“I’ll drink to that.” Gaudet’s tone shone with happiness. “And if you ever need a hero, I will be there in full makeup and new silk stockings.”
“With your poodle…”
“And my good friend, Guillaume.”
“All in one bed together…”
“Even the locket.” Gaudet lowered the sheet onto his chest to show the small trinket that hung around his neck. “Just in case Sylvie gets itchy fingers.”
William was glad he was holding the bottle, thus removing the sudden temptation to reach out to touch the delicate necklace. “You think she would?”
“She already did when I was between this world and the next above the workshop—that boy of hers retrieved and returned it to me.” Gaudet’s hand closed momentarily over the exquisitely painted poppy. “Without it, we would not have found my sister.”
“You will be reunited before very long,” William told him with certainty. “Have no fear of that.”
“I believe you will get us there—you put paid to Yves Morel, after all.”
“Hm.” William took a quick drink, that particular episode of his life one he would rather not remember. “It was hardly anything.”
“To the contrary—the man was a devil, his reputation preceded him…and you put paid to him and stole his very name.”
William almost laughed at that, the thought that he had acquired such a reputation when the act of dispatching the hated Morel had been nothing more than a rather fortuitously timed accident. “That is what they say.”
“Tell me.” Gaudet propped himself up on his elbow, green eyes glittering in the candlelight. “How did you do it?”
There were any number of lies he could have told, countless tales he could have fabricated to satisfy the Frenchman’s curiosity. He might be a duelist, a swordsman, a cunning poisoner, anything he so chose. Instead, William took a breath, admitting in the next moment, “It was a mistake.”
There was something, a flicker in Gaudet’s face and the playwright whispered teasingly, “I know.”
“Really.” William shook his head. “It was an accident. A complete and utter accident.”
“Any man who killed Morel would have shot Tessier’s cook on the spot.” Gaudet smiled. “So tell all.”
“You must promise”—William wondered even as he spoke what on earth he was doing—“not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“I swear it, and my word is as strong as my perfume.”
“I was there.” William took another long drink from the bottle. “I was gathering information and had been sent to meet Morel…”
Gaudet nodded, eyes still wide.
“We’d had an evening drinking, eating, you know how it is. I’d actually had a bit too much, in truth.”
“And ended up in bed with a gorgeous playwright and his poodle.”
William rolled his eyes. “Do you want to hear it or not?”
“I do.”
“We were walking along, when I tripped—I still don’t know over what.” William took a deep breath, recalling the utter surreality of it all, the ignominious eye of the man who’d laid waste to the south. “I fell into Morel, hard, and he stumbled in turn—cracked his head and never got up again.”
“So…” Gaudet’s eyes narrowed as he processed this confession. “You killed one of the most feared men in France, the icon of the Revolution in the south, the man who slashed and burned through thousands…with clumsiness?”
William considered for a long moment. “Yes.”
“Does Dee, who isn’t Dee but we both know is, know?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then we shall say nothing, either, choux.”
“I didn’t mean for people to think what they think,” William explained earnestly, never having actually told anyone that he had killed Morel, after all. “It just…happened.”
“And when you are done here in France, where will you go? More adventures?”
“I’ll go”—he passed the bottle back to Gaudet with a sigh—“wherever I am sent.”
“No more for me, or I will be giddy. Will you tarry in London long enough to see a play and take supper with me?”
“That depends.” William closed his eyes briefly. “On a lot of things.”
“Tell me them, and I shall solve them.”
Could it really be that simple, he wondered as he met Gaudet’s gaze, to just hand his problems over to a Frenchman? “I don’t,” he told him instead, “stay in any place for too long.”
“Why? If you saw my house on Berkeley Square, you would not want to leave. It is a mix of Versailles and a seraglio.”
Why indeed. William thought again of London, of the house that even the servants had long left, the dust-shrouded marble, the empty shell of a life that he sought with everything in him to forget. “Perhaps you might venture farther afield. I spend a deal of time in the country—”
“I have a home in Bath but…somewhere rural, you say?” Gaudet nodded, settling down onto the pillow once more and declared, “I accept your invitation, Bobbins. I would love to spend a retreat at your country home. I cannot wait. We will have such fun!”
Again, William found he couldn’t bring himself to crush the Frenchman’s enthusiasm, though he would not hesitate with any other. Gaudet was so very happy about the world, he realized, and it was becoming ever more difficult to shake it off.
“And a countrified Christmas is always magical.” Gaudet clapped. “You and I, Claudine and François—not Queen Charlotte, though I know she adores Christmas with me. No matter, she can have me for Easter. How marvelous it shall be!”
“How marvelous,” William managed. “Indeed.”
“Such a warm night.” Gaudet yawned. “One might almost forget the trouble we are in.”
It was, he realized, warm indeed, the shirt and breeches he still wore uncomfortable in the summer that Gaudet so reveled in. He felt sweat bead his brow, sure the temperature must be all that was causing a surge of heat to course through his veins.
“Stuffy in here.” William stifled a yawn, giving in as he loosened the neck of his shirt in a vain attempt to get cool.
