Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  “All of them have lost a friend or relative to the guillotine,” a voice said from behind them. The man spoke in English and with an upper-class accent.

  Ramsey spun and took in the well-dressed man standing calmly behind them. He wore a triple-caped coat and held his hat under his arm. The man was thin and of medium height with tousled blond hair and light eyes. Ramsey thought they might be green.

  He was the kind of man women would find charming and attractive. As though to prove Ramsey’s point, the man smiled genially at Gabrielle, and she beamed right back at him.

  He bowed to her. “Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. You must be Lady McCullough,” he said, lowering his voice.

  She curtsied, and Ramsey barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Such formality for a meeting in a graveyard. Good God, they were surrounded by dancers flopping about in the most haphazard fashion, and Gabrielle curtsied as though she were standing in the ballroom at Carlton House.

  “You may call me Citoyenne Leboeuf,” Gabrielle told him.

  “Lud, that’s awful!” Ffoulkes commented. He nodded at Ramsey. “And who is this?”

  “This,” Gabrielle said with a sigh, “is Lord Sedgwick. You may call him Citoyen Delpierre.”

  “Sedgwick.” Sir Andrew bowed. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “We haven’t,” Ramsey said. “And I know you weren’t expecting me. The lady and I found ourselves on the same packet. She had a spot of trouble at the West Gate, and I assisted her entry.”

  “Oh.” Sir Andrew’s face hardened. “I heard a rumor of trouble at the West Gate. The marquis’s head was paraded about the streets this evening and brought to Madame Grosholtz. She makes wax casts, you know.”

  “How utterly gruesome.” Gabrielle shuddered.

  The orchestra finished the piece they’d been playing and launched into the Carmagnole. Sir Andrew wrinkled his nose. “I find this song most distasteful. Citoyenne, would you walk with me a moment?” He held out his arm, and Gabrielle took it. Ramsey, understanding Ffoulkes wanted the opportunity to speak to Gabrielle alone, stepped out of the way and pretended to study the dancers. They had formed a circle and joined hands. Slowly, they went around and around, picking up speed as they reached the song’s refrain.

  Dansons la carmagnole

  Vive le son, vive le son,

  Dansons la carmagnole

  Vive le son du canon.

  Ramsey translated the lyrics. Dance the Carmagnole. Long live the sound. Long live the sound of the cannons. It was a song the revolutionaries sung, and these people obviously sang and danced it to mock them.

  Despite the scene before him, he kept Ffoulkes and Gabrielle in sight. They’d walked to the far edge of the ball and stood in the shadow of a large mausoleum. Ffoulkes seemed to be speaking earnestly, and Gabrielle nodded, also looking serious. Were they discussing le Saphir Blanc? Did Ffoulkes work for the Scarlet Pimpernel? He was just the kind of man Ramsey would have chosen, had he been the Pimpernel. Ffoulkes had that innate loyalty and nobility that heroes always seemed to possess. He seemed the kind of man to rush into the fire without a thought for his own safety or welfare.

  Ramsey, in contrast, always thought of himself. As far as he knew, he hadn’t an ounce of loyalty or nobility running in his blood and hadn’t suddenly acquired either trait. Even as he watched Ffoulkes, he thought about following the man, hoping he would lead him to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  Ffoulkes himself wasn’t the Pimpernel. He was too open, too visible. But Ffoulkes might know the man, know how to reach him…

  “You watch them quite closely,” a woman’s voice said.

  Ramsey turned to see Mademoiselle Manon standing beside him. She drew a finger across her throat. “Forgive my forward behavior, but no one observes the old rules anymore anyway. Would you like to dance?”

  Ramsey shook his head. “I never dance.”

  She laughed. “Strange that you would come to a ball then. We all risk our lives to come here and dance.”

  “Danger seems to follow me like a hungry dog.”

  “Just make sure she doesn’t nip at your—“She grasped his arm. “Voices! Light! We are discovered!”

  Ramsey darted his glance to the direction in which she stared. The light from torches bounced and weaved toward them. It might have been more revelers joining the group, but apparently he was the only one who thought so. The other attendees threw capes over their clothes and heads and scrambled into the darkness. Pandemonium erupted as the orchestra ran with their instruments, women tripped over their skirts, and desperate men pushed those slower than themselves out of the way.

  Ramsey was knocked aside and almost fell to the ground. He caught himself, only to be battered as several men and women fleeing the ball rushed past him. One woman tripped over her skirts and sprawled on the dirt of a newly dug grave. Ramsey reached down to help her as soldiers poured through the grave markers.

  “Arrêtez!” they called. “Arrêtez, au nom de la République française!”

