“You and I, when we are safely home, I will take you to dinner at my club by way of thanks for all you have done.”
“There is really no need,” Bobbins protested.
“Nevertheless, it will be done.” He clapped. “I am sure Queen Charlotte would love to meet you for supper. I know the princesses would adore you. I am always popping along to see them.”
“Princesses and poodles…”
“And perfume, too.”
Bobbins seemed pained at that, muttering, “Oh, for a drink…”
“It is some way to the coast,” Gaudet commented with a frown, brightening when he realized, “but I shall cheer you all the way with tales of theater. Have you seen my plays? You must have, I imagine?”
“I have not,” Bobbins admitted. “I rarely visit London.”
“I love London, and Brighton, of course, but London… London is the center of the universe.” He laughed, thinking wistfully of the place. “Well, outside of France, of course.”
“I much prefer the country,” Bobbins told him.
The thought was utterly inconceivable to Gaudet. The countryside was so quiet, so still—there was no hope of being recognized in the cornfields, after all.
“You are a strange fellow, Bobbins.” Gaudet nodded curtly at the polite rejection, thinking it quite the gentleman’s loss. “As strange as your name.”
Bobbins’ response was to head for the door and, with a sigh, Gaudet followed, dreaming of the gaming room on the Strand, his home on Berkeley Square and the soft, marvelously ornate bed where he longed to rest his head once more.
“Horses,” Bobbins was muttering as they took the stairs. “We need horses.”
“Pap will travel safe in my coat.” Gaudet swung the portmanteau as he walked, the poodle trotting alongside, her tail swishing happily. She too would benefit from a return home, he knew, back to her own wardrobe and jewels. Bobbins appeared to have no reply to his comment and, instead, approached the bar, leaving Gaudet to tell Pap the plans. “You will travel with Papa, you are too small to reach the stirrups, flower.”
After some negotiation and a decidedly unhappy Englishman parting with a few coins, the deal was apparently struck, Bobbins gesturing for Gaudet to follow him out into the yard. As he strolled after his guide Gaudet allowed himself a wink in the barmaid’s direction, finding himself greeted with a most coquettish wave in reply.
Really, he thought with a smile, perhaps I am just born this way!
“You won’t be smiling after a few hours in the saddle,” Bobbins was almost too quick to warn him as they emerged into daylight. “And for heaven’s sake, make sure you don’t drop the dog.”
“I will wager it isn’t a fine steed you have secured for me…”
His suspicions proved correct as a stable hand appeared at that moment, leading two mounts that had most certainly seen better days. Of course, Gaudet was hardly to be outdone and spent some time circling the animals, studying them with a practiced eye before he decided, “Pap and I will take the chestnut, sir—we will let you have the gray.”
“Why?” Bobbins peered at the horse suspiciously.
“Because,” was the arch reply as he watched Bobbins closely, “it will have a longer gait and since I am an excellent horseman, you will need all the help you can get. Now let us away and you can tell me all about the one with the eyes…”
With a long-suffering sigh, Bobbins pulled himself into the saddle, muttering something to himself that Gaudet couldn’t quite catch. Instead, he fastened the portmanteau containing his precious suit to the saddle, tucked Papillon into the front of his coat and nimbly mounted the portly horse, straightening in the saddle as though it were a prize Lipizzaner. For a few moments, he fussed with his clothes, smoothing down the lines, then decided, “I believe I am ready.”
“Then let us be off,” Bobbins declared. “And may nothing untoward await.”
Chapter Fifteen
The sun had begun to sink what felt like a hundred miles ago and the saddles grew less comfortable with each passing hour. Gaudet’s occasional chatter had given way to complaint until even he had fallen silent, the dog sleeping happily cuddled to her master. Now, they were in the first safe house that William knew they could trust, concealed in a hayloft, much to Gaudet’s chagrin.
He knew Gaudet by reputation, of course. Everybody in London knew Gaudet by reputation. Occasional scandals kept him from rehearsals, ticket sales were never better than when the diarists had his name on their lips, and he reveled in it, a stranger to neither the gossip pages nor the finer things in city life, though William wished he would stop talking about them.
“Are you not tired?” William asked hopefully when an infrequent lull in Gaudet’s monologue presented itself.
“Should I be?” Gaudet blinked and continued on his tale of a saucy encounter between a bishop and two leading ladies, accompanied by much uproarious laughter and those excitable, childish claps. On and on he went, fueled by the brandy their host had provided, settled on his impromptu bed of straw. William found himself drifting, watching the Frenchman as his tale went on, wondering as he did so if the man was ever going to shut up.
“How long shall we stay here?” Gaudet waved a piece of straw away from his nose, hopping to another subject like a particularly dapper frog in a lily pond. “It smells like horses.”
“Tonight.” William forced himself to focus on what the man was saying, with effort. “We cannot afford to tarry.”
“I must tell you of the time His Majesty and I—” Gaudet frowned, looking at him. “Are you listening?”
“Listening?”
“Are. You. Listening?” Gaudet peered very close then and enunciated as though William were stupid. “What did I just say to you? What story did I just tell of Mrs. Siddons, Lord Chatham and I?”
