Lady Scandal

by Shannon Donnelly

  Lieutenant Paulin's eyes widened as he listened, and he blurted out, "But we are not to blockade the north road as well as all the others?"

  Taliaris lifted one corner of his mouth. "To snare a wolf, do you not leave open the door of the trap? We leave one road open—and then we know exactly where he must go. Have horses ready. I want a checkpoint set up a quarter league beyond the gate, and I want to be there when this Marsett shows his face."

  With a nod, Paulin hurried away to carry out the orders.

  Taliaris glanced back at the D'Aeth mansion, an odd tingle between his shoulder blades and frowning. Still disliking his orders, he strode out of the elegant building. France was again at war with England, which meant that shooting this half-Englishman was nothing more than a patriotic act. So why did his skin prickle?

  Pushing back his shoulders, he strode into the dark night. France could not afford soft sons—not if she were to keep her liberty and her power.

  For France, he would do what he must.

  #

  It was cold, but not as cold as the Alps had been when the army of France had crossed them. And tonight's rain had stopped. So Pierre considered himself lucky enough to have drawn this assignment. Leaning against the white plaster wall of a cottage, he wondered what name this tiny village had. The residents had seen the uniforms and wisely bolted doors and shutters. On a raw spring night, Pierre could almost wish himself inside one of these half-dozen snug building.

  They were not far from the Porte Montmartre, the city gate, he knew, for they had marched up the road. They would probably stand here all night and then they would march back. Ah, well. What else did one do these days? Still, better a solider than a farmer, as his father had been. The work paid well enough. Or at least, it did most months.

  With a sigh, Pierre shifted his musket so he could lean on it. The good days would be soon back again. Of course the marches could be long, but he smiled as he thought of the battlefield—the terror of it, the excitement, and the pleasure after, drinking with comrades, swapping harrowing stories, or—better still—plundering a city that had resisted siege. A soldier could take what he wanted then, be it a woman, drink, or any fancy thing that caught his eye.

  Yes, far better to be fighting than standing around with nothing to do but wait.

  A drop of rain fell onto Pierre's sun-hardened cheek. He glanced up at the sky before he looked around him, at the empty square and the muddy road. Clouds parted and a moment of silver moonlight turned the village bleak; a half-dozen stone houses crowded together, one of them calling itself a tavern, thought it sold nothing more than bad wine. He knew because he had bought a glass to warm himself.

  Twenty-six other soldiers stood in the shadows, like him, and somewhere their lieutenant and captain waited—probably in the tavern with a fire and drink.

  They were looking for a man—an injured one. He did not know why, and he did not care. It was enough to have something to do after too long of parading about Paris like toys pulled out for a little boy's amusement.

  Another raindrop fell on his face, and Pierre shifted his stance.

  At least he had had his dinner. In the field, food could be stale bread that had to be eaten on the march. Now, if only they could catch this man that the captain hunted, perhaps he could find himself a bed and a woman to go in it.

  He wondered if the captain was old enough to have even had his first woman. He grinned at the thought, and he almost called out to Henri a crude joke about the captain being too young to do more than suckle at a woman's breast. Six months serving under Taliaris made him think again.

  The captain might not be inside the tavern, and might hear such a comment—and he had not looked in a mood to be amused. In fact, whoever they hunted tonight must be an unlucky bastard.

  A low rumbling had him glancing up at the sky again, thinking of thunder, but he heard the jingle of harness.

  Straightening, he called a soft alert to the others—to Henri and Colmar, and that lazy Anatole. He hefted his musket to the ready.

  As others stepped next to him to block the road, his blood quickened, his senses sharpened. He forgot the aches left by too many other battles, by age, by too many nights spent sleeping on the ground, by long marches up and down mountains and across icy rivers. He glanced at Henri and winked. He could hardly wait to be back on a real battlefield again.

  The coach slowed as soon as it came into sight of the torches carried by Colmar and Anatole. Pierre lifted his musket, but the driver pulled on the reins, bringing the tired horses to an easy halt. "Too bad," Pierre muttered to Henri.

