Lady Scandal

by Shannon Donnelly

  Taking the candle with her, she left Diana with the maid, who had started babbling again in French.

  In the front hall, the candle flickered in a draft from the door and Alexandria glanced to where the footmen now stood—Frenchmen also, for she had left her staff in charge of the stables here. They stood one on each side of a trunk, staring about with worried frowns.

  "Never mind the luggage. I want you to search the house to see if anyone else is here," she ordered. The footmen glanced at each other and Alexandria added, "Où est—" she broke off, struggling for the word to add with "Where is," and she added with a wave of her hand, "everyone?"

  Understanding seemed to flicker in their eyes, for they put down the trunk, bowed and set off to search the downstairs rooms.

  Lifting her skirts, Alexandria went up the stairs. Gradually, the sounds of the maid's babbling and the footmen's heavy steps faded and the house seemed to fill with silence. Her throat tightened. She had never been in any house so empty—at the least, there were always servants nearby.

  Her kid boots echoed loudly on the floor. The faint aroma of bees wax wafted up from the candle. Damp, icy cold hung in the hall.

  She had no need to open doors—all stood ajar. Each room she glanced into told the same story—wild disorder, a violent search, insulting disregard for privacy or ownership. Clothing had been pulled from wardrobes and stolen away. Anything that could be carried, in fact, seemed to have been taken; even the linens from the beds had been stripped and looted.

  Anger flared in her, growing stronger with each defilement she glimpsed. Who could have done such a thing? And why had not her servants, both those from England as well as the Parisians she had hired, not been here to prevent it?

  At last she stopped at her own bedroom and glanced inside.

  She had brought her jewels and her cosmetics with her to the château, but the clothes she had left behind were now gone. The large maple wardrobe stood open and empty. The room had been stripped of its velvet curtains and even of the carpet. The mattress had been slashed and feathers pulled out, as if someone had been searching for hidden items.

  Glimpsing a fragment of something white on the bare wood, Alexandria moved into the room, her cloak, dress and petticoats rustling. Bending down, she picked up a fragment from a china figurine. It had been a favorite—a rearing white horse, its mane flaring out and one leg lifted as if celebrating its freedom. She had treasured that figurine. For being a symbol of something she had never had.

  Her fist closed on all that remained—the lone leg.

  Such senseless vandalism!

  She would lodge a complaint at once with the authorities. The British Ambassador would....

  Would do nothing, she realized. Lord Whitworth no longer resided in France. He could not listen to her complains and demand results from Bonaparte's government.

  A chill swept over her skin.

  Turning, Alexandria left the room and ran down the stairs, the candle flickering as she hurried.

  She found the maid and Diana in the main hall. Marie-Jeanne now sat on the large trunk that had been brought in by the footmen. Her eyes still seemed huge, and in the dim light her skin shone unnaturally pale, but she at least seemed to have lost that edge of hysteria for she no longer babbled.

  Diana turned to Alexandria, and Alexandria's heart tightened at the hint of fear in her niece's eyes. "What is it?"

  Diana wet her lips and answered, "Marie-Jeanne—she says...she says that England has declared war on France. Bonaparte has ordered the arrest of all English citizens. The soldiers who came here—they came for us."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "That is preposterous!" Alexandria said. But she glanced around her again and held back the rest of her protests. She had been about to say that not even Bonaparte could be so uncivilized as to order the arrest of women and children, but the man obviously allowed his troops to behave in this outrageous fashion toward civilians.

  In the faint glow from the single flickering candle, she turned to stare at her niece, her thoughts as crystalline as the drops of the chandelier that hung over them in the hall. With the clarity came the sharp bite of guilt, like the clamp of teeth at her throat. She ought to have taken Diana back to England months ago, when rumors of diplomatic strain first began. Her instincts had urged caution. But she had spent so long ignoring her feelings, pushing them away, that she had done the same as she always did. She had permitted herself to be persuaded.