“There was drinking involved,” William hazarded a guess. “And dancing.”
“You were not listening,” Gaudet concluded. “Have you no rip-roaring tales of your own to share?”
“But when it comes to interesting tales, I cannot beat you.”
“Why do you dislike me so?” Gaudet’s tone was light, but his gaze, William noted, flitted away. “I am sorry that you do.”
“I do not dislike you.”
Gaudet’s answer was a silent shrug before he nestled down into the straw and blankets, turning his back to William. There was the sound of a delicate chain being drawn from his pocket then the click of a locket opening, the Frenchman utterly silent.
“I am just not one for actresses and peers.”
“I believe I should do well enough traveling alone,” Gaudet said without turning. “Rather than endure me, you are free to go. After all, you are not here for the good of your health…”
“It is not in your hands,” William told him, the thought of Dee’s fury if he abandoned Gaudet hardly filling him with confidence. “I am getting you to the coast, come Hell or high water.”
“Why on earth would you?” Gaudet rolled over to gaze at William. “I have offered no money, nothing in return…”
Why indeed? How to explain that he felt he owed it to Gaudet, that he should have somehow been able to prevent the torment sooner? Not to mention the fact that the missions given to him by Dee were the only thing to bring any semblance of meaning to his days, that he had nothing, was nothing, without these carefully scripted tasks.
“I gave my word,” he offered as hopelessly inadequate explanation, wishing that he had a drink.
“If I stop talking, I will start remembering.” Gaudet’s voice had lost its lightness. “Let us talk about something that will interest you.”
“I am not very interesting, Monsieur,” he told his companion. “You have a knack for conversation and small talk that I find I quite envy.”
“I have never done well with silence.”
“Do you read?”
“I do.”
“Well.” William seized on that. “What do you like?”
“You tell me what you like first,” Gaudet urged, smiling as Papillon hopped into William’s lap. “Mistress Pap enjoys all the classics, of course, and the scandal sheets, too.”
“History,” William admitted. “It is comforting to know that everything has been entirely messed up many times before.”
“But the lessons are never learned, and innocent lives are the price that is paid.”
“If we are going to start talking like that,” he decided, “we need a drink.”
“You were very annoyed at my chatting to that charming bosomy barmaid.” Gaudet sat up and reached for the carefully discarded crimson coat. As he went on, he slipped his hand into the pocket and retrieved a silvery flask, adding devilishly, “But it paid off.”
“What is it?” William was surprised before realizing he probably shouldn’t be. “And how did you manage that?”
“Brandy in this one”—a second bottle appeared—“and claret in the other. It took a smile, a wink and a flutter of my exquisite eyelashes.”
“Impressive,” William had to concede, something making him add, “but I cannot deprive you of your bounty.”
“Then we shall save it for another day,” Gaudet said, replacing the flasks.
“I don’t dislike you.” William yawned, feeling suddenly helpless. “I am just used to being alone.”
“Whereas I cannot bear it—a fine pair we are!” Gaudet shook his head and decided, “Let us try to get along…”
William looked at Gaudet, the apparent sincerity in the playwright’s face finding him nodding in agreement. “It might be an improvement over bickering.”
“We will still bicker,” Gaudet assured him with a cheeky wink. “And it will keep my mind alert.”
“And no doubt your tongue,” William heard himself add.
“My tongue is never short of a task…” Gaudet arched one immaculate eyebrow. “Taken alongside my bottom and myriad other delightful qualities, you are quite the chap to be envied.”
“You think there are others who would want to be in my position?”
“I know there are many who would—really, I am usually pursued by everyone from duchesses to actors and everything in between. How I have remained a virgin is a mystery,” Gaudet told him piously.
William wondered briefly how the conversation had taken this particular turn, more certain than ever that anything was possible when the Frenchman opened his mouth. “I would not want to venture an explanation for that.”
“Of course, when I bared my arse to a passing scandal rag publisher in the Strand, I was beset by marriage proposals. It is quite exhausting being me. You should feel privileged.” Gaudet gave a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. “We should travel by night, I cannot risk my skin. It has taken forever to attain this natural paleness. I will not be burnished.”
“We must travel when it is safe and expedient to do so,” was William’s well-drilled response. “Day and night.”
“When we are back in England, I will take you out on the town to say thank you.” Gaudet’s smile faded just a little before he recovered it, though his green eyes grew darker. “And I will never, ever try to be the hero of the hour again.”
“There are no such things as heroes,” William told him quietly, his own memories too close for comfort. “You are either lucky, or you are not.”
“I had not seen the guillotine before that day,” Gaudet admitted, all levity gone. “I shall not soon forget it. Did you see what that animal did to Philippe? There is no dignity afforded, even in death…”
“Turn your mind from it,” William advised. “Otherwise it will drive you quite mad.”
“When they come to England, they must know no more sadness, no more loss…”
“That is impossible,” was William’s rueful reply. “But I believe you will make sure they have less than most people.”
“And you…you are…what? Are you a secret agent of some sort? Are you Dee?”
“Dee?” The very thought that he might be that controlled, organized spymaster filled William with amusement. “Goodness no, I am not.”
