who supports the very king you seek to destroy.”

  Franklin’s temper started to flare, and he struggled to control it. “I, sir, do not wish to destroy, but to build. To build a—”

  “He’s in prison, isn’t he? For betraying you?” Dubois pressed on.

  “I had nothing to do with that.”

  Dubois turned to the patrons of the café. “Is this the sort of man you want to support? A man who deceives? Who steals another man’s wife? A man whose own son despises him?”

  “Get out!” Franklin bellowed as he stood.

  “I’ll go,” Dubois said. “But we are not finished, Doctor. I will not rest until the truth of you is known to every man, woman, and child in France.”

  Franklin sat down, visibly trying to stay calm. “Then I would say you should get started; there are a great many of them.”

  Uneasy laughter followed his remark.

  Dubois stood there for a moment, defiant, then he stumbled his way out. The room began to buzz with gossip.

  Victor and Travers exchanged worried glances. Quincy was clever. She couldn’t murder Franklin, but she could murder his reputation. And judging from the looks Franklin was receiving now, she was off to a good start.

  ~~~

  Even though Franklin remained buoyant in public, in private it was clear that he was worried. The delicate negotiations he’d been courting for the last year were on the cusp of consummation or disaster. He’d weathered worse attacks, he assured them, but Victor was nervous. The woman he spoke to in the empty hall at dinner the other night would not be content to let simple innuendo do her work for her.

  The question was: if that was not her end game, what was?

  That evening, as they once again piled into carriages like New Yorkers into taxis, Victor had a sinking feeling. The letter from Vergennes was to arrive tomorrow. In it would be an invitation. That meeting would secure the treaty with the French that the Americans so desperately needed. Without their assistance, the Americans would run out of black powder, men, and money in a few short months.

  Convincing a monarch to fund a revolution against another monarch, no matter how violent an enemy that other might have been, would be an amazing achievement. It would take
little to sever the fragile bonds Franklin had worked so hard to forge. In France, appearance was nearly everything. Franklin could have dalliances, was almost expected to, but much more than that and he would not be welcome at court no matter how badly King Louis wanted to stick it to King George.

  If Quincy was going to upset the apple cart, she would most likely do it tonight.

  “I don’t see her,” Travers said next to him.

  Victor saw Lord Dubois get into a carriage, but there was no sign of Quincy.

  “Should we get out of the carriage to find her?” Travers asked.

  Victor shook his head. Their carriage pulled out after Franklin’s and the others and started toward dinner.

  Travers looked ready to ask another question, but they were not alone in their cab. There was no telling who was spying for whom. Victor silenced Travers with a look.

  Twenty minutes later they arrived at their destination. They got out but, as Travers started toward the mansion, Victor held his arm.

  He rapped on the side of the carriage. “Attendez.”

  They watched the others go inside and then climbed back into the carriage. Victor instructed the driver to take them back to Valentinois.

  “We needed to be seen leaving,” he told Travers, answering his unanswered question. “If Quincy has plans for tonight, she must believe she can get away with them.”

  They rode along in thoughtful silence before Victor signaled for the driver to stop a short way from the mansion. He told the driver that they wanted to walk the rest of the way—needed the air—and sent him back to the party. After taking so much trouble to appear to leave, they could hardly afford to announce their return, and so they crept back along the side of the road, ducking into a field and coming upon the mansion from the rear garden.

  They moved into a small copse of trees near Franklin’s chateau. Somewhere above, an owl hooted in the moonlight.

  Victor crouched down.

  “What are we doing?” Travers whispered as he joined him.

  Victor nodded his head toward the second story of Franklin’s chateau. A figure, dressed in black, scampered up an ivy-covered trellis alongside the lower balcony. Then, she leaped from it and landed with catlike grace on the lip of the upper balcony just outside Franklin’s bedroom. She flipped herself over the balustrade and opened the door.

  “Ohhh,” Travers said, sounding impressed.

  She slipped inside and a few moments later reappeared and climbed back down, hurrying across the garden to the other wing.

  “That was fast.”

  Victor nodded. Clearly, she knew what she was looking for or what she was leaving.

  “What do we do?” Travers asked as they stood.

  Victor looked at the balcony.

  “Oh.”

  They shed their jackets and hurried toward the trellis. Victor grabbed hold of it and gave it a shake to test its strength. Something cracked when he did.

  He and Travers exchanged worried glances.

  He doubted it would hold his weight, but there was no other way in without passing several servants inside.

  Victor let out a breath and reached to grab the fragile wood again, but Travers put his hand on his arm.

  He smiled. “Allow me.”

  With surprising speed and confidence, Travers scrambled up the side of the building. As he reached out for the balustrade of the upper balcony, a piece of latticework broke under his foot, and he nearly fell. He dangled from one arm before swinging his legs up easily onto the ledge. He eased himself over and turned back to grin triumphantly.

  Despite himself, Victor was impressed.

  Travers disappeared inside the rooms just as Quincy had done.

  Victor gathered their coats and looked around anxiously as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Travers reappeared on the balcony. He stood on the edge then lowered himself down as Quincy had done. He swung outward and did a small tuck and roll as he landed.

  He stood up grinning like a fool. “Lakota East High gymnastics two years running. Go Hawks!”

  Victor stared at him blankly.

  Travers brushed the grass off his breeches. “I was pretty good.”

  “What did you find?”

  Travers smiled again. “It’s what I didn’t that matters.”