  “I don’t think so,” Ramsey murmured, setting the woman on her feet. He’d already avoided arrest once today. He didn’t intend to go to prison now. He turned to follow the woman he’d assisted into the shadows and safety, then swore and turned back.

  Gabrielle.

  He couldn’t leave her.

  Every instinct in him screamed to abandon loyalty and nobility and save himself. And if it had been anyone but she, he would have done it. But he needed her—she could be his key to the Scarlet Pimpernel and freedom.

  At least that’s what he told himself as he rushed into the fray instead of escaping through the dark sanctuary of the cemetery.

  Despite the revelers’ quick action, the soldiers had managed to catch one or two, and desperate skirmishes erupted. In the cramped quarters between grave markers and dirt mounds, the soldiers could not fire weapons without risking the lives of their compatriots. Several wrestled the revelers they had caught, and the ball goers fought back.

  Ramsey stood in the middle of the melee and scanned the cemetery for Gabrielle. She and Ffoulkes were gone. Caught by soldiers or escaped to safety?

  Something hard and heavy thudded against the back of his head, and he spun around to see a soldier wielding the butt of his rifle. Ramsey felt blood trickle down his cheek as the soldier raised the rifle again.

  He had a moment to mourn that this was it—the end. He would die, ignominiously, after attending a ball in a Paris cemetery. It was probably no more or less than he deserved. The rifle jerked toward him, and Ramsey closed his eyes.

  The shot that rang out jerked his body, the sound reverberating through him as his back hit the cold, unyielding ground. Something thudded beside him, and he opened his eyes to the soldier’s wide-eyed stare.

  “Sedgwick?”

  He blinked and looked up. Gabrielle leaned over him, her dark mantle brushing against his hand. “Where did you come from?”

  She turned away from him. “Sir Andrew!”

  The ever-noble Ffoulkes—Ramsey should have known he’d never flee—arrived. “I diverted the last of them, but they’ll be back once they realize I circled back,” he panted.

  “Help me,” Gabrielle said. Ffoulkes, still breathing heavily, bent and assisted Ramsey to his feet. Several men lay on the ground near him, including the fallen soldier. He could hear shouts in the distance as other soldiers chased the ball goers and herded their new prisoners to the overcrowded prisons.

  “I think I’ve been shot,” Ramsey said, touching his chest and his arms, looking for the wound.

  “No.” Gabrielle was running now, pulling him along while Ffoulkes pushed. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the soldiers and the sound of pursuit. “I fired at that soldier,” she said. “That was the shot you heard.”

  So that was why only his head throbbed. He would have a nasty bump on it later tonight. But he’d prefer that to lying dead in Saint Marguerite or rotting in La Force. At least Gabrielle was safe—no thanks to him. She’d ha
d to save him, and didn’t that gall?

  She was still pulling him, so he jerked his hand away, intent on making his own way. She glanced over her shoulder, giving him a curious look, and almost tripped over a marker. He caught her, steadied her, and took the lead.

  But he’d gone no more than three or four steps when Ffoulkes called, “No! This way! To that mausoleum.”

  “We’ll never get inside,” Ramsey argued, but Gabrielle was already following.

  “Devil take it,” he muttered, and took off after her. The large, white mausoleum featured columns in the front and a door weathered by age. Ramsey didn’t have time to glance at the name, but he didn’t really want to know whose bones he’d be sharing the evening with anyway.

  Ffoulkes ran behind the marble building and returned with a crowbar.

  “Do you do this often?” Ramsey asked.

  “Far too often.” Ffoulkes jammed one end in the door, levered, and pushed the heavy marble open. The door must have already been compromised, or he would not have been able to accomplish it so quickly.

  Gabrielle slipped through the sliver of an opening easily, but Ramsey had to wedge his body through. He looked behind him for Ffoulkes, but the man merely saluted. “Remember what I said!” he told Gabrielle before tossing the crowbar inside. The door scraped against the marble floor, shutting out what scant gloomy moonlight illuminated the area. And then he and Gabrielle were alone. In the darkness.

  In the tomb.

  “How are we to get out?” Gabrielle whispered.

  Ramsey felt on the floor for the crowbar. His fingers brushed something cold and hard but not metallic. He tried not to think about what it might be. Finally he felt metal and lifted the tool. “I’ll pry the door open again when it’s safe. Shh, now. I hear them.”

  The soldiers’ voices were muffled by the marble surrounding them, but their shouts were unmistakable. He held his breath, hoping they would run past the mausoleum without pausing. He dearly hoped Ffoulkes had closed the door enough not to arouse suspicion.

