Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
The Star of Versailles
ISBN # 978-1-78651-523-0
©Copyright Catherine Curzon and Willow Winsham 2017
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright January 2017
Edited by Sue Meadows
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2017 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
THE STAR OF VERSAILLES
Catherine Curzon and Willow Winsham
As the Reign of Terror tears Paris apart, a dandy and a spy are thrown together on a desperate race through France.
In the darkest days of the Reign of Terror, rumors grow of the Star of Versailles, the most exquisite treasure ever owned by the doomed Marie Antoinette. For Vincent Tessier, the notorious Butcher of Orléans, this potent symbol of the ancien régime has become an obsession and he’ll stop at nothing to possess it.
When Alexandre Gaudet arrives in France to find his missing sister and nephew, the last thing he expects is to fall into Tessier’s hands. With Gaudet tortured and left for dead, salvation stumbles accidentally, if rather decorously, into his path.
For Viscount William Knowles, life as a spy isn’t the escape he had hoped for. Yet a long-held secret won’t let him rest, and the fires of Revolution seem like the easiest way to hide from a past that torments him at every turn.
Adrift in a world where love, family and honor are currencies to be traded, the world-weary Viscount Knowles and the scandalous Monsieur Gaudet have no choice but to try to get along if they want to survive. With Tessier in pursuit, they search for the clues that will lead them to the greatest treasure in revolutionary France—the Star of Versailles.
Dedication
CC— For Rick, the most rakish of all Colonial gents!
WW—For Debbie, there right from the start!
Chapter One
There was more than mud on the streets of Paris today, something other than earth drawing and sucking at the feet of the thousands who trod here, heads bowed and shoulders hunched against the summer rain. From the Place de la Révolution a roar erupted, louder than thunder and more violent than lightning, the sun disappearing behind a jet-black cloud in deference to the violence below.
Held fast in the grip of the Terror, the city trembled, and everyone, from the highest to the lowest, had their secrets. For some, like the residents of a fine house on the Rue Saint-Honoré, secrets had seen a father chained in the Conciergerie, awaiting his date with the National Razor, whilst for others they were currency, life itself.
Every morning William Knowles woke in his unassuming room and donned the identity of Yves Morel as other men might step into a favorite pair of comfortable shoes. For two months, he had existed under the name of a man feared from the south of the country to the north and that, he knew, meant that his time could only be running out.
Here in Paris, Morel was known as a figure of unflinching cruelty, those who could put a face to the name all safely occupied with the business of government hundreds of miles away. Yet one day, and he knew it must be soon, one of them would return to Paris. Before that happened he would be gone, vanished once more into a world of shadows and secrets.
Tomorrow, perhaps the day after that, the last surviving conspirator of the Rue Saint-Honoré would climb the steps to the scaffold and take with him the only hope William had of a successful completion to this most lucrative of missions. Valuable days had been lost on the journey to Paris in response to reports of Philippe Plamondon’s arrest, William expecting to find the man dead by the time of his arrival. Instead, he found him deep within the Conciergerie enjoying the special attentions of Vincent Tessier, the Butcher of Orléans who could, so rumor had it, convince a man to confess to any number of crimes, both real and imagined.
One chance, William told himself as he opened the window in an effort to dissipate the stifling heat.
One chance, then the last link to the Star of Versailles was gone forever.
A cheer rent the air and he shuddered. There came a second then a third explosion of approval from the distant crowd, each one louder than the last. As the day grew darker, he bowed his head and pictured the blade being hauled back to the skies, the shuffling feet on their way to the scaffold, the moment of silence before the razor edge fell and ten thousand spectators released their breath at once.
Then came the next soul, the clattering thunder of the guillotine and on and on it went until the blade grew dull and the crowd grew hungry for something more tangible than blood.
Another shudder ran through William and he drew the window down with a note of finality before picking up his coat as he crossed the bare boards to the door.
Sometimes, William reflected as he stepped out onto the landing, deep undercover work was boring, pointless hours spent reading dispatches and copying out messages. On other occasions, it was dangerous, dodging bullets and torture, and once in a while, deep undercover work, even as a revolutionary firebrand, meant traveling for a week to spend one hour with a man beyond rescue.
If he knew anything at all.
For all the excitement among the Academy’s members over recent developments, there was really nothing here but more rumor, nothing tangible whatsoever besides the usual anti-Revolution pamphleting and some ill-advised rabble-rousing.