  ~~~

  December 7, 1777 - Passy, France

  In the early morning hours, Lady Dubois’ scream woke the house. Victor needed no such wake-up call. He and Travers had spent the evening keeping watch on Franklin’s chateau. They were fairly certain how the day’s events would play out, but one could never grow complacent in war.

  Lady Dubois’ voice came shrilly from down the hall.

  “My husband! Help me.”

  They joined the others, roused from sleep, in the hall. Franklin’s secretary Bancroft, looking tired, stood there with the other guests.

  Agitated and clutching her robe around her body, Lady Dubois came toward them.

  “My husband is dead.”

  She took hold of Bancroft’s sleeve. “Please, you must help me.”

  He squared his shoulders and tightened the sash on his robe. “Of course.”

  He turned to address the small crowd that chattered nervously in the hall. “Would everyone please return to your rooms?”

  The crowd continued to whisper anxiously, but one by one they did as he asked.

  He took Lady Dubois by her arm and started toward her rooms. “Now, tell me what’s happened?”

  Victor and Travers followed close behind.

  She led them into her bedroom and pointed at her husband who lay still in bed. “I woke this morning, and he was ….”

  She shook her head, unable to say it.

  Oh, she was good.

  “He said Franklin might do something—“

  “Franklin?” Bancroft demanded.

  “I can hardly believe it myself,” she said. “He and my husband fought yesterday. And later, Franklin threatened him. I thought Charles was joking at first.”

  Dubois was pale and still.

  Bancroft started to move toward the bed, but Travers put a hand on his arm. “Perhaps we should leave things untouched until we understand just what’s happened here.”

  Bancroft nodded. “Yes, of course.” He turned to Lady Dubois. “You say Franklin threatened him?”

  “I know it sounds absurd. I thought that was why Franklin came to our rooms last night.”

  “You spoke with him?”

  She shook her head. “I only saw him leaving. I called out, but ….”

  She turned to pace across the room and kicked something lying on the floor. A small bottle skittered across the rug. Bancroft bent down to retrieve it.

  “Laudanum,” he said, a deep frown coming to his face. “Franklin’s. I remember seeing this bottle, this particular label, in his rooms.”

  “Convenient,” Victor said.

  Bancroft turned and glared at him. It was convenient, very convenient for Bancroft’s needs.

  Victor could see the wheels turning in his head. Quincy saw it too and “noticed” a glass on the bedside table.

  Bancroft picked it up and wrinkled his nose as he took a sniff. “Laudanum.”

  He looked again at the bottle. A little piece of damning evidence that might not hold up in a court of law, but it might serve its purpose in the court of public opinion.

  “My husband takes powder before bed. He suffers from, suffered from terrible headaches. Doctor Franklin knew that. Do you really think he …?”

  Bancroft nodded thoughtfully, a hound on a scent. She was clever, Victor thought. She wouldn’t have to accuse Franklin of anything. Bancroft would make sure it happened.

  A very unflattering picture of Franklin would emerge, suitable for framing. A peccadillo gone horribly wrong. An enemy silenced. He and Dubois wouldn’t have to prove anything, just imply enough that negotiations with the crown would be delayed, perhaps even permanently.

  If Franklin were recalled, and John
Adams were to take his place, the treaty America needed so desperately could well die here along with Lady Dubois’ husband.

  “Do you really think Franklin could have murdered my husband?” she asked, finally putting the words out there.

  Bancroft looked all too eager to say yes but knew he had to play this carefully. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but ….”

  “There is just one problem with your story, Lady Dubois,” Victor said.

  She glared at him, defying him to challenge her.

  Then Victor kicked the side of the bed so hard both she and Bancroft jumped back.

  They stared at him in shock.

  “Good lord, man—” Bancroft started, but then Lord Dubois groaned and lifted his head.

  Victor impaled Quincy with a stare that hopefully told her what an imbecile he thought she was. “Your husband is not dead.”

  If looks could have killed, Quincy would have murdered him on the spot.

  Bancroft looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am sure you do not,” Victor said, relishing the moment. “Perhaps it is all a mere misunderstanding?”

  Quincy glared down at her husband who fell back asleep. “How could—?”

  “How indeed.”

  Bancroft put the glass down. “Please do not waste my time with such nonsense,” he said to Quincy.

  He shoved the bottle of laudanum into Travers’ hands as he left.

  Quincy, all pretense gone now, narrowed her eyes. “How?”

  “There is no keyhole too small for a spy to slip through,” Victor said. “Yours included.”

  Travers held up the bottle. “We re-stole what you stole and swapped it out with a less lethal version. Quite diluted.”

  “Enough to feign death,” Victor said, “but then that is fitting for an actor, is it not?”

  She didn’t respond, and he handed her a piece of paper. “We also found this in your room.”