“Take it off, Bobbins, you are sweating fit to drown—of course, that might be my presence.”
‘Take it off’ indeed. The invitation suddenly seemed like the most decadent and dangerous in the world, though William hardly knew why, or was hardly willing to admit it. He resisted a moment longer then threw caution to the wind, pulling the shirt over his head and casting it onto the floor before making sure to cover himself once more with the bedlinen.
“Better?”
“Better,” he confirmed. “Now, to sleep.”
“To sleep,” Gaudet agreed, adding for good measure, “Goodnight, Guillaume.”
“Goodnight.” William found himself already drifting. “Goodnight.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Two days after the impromptu party, the group traveled on in companionable silence and considerable comfort. No questions were asked as to how the inestimable Adam had secured a coach and four, but all were glad of it. The tranquil journey was broken by the occasional chatter of Bastien and Harriet, the little boy taking obvious comfort in the enthusiastic company of the older girl. Nights had passed without incident, days so peaceful one might have almost forgotten they were fleeing the forces of the revolutionary government. Now they sat outside their latest coaching inn, but Gaudet and Papillon were still inside.
Finally, as the sun emerged from behind a cloud to throw a brilliant ray of light onto the carriage, Gaudet emerged from the inn, Pap tucked under his arm and his handkerchief clutched to eyes that were wet with tears. A barmaid trotted with him, muttering obvious platitudes, gently patting his shoulder. Upon reaching the carriage he bid the woman a forlorn farewell and climbed into the vehicle, immediately sinking back into the squabs.
“Is there something in your eye?” William enquired, his tone businesslike.
“Little Louis-Charles.”
Gaudet shook his head, bringing the handkerchief to his eyes again.
He was surprised and gratified to find himself rewarded with an awkward pat to the shoulder from William, before, apparently realizing what he was doing, the Englishman cleared his throat and sat back in his seat. “Yes. Well.”
“The king is dying,” Gaudet managed to sob. “The poor little fellow, all alone in that terrible place.”
He was aware of William and Dee exchanging glances, Dee finally commenting, “Sad news indeed.”
“He and I used to have such games, the little mite.”
“Would brandy help?” William asked.
“It is not yet nine. Brandy would not help at all,” Gaudet decided, lost once more in the thoughts of times long passed, of friends long gone, of the world that had been smashed.
There was silence for a moment, then William passed a fine handkerchief his way. He took it in a delicate grip, preoccupied with the pressing thought of the imprisoned child, of the terror he had experienced as an adult in the hands of his jailers, let alone a boy of little more than nine years old.
“I have good friends five hours or so along the road and today is the start of their village festival,” the professor told Gaudet with unmistakable kindness in his voice. “Harriet longs to see it and I believe you will find the celebrations a tonic, Monsieur.”
“A festival,” Sylvie piped up. “Just what we need.”
“A chance to forget our woes.” Dee turned to Bastien, who nodded. “Before we push on to Le Havre.”
“Excellent.” William’s tone was far too cheerful. “Excellent!”
“And, perhaps,” Dee chanced, even as Gaudet lifted his unhappy gaze to meet the professor’s own, “you will toast the little king’s name.”
“Imagine being my age,” Bastien murmured thoughtfully. “And a king—poor bloody bastard, who’d want that?”
Sylvie nudged him with her foot, saying, “No one asked you, did they?”
“Could’ve been worse.” He fixed his mother with an insolent gaze. “They might’ve chopped his kingly block off.”
“We’ll be chopping yours off,” came William’s response, “if you say one more word on the matter.”
“One day,” Bastien shifted his mischievous gaze to William, “they’ll chop Vincent Tessier’s block off and I’ll kick it from Paris to bloody London, cheering all the way.”
“Enough talk of chopping off blocks,” Dee declared. “There shall be no blocks being chopped today.”
“A child is a child whether he is king or rag seller,” Gaudet said, watching the little boy, who shifted slightly, a glimmer of shame crossing his eyes. “And no child deserves the fate he has suffered, Master Dupire.”
“So, let’s all shut up,” Sylvie added, nudging her son again, “and enjoy the view.”
“I know what view you’re viewing.” Bastien shrugged, exchanging an amused smile with Harriet. “But I’d rather enjoy the scenery, thank you very much.”
“Shut your mouth,” Sylvie told him abruptly, before, cheeks red, she likewise turned her attention to the view outside the carriage.
As the minutes grew into hours, Gaudet remained silent, stroking the comforting coat of the poodle. He wondered why his back hurt more today than ever, why a man might be treated as the late king had been, what might become of the infant nephew he had not even met. He had no wish for festivals and dancing, wanting solitude and silence, somewhere to hide himself away until this sorry year had ended.
William remained silent beside Gaudet, perhaps just a touch closer than usual, and when he looked up he found the Englishman watching him, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, they regarded each other then, finally, Gaudet spoke.
“What they said of his mother,” he whispered, still able to feel Marie Antoinette’s hand soft in his as they had danced, hear her tinkling laughter. “She was innocent of it all.”
“I have no thought regarding that,” came the careful reply. “One way or another.”
