by Jane Feather
“By fishing boat from Lymington to Cherbourg.”
“And you traveled with Praed.” It was not a question but a simple assertion.
Gabrielle controlled her features as her mind whirled. How did Fouché know that? Surely Talleyrand hadn’t told him. She glanced at her godfather. His expression was inscrutable.
“Yes,” she said.
Fouché’s mouth moved in the semblance of a smile. “You seem uncertain, madame.”
“No, I’m not in the least uncertain,” she retorted. “But I’m wondering how you knew that.”
“You were traveling on one of my laissez passer, madame. When you entered Caen, you showed the pass at the city gates. My men take note of such things.”
“And they recognized Lord Praed?”
He shook his head. “No, but I was making a lucky guess.”
Merde! He was a slimy, tricky bastard! But could they have seen Jake? He’d been asleep in the coach most of that first day, and she was almost positive the city guards hadn’t looked inside the carriage. Nathaniel had been riding alongside, of course.
“So, perhaps you could tell me where we might find Lord Praed?” Fouché suggested. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and felt in his pocket for his sulphur matches. Catching his host’s eye, he changed his mind and put the cigar on the table, reaching instead for his brandy goblet.
Gabrielle saw Guillaume’s body, lying in her arms, the small crimson stain on the smooth, pale flesh of his back. She watched the stain spread and felt her arms grow heavy with his weight as the buoyancy of life left him. She heard again that strange little sound, half protest, half surprise, as the knife found its mark.
Nathaniel Praed had robbed Guillaume de Granville of life and Gabrielle de Beaucaire of a man she’d loved more than life itself.
“Madame?” Fouché prompted, leaning forward in his chair so that his face came close to hers.
“No,” she heard herself say, her voice sounding distant, as if it were coming from the rustic pavilion all those months ago. “No, I don’t know where he is. He wouldn’t tell me. He said I would be contacted.”
“And have you yet been?”
Gabrielle had an image of the flower seller in the hands of Fouché’s policemen. She shook her head. “Not as yet.”
“I see.” Fouché was frowning. “Forgive me, madame, but you seem a little uncertain of your answers.”
“I detect no uncertainty, Fouché.” Talleyrand spoke for the first time during the interview. His smile was urbane as he refilled his guest’s glass. “Gabrielle is always one to weigh her words.”
“I am also somewhat fatigued,” Gabrielle said. “It was a long journey. I’ve told you as much as I can about the situation in England, and what I discovered among Lord Praed’s private papers. If there’s nothing else …” She rose from her chair.
“No, you’ve been most helpful, madame,” Fouché said, rising with her, his eyes skimming over her face with a glitter that made her shiver. “You will, of course, inform me the minute the English spymaster makes contact.”
“Bien sur,” she said.
“Well, I must take my leave, Talleyrand.” Fouché bowed. “I’ll use the rear door, as usual. No, no …” he protested as Talleyrand reached for the bellpull. “There’s no need to summon a servant. I can find my own way.”
“I’m sure you can, my friend, but I wouldn’t dream of it,” Talleyrand murmured with his calm smile. “Escort Monsieur Fouché to the door, André,” he instructed the footman, who’d appeared so fast he must have been standing outside the door.
The door closed and Talleyrand shook his head with a grimace of distaste. “As if I’d be fool enough to let him wander unescorted through my house. He’d probably steal the silver.”
Gabrieile’s smile was a feeble attempt. “Do you think he believed me?”
Her godfather shook his head. “No. He took you by surprise, as he intended, and I’m sure he learned a lot more than you wanted him to. It’s his way.”
“But if he doesn’t believe me, why did he let it go?”
Talleyrand shrugged. “You’re a private citizen with powerful friends. He can’t haul you off to his dungeons unless you do something overtly treacherous. I’m sure hell try to discover why you lied, and you can be certain he’ll be watching you.”
“Yes.” She turned to the door. “I’m sure he will.”
