Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  “Whether or not you can be trusted.”

  She heard footsteps from inside approaching the door and held her breath, uncertain who would answer and praying she had correctly followed the Scarlet Pimpernel’s directions. But before the door opened, Sedgwick whispered in her ear. “I’m not to be trusted. Don’t forget that.”

  She turned to him, intending to ask what he meant by that statement, when the door opened and a pixie of a woman scowled at them. She was small, slim, and doll-like with her cropped blond hair and her large green eyes. She was also dressed in an Elizabethan costume complete with ruff and farthingale.

  “May I help you?” she asked in perfect, lilting French.

  “I…I don’t know,” Gabrielle said, suddenly realizing she didn’t know what she should tell this woman. Was she in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel or did she simply live at this address? Perhaps her husband was part of the League.

  “We were told to come here and await further instructions,” Sedgwick said. “I fear Citoyenne Leboeuf thinks we may have stumbled back in time.”

  The woman’s eyes lit, and she smiled, revealing dimples. “I’m off to the theater in a moment,” the woman explained. “I’m an actress at the People’s Theater.” She held the door open and stepped back. “Come in. I think I know who sent you.”

  Gabrielle and Sedgwick entered, and the pixie shut the door behind them with a bang. Gabrielle jumped, but the woman was already rushing to an adjacent parlor and peering through the closed draperies. “Are you mad?” she said in English, her attitude changing rapidly from pleasure to annoyance. “Why on earth would you come to the front door? Do you want me to be arrested?”

  “No,” Gabrielle glanced at Sedgwick, who shrugged. “My instructions didn’t specify a door—“

  “Are you really that naïve?” the woman said, rushing back into the small vestibule and peering out of a curtained window at the house across the street. “Never mind. I can see you are. You have no idea the danger you are in.”

  “I only want to help,” Gabrielle said.

  The woman shook her head. “Then try not getting me killed.”

  Sedgwick stepped smoothly between the two women. He extended his hand. “Ramsey, Earl of Sedgwick, and you are?”

  The pixie shook her head. “Don’t tell me your real name!” But with a sigh of resignation, she held out her hand. “Alexandra Martin. My friends call me Alex.”

  “You are English,” Gabrielle said.

  “Yes, and I don’t have an alias. I’m an actress, working in Paris. Who are you?” Before Gabrielle could answer, Alex held up a finger. “Not your real name.”

  “Gabrielle Leboeuf, lace maker,” Gabrielle said. “And this is Ramsey Delpierre, soldier.”

  Alex shook her head and mumbled something about poor casting. She started up the stairs. “Let me show you to your room. I have to be at the theater in a quarter of an hour.”

  Gabrielle followed, glad to finally have a place to lie down and close her eyes for a moment. She was still plagued with the image of the marquis’s violent death. Alex opened a door and said, “Voilà!” indicating a small but cheery room with a bed and a table. “Here you are.”

  She turned and made to descend the stairs again, but Gabrielle caught her arm. “Wait! We can’t possibly share a room.”

  Alex blinked at her, clearly in a hurry. “This is the only spare room I have.”

  “But—“

  “You’re not sleeping with me,” Alex said. But she turned to Sedgwick. “I might be willing to make allowances for you, though I doubt Bruno would look upon another man in my bed favorably.”

  “No need to anger Bruno,” Sedgwick said smoothly. “Citoyenne Leboeuf and I are grateful for the accommodations.”

  The actress nodded. “I’ll be home sometime after midnight. Try not to get into trouble.”

  “Wait!” Gabrielle called, and Alex frowned at her, clearly ready to be away. “I was told I’d be given further instructions.”

  Alex sighed. “You really know nothing! Very well, there’s a ball in Sainte Marguerite tonight—that’s a cemetery.”

  “A ball at a graveyard?” Gabrielle shivered.

  “You will be contacted at the ball. If you go, exit the back door. Never the front. You cannot know who might be watching.”