  The other man glanced at him. "What did you expect? You would try to drive through more than two dozen armed men?"

  Pierre grinned. He might try. Just to see if he could. Musket lowered, he moved forward with the others to surround the coach. His interest quickened as a pretty blonde leaned out the lowered window to demand, "Why do we stop? Is something wrong?"

  At once, the lieutenant stepped forward and opened the carriage door. "Step out, mademoiselle."

  For a moment, the girl disappeared back into the coach. Pierre leaned closer to Henri. "Maybe she'll refuse and we'll have to drag her out, eh?"

  Henri grumbled an answer about never having such luck. As he did, the carriage door opened and the girl reappeared. She hesitated and the lieutenant barked an order to let down the steps for her. He stared at Pierre as he spoke.

  Now, I'm a footman, am I? Pierre kept the complaint to himself. He forgot about it as the girl stepped from the coach and into the torchlight.

  A dark cloak covered most of her but parted to show glimpses of a figure still plump with youth. Golden curls flashed from under a bonnet with a curling feather and what looked to be silk ribbon. She had an oval face—a pretty one, Pierre could see in the flickering torchlight, though he could not make out the color of her eyes. But what did they matter. His blood moved even faster.

  Another woman stepped out, satin rustling and bringing a faint hint of spiced perfume with her. Taller than the girl, she carried herself with the assurance of experience, and the hard angles of her face put her past any blush of youth, even thought the slender figure he could glimpse under her cloak seemed young.

  No meat on this one. And she thought too much of herself. She glanced around her, her straight nose up a little. She, too, wore a rich bonnet, and she made him think of the aristos years ago on the way to meet Madam Guillotine. He had been in the Revolutionary Guard back then and had been happy to see those aristos loose their proud heads. Most had had this look—this arrogant tilt to their chins, the slightly raised brows as if faintly insulted. They thought themselves better than everyone, as if they, too, did not have to piss into a chamber pot.

  She looked straight at him and he became aware of the stubble on his chin, and the wrinkles in his uniform, and that he smelled of garlic from his dinner, and had not bathed in a week.

  He glanced away, looking back into the carriage and seeing one more shadow. "You—out! You heard the lieutenant!" he ordered.

  The figure in the coach cringed and Pierre looked at the lieutenant for permission, eager now to give these too-proud women a show of real power. The lieutenant gave a nod, and Pierre leaned into the coach, grabbing for a hold on the shadowy figure and hoping he would pull out the man they sought. Maybe they would even make him a corporal again, eh?

  His hand closed over a slim arm and he heard a muffled whimper. He dragged out a small, dark-haired girl.

  After the golden beauty, she seemed scrawny—nothing but big eyes and a pale face. A maid, he decided, his mouth pulling down. He let go her arm and rubbed his palm down his trouser leg as she huddled into her dark, woolen cloak. The Revolution had made all of France into citizens—but the old ways crept back; those in power needed to have their boots washed for them. Better to be a farmer even, than a servant.

  The lieutenant started barking orders again. "Search the coach. I want every bag opened. You there, driver—step down! And yo
u two at the back as well!"

  Pierre did not wait for the driver to come down, but went up after him, thrusting him from his seat. He climbed up to unlash the trunks on the top. The pretty blonde protested, her words shrill, but the older woman stayed oddly silent as they pushed the trunks down to the road and spilled out frothy lace and silken dresses.

  Jumping down, Pierre joined the others to paw through the delicate gowns, ignoring the young woman's cries, enjoying himself now. True enough that a man might hide in one of the larger trunks, but only a dwarf could fit in these little ones. He liked the smell of the dainty silks, though. It put him thinking about pawing other things.

  A sharp voice cut though the night, snapping Pierre and the others to stiff attention. "What is this?"