“Just as a matter of interest, why did you lie? Because of the child? Even if Fouché captures the spymaster, I can protect the child. Hell be of no use to Fouché anyway, once he has Praed in his clutches.”
“I know … and I don’t know why I lied. I didn’t think I was going to, when I thought of Guillaume, and then I just did.” She shrugged. “I’ll have to warn Nathaniel that Fouché knows he’s somewhere in the city.”
“You will be endangering yourself by protecting him,” Talleyrand pointed out.
“But Nathaniel’s still more use to you alive than dead, isn’t he?”
“Most certainly. But I can always find another conduit.”
“And another seductress?”
“If necessary.”
“It is a dirty business.”
“That can’t come as a revelation, ma fille.”
“No, of course it doesn’t. Bonne nuit, mon parrain.”
In the quiet of her chamber, Gabrielle lay open-eyed in bed on her back, arms folded behind her head. The room was lit only by the glowing embers of the dying fire. Why had she lied? Guillaume would have condemned Nathaniel Praed as coldly as Nathaniel had condemned him. Why had she passed up the opportunity to do the same? It would have been a perfectly fitting revenge, and a few short weeks ago she would have jumped at it.
But when she stirred the coals in her heart, searching for that clear, bright spark of hatred and vengeful determination, she found it was no longer there. She hadn’t been aware of its passing, so when had it died? She’d told Talleyrand she was still prepared to use Nathaniel to further her godfather’s political machinations. How true was that, now? Whether it was true or not, she could no longer imagine causing him direct harm.
Her grief for Guillaume was still a living flame, but it had become somehow detached from the everyday world. Instead of being intrinsic, the one fact through which she filtered everything else, it was now a totally separate emotion that had nothing to do with anything eke.
And nothing at all to do with her passion for Nathaniel Praed.
“So where did you find him?” Fouché regarded the sniveling lad held between two burly policemen with an air of mild curiosity.
“In a tavern behind the flower market, monsieur. He’s got more money on him than he could expect to earn in an honest lifetime.” The speaker backhanded the youth, who cringed, blood already flowing from a split lip, one eye swollen and purple.
“We’ve been watching the market ever since that tip from One-Eye Gilles.”
“Ah, yes.” Fouché pulled his chin. “He said he’d heard about some strangers who were throwing their money around rather freely, didn’t he?”
“Yes, monsieur. Not that we’ve seen any signs, and you know old One-Eye. He’s so far into the drink, he’d see goblins if he thought you’d pay him for saying so.”
“Mmm. So, what have you got to say for yourself, boy?” He turned to the prisoner with a ferocious stare, his voice rising almost to a shout.
“I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” the lad whispered, trying to back away from the hands gripping his elbows. “I just runs errands for the old besom who runs the flower stall.”
Fouché looked with calculated incredulity at the leather purse in his hand. Deliberately, he shook the contents onto the table. A small pile of gleaming silver caught the light from the tallow candles. “Well, well,” he murmured. “A few errands for an ancient crone who sells flowers? It seems we have a millionairess in our flower market, gentlemen.”
There were dutiful guffaws, and amid them the lad fell to his knees beneath a stunning blow
from one of his guards. “He chucked some piece of paper in the river, monsieur, when we nabbed him.” A booted foot made contact with the captive’s shin.
“Easy, easy,” Fouché reproved his men mildly. “Let’s not get carried away now.” He approached the prisoner and deliberately aimed a kick into his belly. “How about you tell me the truth, before there’s any more unpleasantness?” he suggested in the same mild tone.
The lad lay curled in the fetal position on the floor, gasping for breath.
“Pick him up.” Fouché lit a cigar, watching as they hauled the youth to his feet. He hung from their hands, his eyes streaming, his mouth half open with pain and shock.
“The truth now.” Fouché drew deeply on his cigar and blew the smoke into the prisoner’s face. “Tell me about these errands.”
“I takes messages,” the lad wheezed. “Messages from the flower seller”
“To where?”