  Heavens, how many times she had allowed that?

  Lips pressed tight, she straightened. A drop of wax slid from the candle onto her glove, warming her skin through the thin leather. She ignored it. The situation required level-headed control, not hand wringing over a past that could not be changed.

  Voice clipped, she asked, "When did the guards arrive? And where is everyone now?"

  Turning to the maid, Diana repeated the questions in French. Marie-Jeanne returned hesitant answers, the sobs gone from her voice, but her tone uncertain, as if she feared the reaction that her words might bring.

  Diana listened, nodding, smiling at the girl in encouragement. She had put back the hood of her traveling cloak and the candlelight glinted on her golden curls. Turning to her aunt, she said, "Poor thing. She has no idea how long she hid under the table. It seems that the French guard burst in without even knocking just as the staff had begun dinner preparations for a meal for our return. She said that the man in command—a sergeant—seemed to think the butler was lying about our not being here and that no Englishman lived with us. He questioned everyone, and when he did not get answers he liked, he ordered the house ransacked and those who were English arrested. Everything fell into a panic then. Some fled, or at least she thinks they did. She hid under the table, so they would not drag her away. She had an aunt who worked for a count and was sent to the guillotine during the Revolution."

  Alexandria glanced at the maid—no wonder the girl had hidden herself. Remorse stirred in her for Fenwick and the other servants she had brought with her—they had been in her care and she had failed them.

  The footmen came back into the hall, lifting empty hands as if to show the lack of anyone else in the house. Diana began to untie the strings to her cloak, and that set the maid into a new round of nearly hysterical French. "Non. Non, mademoiselle!"

  An outpouring of protests followed this, and when the maid seemed to run down, Alexandria asked, "What has upset her now?"

  Diana turned from comforting Marie-Jeanne. "She seems to think the soldiers will come back—that it is not safe and we ought to leave at once."

  "I doubt they will return tonight—we cannot be of that much interest, and I imagine they have their hands full with other English visitors." Alexandria frowned. Had the Fairchilds left Paris in time, or had they and their English staff been taken up? She had so liked plump and chatty Mary Fairchild. And what of the Aldersons? And the Bentleys? And a dozen others whom she had met?

  She pushed aside such worries. What mattered now was to see Diana out of this. The last outbreak of hostilities had dragged on for nearly a decade. She could not risk that Diana might spend who knew how many years of her youth trapped as a prisoner of war. And she did not trust that Bonaparte would only arrest Englishmen and allow women passage home, nor that he would give his prisoners the respect due their station.

  The one glimpse she had had of the man, actually, had given her the impression of a dynamic personality, but also of a man unconcerned with anyone other than himself. She certainly knew far too much about such gentleman.

  Once Diana was safe, however, she could see to her responsibilities to her servants who had been arrested. For now, all that mattered was her niece.

  Turning she gave a last look at the Paris house. She had brought not just her staff with her but her china, and the good linen from home, the ones embroidered with the Sandal crest of interwoven holly and oak leaves. And she had brought some of her favorite paintings and furnishings, for she had seen no reason not
to travel in comfort. Now, what had not been taken already must be left behind for other thieves. But she had her jewel case in the coach—and they had the clothing that they had taken to the château. Still, they had traveled light for it had been but a short visit.

  She would hope it would also be a fast trip to the coast.

  Focusing on plans helped her ignore the faint edge of fear that shivered on her skin.

  Calais gave the shortest crossing of the channel, but Dieppe lay closer to Paris. Or they could choose a port between and make for Boulogne. But first priority must be to leave Paris—if they could.

  Turning her back on the nearly-empty house, she ordered, "Diana, tell Marie-Jeanne to go to the coach. We leave at once. You two, take the trunk back to the carriage—oh, they are giving me that blank look again. Diana, dear, see if you can make them understand that we are leaving Paris again."

  "Do we return to the Chateau d'Esclimont?" Diana asked.