  Sullen now, his enjoyment gone, Pierre did not look up to meet Captain Taliaris's stare—he knew too well the sound of his captain's displeasure.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The girl's shrill voice carried to him in the breath of a cold north wind as good as any alarm, and Paxten pulled hard on the reins to stop the plodding gray. He straightened in the saddle, trying to focus his dizzy mind.

  Standing in the stirrups, he winced as the pain throbbed in his side, but he glimpsed light flickering in the darkness. From a village? Some sort of local celebration? Only that had not sounded like a woman's cry of delight.

  Had someone sprung a trap set for him?

  The back of his neck had started to tingle after finding the Porte de Clichy and the Porte de St. Ouen well guarded, but the Porte Montmatre had only a pair of half-asleep sentries. Why should that gate be so easy and the others wrapped tight as a noose? Damn that city for its walls and confounded gates. And damn him for not paying more heed to his instincts.

  The same sense that had saved his life during the few months he had tried his hand at being a soldier of fortune, and which had served him equally well during his recent life at the gaming tables, had blared an alarm. Now he glanced again at the countryside. Should he leave the road? His father had grown up not far from here, but Paxten had spent his youth in England, so what chance did he have in the darkness? Might he run smack into a patrol on the hunt for him?

  He settled into the saddle and urged the gray forward, thumping its fat sides with his legs to make it move. He guided the horse off the main road, cutting across a recently ploughed field. The gray slogged through the mud.

  As he neared the village, the flickering light resolved into torchlight. Within its glow, he could make out what looked to be a few cottages. And a carriage? Yes, a carriage—he could see the horses shift uneasy in their harness. He glimpsed a flash of fire on metal and reined in the gray. His service for the King of Naples had taught him to recognize the glint of a bayonet.

  Soldiers.

  A number of them, he judged by the thump of boots he could now hear and the clipped tone of orders being issued. He glanced at the darkness around him. Did others wait nearby, spread out across the countryside?

  Merde!

  Instinct urged him to turn the gray and find out if the beast had a gallop in it, to leave the road and this village far behind. But he forced himself to take a breath and calculate the odds of this nag being able to outpace mounted cavalry.

  Not a bet he wanted to take, he decided.

  He might have risked it, if he weren't bleeding and already swaying in the saddle.

  An idea formed and he grinned in the darkness. If he could not run, why not see if he could find a safer route? One that might take him under their noses. He had the advantage, after all, in that he knew where they were. But they had not seen him. Could he keep it so?

  Swinging out of the saddle, his boots hit the mud with a soft squelch. The world spun and his knees buckled. Pressing his hand to his side, he leaned against the horse to catch his breath. Mother of mercy but he needed to get someplace where he could rest and tend his wound. He would just have to hope his instincts were right about this.

  Straightening, he stepped away from the gray. It stood there a moment, staring at him, so he turned its head and slapped its rump to set it ambling back to Paris. Stepping as silently as he could with mud sucking at his boots, he moved towards the village.

  #

  Furious now, Diana shrieked at the soldiers to stop vandalizing their property. She grabbed her chemise from one thick-set lout and spun to snatch her aunt's jewelry box from another. A sharp voice had the soldiers dropping anything they held—gowns, shawls, bonnets—and snapping to stiff attention.

  Rather than stepping forward to pick up their garments, Marie-Jeanne huddled in the background, but Diana caught a muttered word from her aunt. "Ordure!"

  Diana almost smiled. Trash. The word could be applied to the clothes now strewn in the mud, or to these idiots who had ruined their garments. She suspected her aunt intended the latter.

  The soldiers stepped back to allow another man to step forward, and Diana turned to him, her anger hot and leaving her French stuttering. "Who is in charge here? Why have we been stopped? This is an outrage—I assure you that my aunt's friend, the Duke of Laval, shall hear about..."

  Her words faded as the man stepped fully into the circle of flickering torchlight.

  The light turned sun-darkened skin into shadows of bronze. Tall, square faced and broad, he looked the perfect military man. His dark blue uniform emphasized his wide shoulders. Tall black boots gleamed in the firelight, and the gold braid on his chest flashed. A red dolman swung from his shoulders.