“Rue Budé, rue Gambardin, sometimes rue Vallansaires … please, monsieur, that’s all I does. Really,” he gabbled. “It’s the truth, I swear it.”
“And what do these messages say?”
The boy shook his head miserably. “Don’t know. I can’t read.”
“No, I suppose you can’t. And who receives these messages.”
The boy wiped blood from his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes were wild with terror. “Whoever opens the door, monsieur.”
“And who pays your?”
“Whoever opens the door. Ordinary folks.”
Fouché glanced again at the glittering coins. The inhabitants of the streets the youth had cited were unlikely to possess such riches.
“And where were you supposed to deliver your last message, the one you managed to lose in the river?”
“Rue Budé.” The lad looked as if he knew he’d just signed his own death warrant. “But I didn’t know it was important, honest, monsieur.”
Fouché raised an eyebrow. “Presumably that’s why you felt it necessary to dispose of it. What number rue Budé?”
“Number Thirteen, monsieur. Please, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Please let me go, monsieur. You can keep the money, please let me go.”
“Are you trying to bribe one of his imperial majesty’s ministers?” demanded Fouché. “Dear me, lad. Take him away.” He jerked his head to the door, and the two guards dragged their captive out of the small bare room that served Napoleon’s Minister of Police as his office.
Fouché nodded to himself, puffing on his cigar. It was at times like this when his policy of direct involvement in all aspects of the police work in the city paid off. His men knew that nothing was too insignificant to be of concern to the minister.
Number 13 rue Budé was clearly worth a visit. It might not turn up anything … but it might yield the grand prize. The English spymaster was somewhere in this city and the Comtesse de Beaucaire knew where.
There was a soiree at Madame de Staél’s that night. The countess would be there, of course. Maybe, he would drop a little word in her ear and see if he got a reaction.
He would order the raid for the early hours of the following morning. Birds rarely flew their nests before dawn, and it was the best time for invoking terror, when men’s spirits were at their lowest. A troop of black-clad secret police wreaking havoc on Île St. Louis would certainly deter its inhabitants from turning a blind eye to strangers, however well the strangers might pay for their cooperation.
Gabrielle was engaged in an animated discussion in Madame de Staél’s salon with Prince Metternich, the Austrian ambassador, when Fouché entered.
She felt his eyes on her and glanced up. He was standing in the doorway, surveying the brilliant social gathering with an air of contempt. The Minister of Police was no intellectual, and the refinements of the mind held no appeal.
“Your pardon, comtesse. Have I lost your attention?”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” She turned back to her companion with a laughing apology. Metternich was a man much like her godfather. One of the ablest politicians and diplomats on the European stage, but still not quite a match for Talleyrand. But they liked and respected each other. “I had the unmistakable sense that Monsieur Fouché was trying to catch my attention.”
“Then let us go and greet him.” The prince rose with a gallant bow and offered his arm.
Gabrielle took it, finding herself glad of his company. If one was uneasy with Fouché, it was always more comfortable to talk with him in company.
“Monsieur Fouché. You are not often seen in such circles.” She greeted him easily. “You are acquainted with Prince Metternich, of course.”
“Of course.” The two men exchanged bows.
“I was feeling in an expansive mood, countess,” Fouché said, smiling. “I think I may have discovered the whereabouts of our elusive friend.”
Ice ran in her veins. Gabrielle smiled. “Your pardon, monsieur. Which elusive friend?”
“Why, your traveling companion, madame. It seems possible he’s come to rest somewhere on the Île St. Louis.”
He watched her with the hawk’s eye of an expert interrogator and detected an almost imperceptible flicker in the corner of her eye. “You are to be congratulated, Monsieur Fouché,” Gabrielle said calmly. “To have discovered that so quickly.”
“I have an ear in every corner of this city, madame,” he said with another bow. “If you’d excuse me, I must greet my hostess.”
He moved off, sliding through the throng, a slight smile of satisfaction on his thin lips.
“A brutish man,” Metternich remarked. “But superlative at his job.”