Now and again, Professor Dee would send a dis
patch to his agent and William would follow it to the letter, stealing from his bed to creep through the house as everyone slept and copy this paper or that missive. During these excursions, he had learned from experience that Tessier, his genial host, was given to sleeplessness. After midnight, he roamed the rooms, pacing the stairs up and down or sitting in his study staring at the darkness beyond the window, still as marble and just as cold.
Two evenings earlier Tessier had sat there as William, snooping just for the sake of snooping, pressed back into the wall and barely breathed. For long minutes, they’d shared the same space, William clutching the documents he had been reading by moonlight when the door handle had turned, his knuckles bleached white.
That had been the last time he’d searched the study after dark. Now he confined his efforts to the gray hours before dawn when the house had yet to wake. Where once these walls had echoed with the whispers of those who carried messages through Paris for Philippe Plamondon and his counter-revolutionaries and watched fleeing prisoners escape to a new life, now it was silent, Tessier’s thin voice the only sound that occasionally ended the quiet.
Not so long ago, the house had rung with a child’s laughter, with the gentle lullaby of Claudine Plamondon and the cheery greeting of her husband, but now those memories were as gossamer as a dream. The homely building was a shadow of its former self, picked apart by its new tenant, so consumed was he by his search for the illustrious treasure. Carpets and rugs were torn up until the floorboards themselves were pried apart, paper stripped from the walls and furniture dismantled to no avail. After two months in residence, Vincent Tessier was no closer to the prize, the jewel that half of Europe searched for proving utterly elusive.
At the top of the stairs William paused as something, he hardly knew what, stilled his tread.
Footsteps.
Somebody in Tessier’s study?
Finally convinced that there was, indeed, someone else in the house, William made his way along the landing with all the care he could muster in his heavy boots, taking each step with utmost delicacy.
For a moment, he peered at the bare floorboards where Philippe had been caught as he’d fled and where, local gossips had told him in the alehouses, ‘his spilled blood had stained the most beautiful rug you ever did see’.
‘It stank like a butcher’s slab. They had no choice but to burn it. You can still see the stain on the boards. That dark patch, that’s where they caught up with Monsieur Plamondon. That bonny wife and little François, well, they’ll catch up with them too one day and it’ll be all the worse when they do.’
‘Such a lovely family…’
And with each telling the tale grew more grotesque, the violence more bloody and the stain deeper and darker than before.
‘That house has seen its share of sadness—we used to have such lovely times with Madame Plamondon and the little one, and what do we have now?’
‘Men talking politics from dawn until dusk, paddling mud and blood and Lord knows what across the rugs and up the stairs.’
‘Mark me, there’s more than one stain in this house.’
Once word had gotten around as to who they were addressing the gossips fell silent and William stopped frequenting the alehouses, marked out as the man in Robespierre’s pocket. It was a compliment of sorts, he supposed, that he could be so convincing as a monster to whom betrayal and punishment were second nature.
Though Vincent Tessier makes Yves Morel seem like an amateur.
As he trod lightly, William realized that the gossips were right. The house was pockmarked with the scars of battle and the dark stain of Philippe’s blood on the board was the most tangible of them all. William stilled before the door and breathed in the atmosphere of damp that lingered about the place when the rain fell. It felt heavy, twisting his stomach for no more than a second.
As the door swung open beneath his hand William stepped over the threshold, his eyes fixed on the man who stood with his back to him. The intruder was beside Tessier’s desk, head bowed low. William found his attention drawn by the stranger’s vibrant blue outfit, more suited to the opera than a filthy day in Paris. As William watched, the man spun to face the door, one hand held up in surrender.
“Alexandre Gaudet?” William asked, momentarily wrong-footed by the unexpected appearance of the toast of London theater here in this fetid city. It made sense, of course, yet he would never have expected a dandified playwright, more used to perfume and silk than muck and politics, to make such a dangerous trip. With that thought in his head William lowered his voice and asked, “You’re looking for your sister?”
“Claudine,” Gaudet confirmed, searching William’s face with green eyes. His voice was almost convincing but there was just a trace of a wobble, a small break that betrayed his fears. “This was her home—”
A veil of realization descended over his face then his gaze dropped to William’s hands in a search for the leather gloves, Vincent Tessier’s trademark.