“You have no thought,” his voice grew firmer, a flame of anger already rising unbidden in his gut, “on the matter of a mother accused of congress with her own son? You have no thought on it?”
“I merely meant that I give no credence to rumors,” William replied stiffly. “As you told the brat, the loss of a life is a tragedy and I had not gone further than that.”
At the slight against him, Bastien kicked William hard in the shin as Gaudet snapped, “Then you are a cool customer indeed.” With that he folded his arms tightly and turned his eyes to the window, shaking his head once or twice to drive the point home. Let them all be damned, he decided, for no one could mend his humor today.
It was many hours later that the carriage rolled to a welcome halt in the courtyard of an unexpectedly large, rather ramshackle farmhouse. The yard was busy with workers and cattle and when their driver opened the carriage door he was not alone. Instead, Adam had one arm around the waist of a very admiring young lady who was already cooing over the fact that he owed her a dance from their last encounter at carnival.
“Monsieur Adam,” Sylvie told him with a knowing smile, “you really do know everybody.”
With a wave of his hand to the woman, her bosoms more prominent than any Gaudet had seen outside of a seraglio, Gaudet followed Dee into the farmhouse to meet their new hosts. They were greeted with warm embraces and booming salutations by a farmer and wife who certainly were not suffering from food shortages, each and every member of the party shown a welcome better suited to a long-lost friend, not a weary, carriage-sore stranger. Innumerable children darted this way and that and Bastien and Harriet were happy to join them, the whole family clearly well known to Dee and his daughter at least.
William hung back at the door, not quite joining the group even as he nodded greetings of his own. Gaudet, however, barely noticed where he was or who was with him, relieved when he was shown to a small, neat room. There he collapsed onto the bed, fresh sobs coming as soon as the door was closed, his body racked with misery as it had not been since his escape from the old nursery. The world was ending, and but for the poodle, he had never felt more alone, more desolate.
I am not used to such silence.
It was some time later that a knock came at the door, decidedly tentative, and Gaudet blinked into the present, catching the aroma of roasting meat on the air.
“I shall be down presently,” he called with affected good humor, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. “Never fear!”
“We’re to share a room again,” William called back apologetically. “Me and you and the poodle.”
Trying to ignore the very slight surge of cheer that news gave him, Gaudet roused himself from the bed. Pap trotted beside Gaudet as he crossed to open the door and peered out, little caring what a sorry sight he made. “Do you wish to view the room, Guillaume?”
“I wish to hide in it.”
“Then by all means do.”
“If I had another handkerchief,” William told him, slipping through the open door, “I would give it to you.”
“Are you carnival-bound?”
“I doubt it.” William sank down to sit on the thin mattress. Gaudet watched him, thinking that a shave might not go amiss. Or maybe it would, for the Englishman did have a certain rugged appeal with the shade of stubble that covered his jaw. “Because I have no wish to tag along after Sylvie making eyes at the professor, her brat kicked me, and the carriage man and I hardly have anything in common.”
“The carriage man has the most delightfully cheeky look, don’t you think? I have never seen such broad shoulders that were not carved in marble.” Gaudet sighed, shaking his head. “Yet even that fails to cheer me tonight.”
“You would rather I left you alone.”
Gaudet hardly knew what he wanted, though he was sure now that solitude was the worst of it, that being alone allowed one far too much time and space to think. “What if Claudine and her boy end up like they did? What if we
are too late?”
“Of course we aren’t.” William’s tone was firm. He passed one hand though his dark hair, ruffling it free of the road’s dust. “They await you in Le Havre.”
“What stupid sort of a sister would risk her life, her child, for a gemstone?” Gaudet asked angrily, pacing the room to peer from the window into the yard beneath, where Adam and Bastien were unharnessing the horses, the farm children dashing around them excitedly. “Antonia would not have wanted that.”
Somewhere in the distance music struck up, a lone fiddle at first playing a jaunty tune that was soon joined by more, along with the sound of cheering, childish feet pounding along the hallway outside. It seemed almost ridiculous to hear the sounds of merriment in the midst of such misery—it was mocking, ludicrous, the cruel response of a world gone mad.
How could people be happy?
“You should go and have fun,” Gaudet eventually whispered, though whether to himself or William was unclear. As Sylvie emerged into the yard, he watched the calculated manner she let her hand rest on her hip and tossed her gloss-black hair back over one shoulder, and he knew that this was the woman who had betrayed them all, had led his brother-in-law to the scaffold. “How I loathe that woman.”
“And she has set her cap at our spymaster…”
“Don’t be so sure.” Gaudet had written more than enough such scheming minxes in his time, after all—women like Sylvie Dupire were never all that they appeared to be. “She would have him and the coachman in the same bed if she could, always skulking around the men.”
“Don’t waste a thought on her tonight.” William shifted on the edge of the bed, testing it out with a small bounce before he concluded, “Well, it won’t collapse under the weight of two, which is always a good sign.”
“It will depend what we are doing in it.”
“Not,” William blinked, “trying to get the professor and the coachman into trouble, that is for sure.”
The Star of Versailles Page 17