“Oh, yes,” Gabrielle agreed. “Superlative. Would you escort me to my godfather, prince?”
“But of course.”
Talleyrand saw them approach and frowned. Gabrielle was paler than usual.
“I have the headache, mon parrain,” she said. “May I take the carriage, and send it back for you?”
“No, I will escort you home.” He offered her his arm. “Prince, I would welcome the opportunity for a discussion. Perhaps you would dine with me tomorrow.”
“I should be delighted.” Metternich bowed himself away and Gabrielle and her godfather left.
“So?” he said once they were ensconced in the carriage.
He heard her out in silence. “You will put yourself at great risk if you warn Praed,” he pointed out when she’d finished. “I will ensure the child’s safety. That much I can safely promise you. But if you do this, I cannot guarantee to protect you from Fouché.”
“I understand.” Gabrielle sat back in the swaying carriage, the lights from passing vehicles flickering across the window. Was she about to risk her own life for Nathaniel? She would have done so for Guillaume without thought. But she’d felt differently about Guillaume. He’d been the one great love of her life. There wasn’t room in one life for two such overwhelming loves. What she had with Nathaniel was passion. It wasn’t love.
“I have to do it,” she heard herself say as if her mind and her voice operated separately from each other.
Talleyrand merely nodded.
19
Gabrielle took five minutes in rue d’Anjou to fling off her evening gown and change into her britches. She thrust her pistol into her pocket, wrapped a cloak around her, tucking her hair beneath the hood, and ran back to the carriage, still waiting at the door.
“The flower market, Gaston. As fast as you can.”
“D’ accord, comtesse.” The driver touched the peak of his cap and cracked his whip.
She sat on the edge of the seat as the vehicle swung around corners, the team of horses obeying the urgent encouragement of the driver’s whip.
She wouldn’t allow herself to think of anything but the immediate plan. She had to get there ahead of Fouché’s men. That was all she needed to consider. Nathaniel would have an escape route, just as Guillaume had always had. So long as he had enough warning, he would escape the trap.
The carriage came to a halt in
the eerily deserted square that in the daylight was a riot of color and a bubble of noise as the flower sellers jostled and competed for customers. Gabrieile’s feet echoed on the cobbles as she jumped down, looking round at the silent buildings flanking the square, the central pump, the wooden struts that supported the canvas awnings, it was a stage set waiting for the drama to commence. It had been raining earlier, and puddles glistened in the faint moonlight and the ground was slippery underfoot.
She ran through the narrow streets at the side of the vast edifice of Notre Dame, its crenelated spires reaching above the pitched roofs, arrowing into the rain-washed sky. She crossed the bridge to Île St. Louis and plunged into the darkness of its central cobbled street, so narrow that the night sky was a mere dark sliver between the opposing roofs.
She splashed in puddles heedless of the debris that clung to her boots and the hem of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the corner of rue Budé ahead.
Suddenly she heard the tramp of booted feet behind her. She dived into a doorway, pressing back into the shadows as she looked up the street. A group of lanterns was advancing. Her heart jumped into her throat. There were six men, all holding lanterns on poles, all bearing staves, all clad in the distinctive black cloak and black cocked hat of Fouché’s police.
They were heading toward rue Budé.
Gabrielle dived into rue le Regrattier, her mind racing, her heart thundering in her chest as she ran toward the river. She would have to approach the house from the Quai d’Orléans. Less direct, but she had the advantage of speed and she knew they were there. Fouché’s men didn’t know they were running a race.
Her pistol was in her hand now as she ran faster than she believed possible, her breath sobbing in her throat. A huddled figure in a doorway yelled something after her, but she ignored him. A dog set up a frantic barking from a backyard and a woman’s voice screamed abuse. The dog howled as something struck the ground with a violent clatter.
Gabrielle kept running. Two men lurched out of a tavern, too inebriated to do more than blink bemusedly as the lithe figure sped past them. Then one of them lumbered forward in pursuit but quickly gave it up as Gabrielle disappeared around the corner of rue Budé.