  Alexandria shook her head. "Laval is a military man, and if orders are now indeed that all English must be detained, we cannot put him in the position of having to arrest his guests. So we shall leave as we arrived tonight—through the north gate, past Montmartre—and then start for the coast."

  And they might also be better off burning their passport papers and relying more on Diana's beauty and a good amount of bribery, she thought. She kept such plans to herself. But, of all the absurd things, her stomach rumbled, protesting the lack of a regular dinner. She pressed a hand to it. What a bother this was—why must these Frenchmen make everything into a grand production? In England, before such an action as this occurred, the word would have gone out through unofficial channels so that everyone could have a chance to leave in proper order. Bonaparte, it seemed, had to make this into a theatrical display of his power. Bother the man!

  Diana finished relaying the orders in French. The footmen moved forward to take the trunk back outside to the waiting coach—they would have to travel slow to make the team last, Alexandria decided. She wanted as few stops as possible to lessen the risk that they might be exposed as English visitors and arrested. The maid hurried out behind the trunk, glancing to either side as if she expected soldiers to jump from the shadows.

  After snuffing her candle, Alexandria came to her niece's side and put a comforting arm around her. "Do not worry—I shall see you safe home."

  "Worry?" Diana turned bright eyes to her aunt. "Why this is the most exciting thing to ever happen! Just think—we are being swept up by history. We are in the very center of a critical juncture of fate—and we are seeing it all unfold before us. Are you certain we could not stay—perhaps there is something we could do to find Fenwick and the others and free them?"

  Frowning, Alexandria took her niece's arm and steered her to the door. "What we can do is see ourselves safe—and then I shall see if I cannot at least ransom my staff through whatever channels remain open. This is all the adventure I want, thank you."

  With four already fatigued horses they made slow time retracing their route from the city. As the carriage wheels rumbled along the ancient, narrow streets, Alexandria noticed the strained silence that filled the coach. Marie-Jeanne huddled in a corner, while Diana sat on the edge of her seat, peering out the window and obviously hoping for more excitement than was wise.

  Alexandria battled her remorse. Would Fenwick and the others be decently housed and fed? She could not imagine they would end in the dungeons of the Bastille. But what could she do for them from England? Would she even be able to get Diana home again—or would they end up imprisoned with their staff?

  Pushing such thoughts away, she tried to focus on making lists of things to do. But the trick that had served her well in past years failed now.

  At the city gates, the guards seemed suspicious to see a coach which had passed through in the other direction only an hour ago. Alexandria found her lack of mastery in the country's language frustrating, but Diana smiled, fluttered her eyelashes and—from what Alexandria could make out from the French she understood—invented a story of sudden illness in the family.

  The guards seemed reluctant to accept such a story, but after staring into the coach—which left poor Marie-Jeanne pale faced and even more withdrawn—and muttering with each other in low voices, a guard lifted the gate lifted and waved them through.

  Alexandria let out a breath. But it still seemed a very long way to the Channel. She was glad now that they traveled in a black coach without the Sandal crest upon its doors. She had borrowed the carriage from her brother, for he had only just bought it and she had appreciated the modern steel springs and the touches of luxury he had bought. If their luck held, his coach and his daughter would be back with him within the week.

  Not two miles later, their luck ran out.

  #

  Providence arrived in the form of a carriage and pair.

  His side aching, Paxten ran for the slow-moving vehicle. No footman stood up behind the coach, so he caught one of the handholds and swung himself up on the back step. He clung to the swaying coach, wondering how far it might take him. The steady clop of hooves replaced that of booted feet on the cobblestone. The mist—not so heavy as to soak him, but enough to dampen his hair and chill his face and hands—left him wishing for a heavy cloak at the least.

  Unfortunately, the carriage did not go far.