  She stared at him. Dark brows angled over deep set eyes. A saber rattled at his side, and he stood with one hand braced on the silver hilt as he glanced around at his men and the disorder they had created.

  He glanced at her at last, his stare sharpening. Diana realized she must look ridiculous with her mouth partly open, her bonnet askew, her chemise caught up to her chest, and clutching her aunt's jewel box.

  She hid her silk chemise behind her. "Are you in charge of this rabble?"

  With a shallow bow, he said, his voice a pleasant tenor that made her wonder if he was younger than she had first thought, "Captain Giles Taliaris at your service, Mademoiselle...?"

  His trailing words invited an answer. Ought she give him own name, or did Edgcot sound too English?

  Aunt Alexandria solved the problem by stepping forward and muttering from behind a handkerchief, as if she were ill, "I feel unwell."

  The handkerchief muffled her aunt's too-English accent, and Diana did the rest, clutching her aunt's swaying form as if she feared an immediate collapse. She turned her best smile on the captain and hoped he might be more stupid than he looked.

  "I beg your pardon, Captain, but my aunt, she is not well. I must get her to a doctor in...in Calais."

  His stare did not leave her face. "You seem uncertain of your destination."

  She started to frown at him, caught herself, and lowered her lashes instead. "Yes, I am so stupid about such things. That is why our driver knows the direction. And I must get my aunt there at once." She looked up, striving for a stricken look. Only she was not much of an actress. She had barely muddled through being Juliet in her aunt's house party last year when they had done Shakespeare's tragedy. This looked to have an equally sad end.

  "We fear it is consumption," she said, her voice low.

  A few soldiers shuffled away, putting their hands to their mouths, left uneasy by an illness that had no cure and left one coughing up blood and slowly wasting.

  The captain, however, only glanced at Diana's aunt, his face expressionless. He looked back at Diana, his stare steady. For a moment, the torchlight shifted and she caught a glimpse of his eyes. Brown eyes—a mix of warm and dark. Shrewd intelligence flashed in the depths.

  He knew the truth.

  The color drained from her face, leaving her skin colder than the raw spring night warranted. How did he know they were English? Had he guessed? Or had she given them away somehow by overplaying her role?

  Heart beating fast, she met his
stare, her eyes wide and the truth now in her mind, willing him to understand. We just want to go home. We are no harm to anyone.

  It seemed forever that he stared at her, his dark eyes again shadowed, his stern features revealing nothing of his thoughts. The pulse pounded sluggish in Diana's throat. Once. Twice. Three times. She counted each beat. Would he arrest them now?

  Turning sharp, he faced the man who had ordered them from the coach, a short, lean man with pox scars on his cheeks. "The man we want is not here—pack the mademoiselle's and the madam's trunks. They are to go on their way at once."

  Glancing at her aunt, Diana let out a long breath. Her aunt seemed to have caught enough of what was said to have grasped that they were to go. Aller.

  Diana turned to the captain again. "Thank you," she said, putting all the feeling she could into the words. "Merci beaucoup."

  His mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles, and she realized he had an attractive face—and an even more attractive mouth, with a full lower lip.

  She smiled back.

  His face hardened again as he said, his voice pitched only for her and her aunt, "You may find it best for your aunt's health to take her further than Calais. I urge a sea voyage. France is not the place for two ladies who have no protection beyond their own reckless courage."

  Stiffening, Diana started to deny they had ever been reckless about anything, but her aunt squeezed her arm tight, silencing her.

  He turned away, all brusque military bearing as he barked orders to his men, sending some scurrying into the darkness while the rest finished a hasty repacking of the ruined clothes.

  Diana glanced around, her brows pulled tight and an odd hollowness in her. An easing perhaps of the tension of a moment ago? Yes, partly that, she knew. But his remark had stung—he could have at least acknowledges her thanks!