  “Thank you,” Sedgwick said.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Alex called over her shoulder as she tripped lightly down the stairs. “You’ll probably end up dead before the night is over.”

  “Well, that wasn’t very reassuring,” Gabrielle said when the sound of the door closing faded and she stood opposite Sedgwick in the small bedroom.

  “I don’t think our Miss Martin intended it to be. Paris is more dangerous than I anticipated.”

  Gabrielle privately agreed. She had expected…she didn’t know what she expected. Her own memories of Paris were full of laughter with Diana and her parents amid sunny spring days. This cold, hungry Paris was not one with which she was familiar. Certainly the people must have been hungry before, but she supposed she had never noticed. She felt ashamed of herself now, but not so ashamed that she could overlook the cold-blooded murder she’d witnessed at the West Gate. Not so ashamed she could condone the killing of King Louis. If any country had a more benign monarch, it was France. Poor Louis.

  Gabrielle feared the queen would certainly follow.

  Sedgwick moved into the bedroom and set his pack on the small bed. His actions reminded her Paris was dangerous for other reasons as well. How would she spend the night with Sedgwick in this small room? She was no virgin in need of a chaperone, but if any man ever tempted her to stray into sin, it was Sedgwick. She’d nearly begged him to make love to her in her cabin on the Fugitive. Something happened when he kissed her—something she didn’t understand and couldn’t control.

  Something she did not have the luxury of exploring now, when she was surrounded by danger on all sides and would surely encounter more when she attempted to steal le Saphir Blanc.

  Not to mention, she’d had enough of men and the trouble they caused. Hadn’t George made her miserable both when she was married and when she was his widow? She’d trusted him, didn’t ask the questions that plagued her, and look where she had ended up.

  Hadn’t Sedgwick said she couldn’t trust him?

  So perhaps she wouldn’t mention the Scarlet Pimpernel. She’d simply tell him she wanted le Saphir Blanc to satisfy George’s creditors. Except Sedgwick was no fool. He’d realize something was amiss when she traded it for the comtesse…

  “What are you thinking about?” Sedgwick asked, startling her out of her reverie. She blinked and focused, noted he’d taken a seat on the bed.

  “I…Nothing.” She gestured to the room. “This poses something of a problem.”

  “Does it?” He arched a brow in that way she liked far too much. “I think it is the perfect arrangement.”

  “I wonder if you will still think so after a night sleeping on the floor.”

  “Gabrielle—“

  “It’s Citoyenne Leboeuf.”

  “Gabrielle, you don’t really want me to sleep on the floor.”

  “Perhaps there’s a couch in the drawing room you might utilize.”

  He stood, and she backed up when she saw his intention to approach her. There was a wall behind her, and she could go no further. He stopped as well, giving her room. “Why don’t you simply admit you’re attracted to me? I’m attracted to you. I want you in my bed, naked and warm…”

  “That will not happen,” she said, but already her heart pounded and her pulse thumped wildly. Just hearing him speak so frankly had a dizzying effect on her. George had never spoken thus. He’d always been the perfect gentleman.

  The perfect, boring gentleman.

  Sedgwick was anything but boring.

  “Why deny yourself?” he asked. She watched in fascination as his hand reached for her. He caught a strand of her hair and pushed it behind her ear. “If you’re
worried about conception, I know precautions.”

  Gabrielle opened her mouth in shock, then shut it again. She hadn’t been thinking about pregnancy, and she certainly hadn’t expected him to mention it. But she forgot that she was a widow now. Men were much more forward when trying to seduce her. For months she’d been far too focused on stealing enough antiquities to satisfy George’s creditors to allow any man to get close enough to woo her. Now she had a taste of what the experience would be like.

  “Listen, Sedgwick—“

  “Citoyen Delpierre.” He grinned.

  “Of course. I am here on business. I don’t want to complicate matters with…entanglements.”

  His finger stroked her cheek, and she allowed it. Why was she allowing it?

  “Is that what I am? An entanglement?” He traced the small freckle at the corner of her mouth, the one she had always detested and tried to hide with powder. She turned her face away.