“I had my doubts about you from the start.” Gaudet yawned. “For a torturer, you did precious little actual torturing. The tall chap has the gravity of a spymaster whereas you do not have that look.”
“Indeed. And what do I look like, then?”
“A man who is no stranger to confusion.”
William considered that for a long moment, deciding not to ask if that was a compliment as he examined the sleeve of his coat. “Hm.”
“You should ‘hm’ at such a drab garment—my wardrobe on Berkeley Square fills an entire room, a second houses my shoes, jewels and make up. One should shimmer!”
“I have no time nor need for any of that.” William shook his head, no words to explain what his own shimmering life had once been, much less what had brought him here. “Not anymore.”
“Why would one choose not to shimmer and sparkle?” Gaudet enquired, clearly perplexed.
“Do you ever—?” He cut himself off. “We should sleep.”
“Do I ever?”
Want to give up? Feel as though everything is utterly worthless? Wish you could undo the last five years and have a chance to put things right?
Gaudet was watching him expectantly and William settled for, “Wonder what the point is.”
“The point”—Gaudet was suddenly on his feet and William thought for one awful moment that he might burst into song—“is to sparkle. We have but one life, it is for living!”
“I have the impression that you will live enough for both of us.” Feeling suddenly bone weary, William unfastened his coat, slipping out of it with a tired sigh.
“What is your name?” Before William had a chance to reply, Gaudet spoke again, telling him, “Your real name—just the first one if you wish?”
He deliberated on that, turning what should be a simple request over in his mind. Dee would tell him to use a false name, he knew, even as he admitted, “My name is William.”
“A nice name—it suits you.”
He had nothing to say in response, closing his eyes briefly as he fought the ridiculous urge to take it back, to reclaim the name that was used by so few now.
“Guillaume.” The French version of his name rolled off the playwright’s tongue with almost indecent decadence and he found, absurdly, his cheeks coloring.
“Indeed.”
“Guillaume Bobbins.” Gaudet dropped into an extravagant courtly bow. “Good evening.”
“You look as if you are about to ask me to dance.” William had to smile when the playwright offered his hand for a second, as though they might be about to take a turn on the floor. “It has been a long time since I danced.”
Gaudet sighed and turned away, murmuring, “Or smiled. Or laughed.” With that, he settled on his own meagre bed of straw, twisting and turning as he clearly tried to find some respite from the still-healing wounds on his back. Finally, though, he drew the poodle to rest beside him and said, “Goodnight, Guillaume and Papillon.”
“Goodnight,” William murmured in return, though he suspected he would not sleep, despite his weariness. Instead he lay peering into the darkness until he drifted off, Gaudet’s pronunciation of his name following him into dreams.
Chapter Sixteen
Tessier swilled the coffee that remained in his cup and looked through the murky glass to the clouds that swirled above, black as night in the middle of the day. They seemed to press down on Paris, threatening to engulf the filth and the chaos, to choke those who traveled its thoroughfares and lived wretched lives within its walls. He had seen the city from both sides in his thirty-four years on Earth, had been turned away from church by a ruddy-cheeked, gout-hobbled priest who feared that the little boy’s bare feet might offend the ladies who came to open their purses and confess their decadency. There had been precious little gold in his life, the color of the altar cloth more dazzling than any he had seen and, refused entry to this most holy,
most palatial of places, the boy who had grown to be Tessier had spent his days at the door, hands clasped in prayer whilst his eyes had seen nothing but excess.
He had been both repelled and fascinated by the gaudy, painted creatures who’d fluttered past him as though he were another rat in the gutter to be ignored. They’d thrown the occasional coin to appease their good Catholic consciences even as they’d pressed fresh, white handkerchiefs to powdered noses and turned away from the half-starved wretch who’d bowed his head in deference. He could still recall the sound of their rustling silk gowns as they’d passed, the hoof-like clatter of brocaded shoes on the nave and the empty, simpering platitudes of the priest and his hangers-on.
So pious as they’d swept past him, so brazen as they’d left…
There was nothing sacred about the gods they worshipped.
The women had been intoxicating in their exoticism. He would watch his mother with her blackened teeth and sagging skin and try to imagine her as one of the ladies who frequented the church. In his mind’s eye, he took her patched, tatty clothes and redrew them as gowns of silk and lace, painted her sallow cheeks with powder and rouge and covered her lank hair with a tall wig, ringlets framing a face that he could not imagine had ever been anything other than tired.
Then the woman was no longer his mother and he’d found her so much easier to loathe, to blame.
What kind of woman births a bastard in this unforgiving world?
Sometimes, Tessier would catch a glimpse of one of those sorry figures who sold themselves in the street or fell senseless with drink into the mud and see not the face of a stranger. Instead he saw the mother he had abandoned when he had been just seven years old, the woman with no time for the son who had become a burden. She hadn’t even bothered to draw the curtain around her bed on that last night, no sense of shame as she’d fumbled and rutted with another man whose name she would never know. In that freezing room that had been their tiny world, he’d turned his face to the wall and thought of the perfumed ladies in their silk, the god who granted only the prayers that came plated with gold.
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