“You’re Morel,” Gaudet breathed after a moment, taking an involuntary step backward. “Please—”
A hundred possibilities presented themselves then, chief among them being the fact that this man, this pampered society darling, was the last free link to the Star of Versailles. If indeed it had left Paris with Claudine Plamondon when her husband had been dragged to the Conciergerie, then might Alexandre Gaudet be able to find her? Wouldn’t a brother know the mind of his sister, the places she might hide herself?
“Trust me—” William began, the words silenced by the sound of a slamming door and voices from below. There came the heavy thud of damp boots crossing the stripped, bare floorboards of the entrance hall and William whispered, “Say nothing.”
He knew that the words were wasted as the feet continued on and up the staircase. Praying that they would pass by, William weighed up his choices, not sure what he could do to help this possibly God-sent new arrival without giving away his own subterfuge.
Gaudet made a run for the door. The force with which he hit William sent him careening into the dresser. The intruder wrenched the door open, seeking escape and, instead, came face to face with Vincent Tessier. Behind him, three men were clustered and, anticipating nothing more thrilling than an afternoon of politics and debate, they were quick to respond to this unexpected excitement.
As William recovered his footing, Gaudet was dragged from the room and William followed, too late to witness anything but a commotion of feet on the stairs. He knew that the intruder’s efforts to escape would be hopeless—Tessier would not allow Alexandre Gaudet to leave the house a free man.
That’s if he even leaves it alive.
William descended the stairs quickly, reaching the hallway in time to see Gaudet being hauled toward the door. His arms were pulled back at a painful angle and a thick loop of rope encircled his wrists, tight enough to draw a thin streak of crimson that just made its way down the pale skin of his hand.
Tessier looked to William with malice glittering in his eyes and told him brightly, “I owe you a debt for this, Morel—a valuable head.”
In the seconds before he was pushed into the street and taken away, Alexandre Gaudet glanced over his shoulder at William. For a moment, their eyes met and he recognized in Gaudet’s gaze the flare of hatred that the name of Yves Morel always provoked.
William decided that he would not remain in this skin for long, bowing his head and turning back to the stairs.
Soon it will be time to travel on.
Chapter Two
“Hand,” Sylvie Dupire commanded, folding her arms across her chest and waiting for the child to comply. “Bastien, hand.”
He shook his head, clenching his fist even more tightly for a moment before she said, “Now, Master Dupire.”
Another moment passed before Bastien puffed up his cheeks and let the air escape in a long sigh of annoyance, each finger of the fist slowly uncurling itself. As a couple of dull coins were revealed, Sylvie held out her own hand until he drop
ped his bounty onto her palm.
“Who did you steal this from?”
“I didn’t steal it.” He shrugged. “I found it.”
“Found it how?” Sylvie offered her son the opportunity to tell something that at least resembled the truth. “By dipping into the pockets of passers-by?”
Bastien furrowed his smooth brow at the accusation of theft before he let out another sigh of disappointment and shook his head slowly, switching expertly from chastised son to wounded innocent.
“My hand may have slipped on occasion.”
“Bastien!” Sylvie threw her hands up, voice clipped when she said, “You’re going to end up getting us all in big trouble, young man.”
“A few coins…”
“A few coins.” Sylvie leaned forward then and jabbed a finger at him, Bastien fighting his desire to take a step back. “‘A few coins’ has put boys on the scaffold!”
“So I’m not getting it back, then?” Bastien asked, the unspoken disdain turning to annoyance when she returned to the ragged clothes she had been examining without replying. “But I’ve been all over the city for that!”
“Consider it your board.”
“What bloody son pays his ma to live in a filthy hole like this?”
“Deliver milk, you keep the money,” she explained calmly, tucking the coins into her apron. “Dip into pockets and pay board. Your choice, Bastien.”
Bastien stared at her for as long as he could before the need to blink overcame the need to at least attempt to make his mother feel guilty. Only then did he climb onto the table to sit beside the pile of rags, picking up a frock coat and examining the tattered finery absent-mindedly.
Here and there were still traces of the rich deep green it had been, a tantalizing suggestion of gleaming gold on the mud-soaked frogging, the woolen frock having once warmed and cocooned someone on the cold Parisian evenings. Now it was rags, the back stained black and stiffened with blood. Used to the routine, Bastien pulled at the tarnished brass buttons that still remained and added them to the growing pile on the table.
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