  “What would you call it?”

  “Long overdue.” He bent to kiss her, but she skirted away, knowing if she allowed him to touch her again they would never make it out of the room and to the cemetery ball.

  “I have to leave for the ball,” she said, moving to the other side of the bed—out of his reach.

  “Surely it won’t start this early.” He didn’t chase her, merely stood at the door with his arms crossed. “We have plenty of time.”

  “You’re not coming.”

  “Do you think the Scarlet Pimpernel would have an objection?”

  “I don’t know what he—“Heat flooded her cheeks and indignation filled her chest. “I don’t believe in the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

  He endeavored to look shocked. “He’s not the reason you are in Paris?”

  “No. I have my own reasons, and I know nothing about the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Neither do I. We can know nothing together.”

  Was he implying he was in the employ of the Pimpernel? She could not risk trusting him. “What are you really doing in Paris? Why are you following me?” She stomped around the bed and faced him.

  He frowned, and she wondered if she hadn’t hit close to the mark. “I have business here. I told you. And I am not following you. I’m protecting you.”

  “You’re protecting me? You said yourself I couldn’t trust you, and now you’ve tried to trick me and more than illustrated the point.”

  “That’s true, but I can promise to keep you safe. That task would be much easier if you would tell me more about your mission for the Pimpernel. Don’t tell me he wants you to smuggle aristocrats out. You could barely manage to get yourself in.”

  Of course he would bring that up. “Exactly. I hardly think a mythical man who is nothing more than fodder for dinner party conversation would trust me with such a mission. If he even existed.”

  He studied her for a moment, and she could all but read the uncertainty in his eyes. “There’s no cousin Josette. That much I know. You must be in Paris to steal something.”

  “No…” But why deny it? It would divert his attention from the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you.”

  He caught her hand. She tried to snatch it away, but he held tight, caressing her fingers in a most distracting manner. “How can I help you if you don’t confide in me?”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “I’m one of the best thieves in London—present company excluded.” He winked at her, the rogue. “You want my help.”

  She took a deep breath. He was right, of course, and she could use his assistance. He need never know about the Pimpernel or the comtesse. “Le Saphir Blanc,” she murmured.

  Sedgwick’s fingers paused and his mouth opened slightly in disbelief. “Oh dear God. I know you are in dire straits, but has debt made you completely daft?”

  Chapter 9

  If Gabrielle was completely daft, then Ramsey admitted he must be as well. There was no other explanation for why he’d agreed to accompany her to Sainte Marguerite cemetery. For a ball. Such an event was the height of macabre, but then everything about Paris these days seemed ghoulish.

  The streets after dark were quiet, as was to be expected, as they made their way to the cemetery. In London the streets were packed with hansom cabs, carriages, and men and women making their way to the theater, the pleasure gardens, or the last of the Season’s routs. The scattering of people out in Paris hurried and kept their heads down.

  He and Gabrielle did the same.

  He might have flagged one of the conveyances for hire, but he thought it better if they walked and didn’t appear to possess any extra assignats. If everything was suspect here, he didn’t want to be marked as having excessive funds. It took longer to walk to the cemetery, but he didn’t mind, not when Gabrielle continually clutched his arm with her warm hand. She was obviously jumpy, and considering what they’d seen earlier in the day, he didn’t blame her.

  And considering that she planned to steal le Saphir Blanc—one of the rarest, most elusive pieces of jewelry in existence—she had even more reason to be nervous. Oh, and that was forgetting that le Saphir Blanc was also said to be cursed.

  He didn’t believe in curses, but it didn’t give him peace of mind. Did the Scarlet Pimpernel want her to steal the bracelet, or was this something she did to pay off McCullough’s debts? Perhaps he had been wrong about her association with the Pimpernel.

  Perhaps…but he didn’t think so.