  Just the other side of the Fountaine des Innocents, the ancient vehicle turned a corner and slowed. Not wanting to wait until it halted—he did not need questions about how he came to be hanging on in place of any footman—Paxten jumped off. Turning up the collar of his coat, he put his head down and started back towards the fountain.

  His stride long, his side aching, he turned away from the Marais district—and General D'Aeth's mansion. He was not far from the Palais Royal, that den of sin and debauchery which housed prostitutes, gambling hells, and every other known vice. Or at least all the vices he knew. But he did not intend to stay and partake.

  The diversions of the Palais Royal were just starting—the night, and the hours for sin, had barely begun. Even so, a few gentlemen already the worse for too much drink staggered from the once-royal buildings.

  Paxten watched them, and settled on one portly fellow—the one who staggered the most. Following the man to the stables in the mews behind the building, Paxten waited for his chance. The smell of straw and horse filled the damp air. A thin, ragged stable boy led the portly man's horse—a sway-backed gray—to him and helped the man into the saddle with a good deal of grunting. Paxten waited in the shadows.

  Sure enough, not two doors down the street, the fellow sagged as Paxten had hoped. The horse stopped and the portly man slid from the saddle and into the gutter.

  With a glance behind him, Paxten slipped from the shadows and slid the reins from the drunkard's loosened fingers. He started to put his foot in the iron stirrup, but glanced back at the man who lay passed out in the street. What if a carriage passed this way, traveling at too fast a speed to see a body lying across the way?

  Merde!

  Turning from the horse, Paxten looped the reins over his arm, bent and grabbed the fellow by the shoulders of his coat. He dragged the fellow into a doorway, left him propped there. He could not afford to pay the fellow anything for the horse—and the sot would probably only drink it away, he told himself—but he dug out a coin and left it in the man's pocket anyway.

  Foot in the stirrup, he swung up, teeth clenched against the burning in his side. Grinning, he urged the horse forward with his heels. That made two commandments he had nearly broken that night—how many more would he strain before the dawn rose?

  Giving the horse its head, he allowed it to choose its own path—so long as it was away from the general and Paris he did not care. But he wondered if D'Aeth had alerted the city gates to look for a wounded man who might be seeking escape? If the general had, then one more commandment would need to be broken—to keep his freedom, he would probably have to kill someone.

 
#

  Boots clicking on the marble floor and saber rattling at his side, Captain Giles Taliaris strode away from his meeting with the general. His lieutenant, stationed at the entrance, glanced at him as Taliaris reached the tall, wide doors to General D'Aeth's mansion. The man straightened and snapped a salute. "Orders, sir?"

  Taliaris's mouth tightened. He disliked the situation. He disliked his orders. He did not think highly of the general's wife, who flirted with every man she met. However, matters had gone beyond flirtation tonight. The general's honor—and that of his wife—had been tarnished. A half-English dog had taken Madam D'Aeth's coquetry for something more and had attempted to rape her.

  "She was nearly hysterical when the guards came to her rescue," the general had said, his silver, military side-whiskers bristling and his plump face reddening. He had clasped his hands behind his back and the gold braid on his elaborate uniform glinted in the candlelight. "She was naked, and—"

  He broke off, almost choking on his anger. Taliaris knew better than to say anything. The general's temper had become legend to all who served under him.

  The older man ground out, his tone savage, "Find this Marsett. Lisette said he has rooms near here. Find him and show him how we bring such English dogs to heel!"

  Taliaris's scowl deepened. Odd that Madam D'Aeth would know where this man had rooms. However, he did not question his orders. He had grown up with a fervor to serve France. His dedication had brought him far, even though many considered him too young, at only twenty, for his rank. But was it not the age of youth? Of change? Did not France need new ideals to make her the foremost of powers?

  Yes, and into a nation where women-abusing filth such as this Marsett would not be tolerated.

  With a nod to himself, Taliaris gave his orders. He would bring a smile back to his general, and he would avenge the honor of a Frenchwoman who had been badly used.