  Weaving through the streets of Paris, he saw evidence of recent violence—blood spatters, broken pikes, a forgotten boot. The émigrés and tales printed in the English magazines had not exaggerated the violence, and he found himself in the awkward position of admiring the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League. Now that he himself walked the narrow, dirty Paris streets, he realized the courage those men—he looked at Gabrielle—and women possessed.

  He was still looking at Gabrielle when they crossed the last street and reached Sainte Marguerite. She had traded her shawl for a mantle with a hood and dressed in a dark gown. Her luggage was compact, but he wasn’t surprised that she’d managed to pack at least one change of clothing. Now she pushed the hood off her dark curls, which she’d tidied before they left, and stared at the graveyard.

  Ramsey had a vivid memory of her styling her hair in their small shared room. She’d forced him to wait outside when she undressed, but he needed to change cravats and did so while she fussed with all that long, dark hair. He hadn’t realized it was quite so long. It reached almost to her waist and was so thick he thought his hands would disappear in it. He’d tried to tie his cravat and surreptitiously watch her dress her hair at the same time.

  She brushed and twirled, braided and twined, and all the while her hands were over her head, giving him a lovely view of her rounded breasts. How would he share this tiny room with her and keep his hands off? He was certainly willing to sleep on the floor, if she demanded it, but he was hoping to change her mind.

  Not that a ball in a graveyard was quite the romantic venue he had hoped for.

  “It looks deserted,” she said.

  He glanced away from her and stared at the cemetery. It did look deserted. “Perhaps our Miss Martin was mistaken.”

  “Yes.” Her hand toyed with the velvet at the opening of her mantle. “I suppose we should go inside and be certain.” But she sounded less than convinced and made no move to enter.

  Ramsey heard voices behind him and turned to see another couple approaching. They hesitated upon seeing him, but he called out a greeting.

  The man, who wore a high cravat and a low three-cornered hat, said, “Are you looking for the ball?”

  “Yes,” Gabrielle answered.

  “Follow us,” the woman called, her voice merry. Ramsey realized this was the first time he’d heard any merriment in Paris. Gabrielle stepped behind the woman, following her past gravestones and fresh mounds of dirt. The smell of lime and turned earth assaulted his nose.


  They walked and walked, and Ramsey was about to protest when he finally heard the sound of music. They moved around a large mausoleum and he glimpsed a quartet tuning their strings. On either side of the quartet two dozen men and women mingled. Some sipped champagne; all eyed the newcomers with hooded eyes.

  Gabrielle dug her fingers into Ramsey’s arm, slowing him. “Do you see the women?” she asked.

  “What about them? Their hair?” He had just noticed that like Miss Martin, the women had cropped hair. Was this a new style? A wig? Or had they really shorn their locks?

  “Yes, that and the ribbons about their throats.”

  Ramsey tried to see through the darkness. It did appear as though many of the women sported crimson ribbons about their necks.

  The woman who had led them to the ball returned with her partner and held out glasses of cooled champagne to them. “I’m Mademoiselle Manon, and this is Monsieur Olivier,” she said. “We only use first names.”

  “You don’t call one another citoyen?” Gabrielle asked.

  Olivier laughed. “Not unless we have to.”

  “This is Mademoiselle Gabrielle, and I am Monsieur Ramsey.” He bowed. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know of the ball?” Manon inquired.

  “Our friend Alexandra Martin told us about it,” Gabrielle answered.

  “Ah.” The woman nodded. “The actress. Then you will want to see Monsieur Andrew.” She glanced about. “He’s not here yet. But—oh! The music is beginning!” And the young pair rushed off.

  “Did you see her earrings?” Gabrielle asked. “Replicas of the guillotine.”

  “The red ribbon must stand for the mark the guillotine makes when the head is chopped off.” And then before he could comment on how truly ghastly the ball and Paris had turned, he watched in horror as the men and women approached one another. The man would greet the woman, draw a finger across his throat, and the woman would fall. Then, laughing, she’d rise, and they’d begin to dance, a dance more suited to a play featuring headless marionettes than to a ball.

  But this was a ball in a graveyard, so perhaps it made sense.