  Gabrielle moved closer. He heard her mantle brush the floor and felt the warmth of her body. Her hand touched his knee tentatively, and he reached down and grasped it in his. She was cold, and her hand shook. He squeezed her fingers reassuringly.

  “They won’t find us here,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. He wasn’t at all certain they wouldn’t be discovered.

  “At this point, I’m less worried about the soldiers than I am about the rats.” She shuddered.

  Ramsey squeezed her hand. “And I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

  “I’m not afraid of rats,” she protested. “I’m terrified. There’s a difference.”

  “So there is.” He should try and distract her so she would stop trembling so violently.

  Outside all was silent again. Ramsey leaned close until he felt Gabrielle’s hair brush his cheek. He turned his head, hoping he was somewhere near her ear. “Did you really shoot that soldier?” he whispered.

  “Yes.” Her breath caught, and she let it out shakily. “There was no other choice.”

  “Where did you acquire the pistol?”

  There was a long pause. “I brought it with me.”

  He hadn’t seen it in her luggage, but he wouldn’t mention that he’d peeked inside. “I kept it in the pockets under my gown. I’ve never even fired a pistol. I tried once, but it didn’t fire.”

  “Thank God this one fired tonight.”

  She didn’t answer, and the silence washed over them again. His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He could see almost nothing except for a slash of gray where the mausoleum door did not quite meet the frame. He could not see Gabrielle. But he could smell her. She smelled of lilies. Even in this grave she smelled sweet. He listened for the soldiers, knowing he couldn’t protect her if they returned. He had no pistol, and he doubted she had any more powder or another ball with which to prime hers. How long would the scent of lilies cling to her in prison?

  He had to get them out of here.

  “Do you think I am damned to hell?” she whispered after a long time.

  “No.”

  “But that soldier—I killed him.”

  “He would have killed me. You saved my life.” Not that saving him would spare her from hellfire. He was no saint. But he’d killed a man before, and he didn’t want her to struggle with the inevitable guilt more than necessary.

  “But…”

  “Don’t you think Sir Andrew has killed when it’s necessary? Don’t you think the Scarlet Pimpernel takes a life when he must?”

  She didn’t answer, and Ramsey stared into the gray at the door again. He strained to hear any sound of men outside. Was it his imagination, or was that the clink of metal?

  “I would not blame you if you decided to rid yourself of me and the scheme to steal the bracelet, but I will ask anyway. Will you help me?”

  No. Not in the way she meant. When people asked for help—something he doubted Gabrielle McCullough did very often or very lightly—they wanted help in the form of altruism.

  Help me despite the danger to yourself.

  Help me even though it’s not in your best interest.

  Ramsey had rarely helped anyone altruistically, and he wouldn’t do so now.

  “Yes, I’ll help you.”

  She squeezed his hand, and he realized he’d almost forgotten he held it. Her glove felt warm against his skin. “Thank you.” Her voice was sweet, the words whispered.

  He closed his eyes, not wanting her gratitude, not wanting her sweetness.

  “What exactly is our mission? Is that what you call it? You and the rest of the League?”

  That was right. Think about the League and the Pimpernel. Don’t think about her warm hand. Don’t think about the smell of lilies. Don’t think about how easily he could take her in his arms right now, hold her, stop her shivering.

  “I don’t know anything about any league,” she said. If she lied, she did so convincingly. “I’m here for one thing only.”

  “Steal le Saphir Blanc.”

  “Yes.”

  “To pay off your debts?”

  She inhaled audibly. She debated whether or not to tell him more. He almost wished she would not. “Not for me. There’s a woman and child who desperately need me to succeed.”

  Ramsey might have known a woman and a defenseless child would factor in somewhere. If he were to play the villain, no sense in doing it by half measures. “Tell me,” he said.

  She did, relating the story of the comtesse and her child and of the warden of La Force, Citoyen Toulan. It sounded plausible. The comte might have come to her in London. Perhaps the Pimpernel had nothing to do with this after all.

  “Did Ffoulkes tell you where to find le Saphir Blanc?”

  “I’m to meet him tomorrow, and he’ll give me the information then.”

  “Where?”

  “The Palais-Royal.”

  Hopefully they would live long enough to make her assignation. Several more moments passed, and he finally rose, went to the gray slice of light, and listened carefully.

  He heard nothing but the chirping of insects and the croak of frogs. “I think the soldiers have gone.”

  “Thank God. I was afraid we’d be stuck in this rat trap all night.” He heard her rise and felt her stand behind him. He hefted the crowbar, and as quietly as possible, levered the marble door open. They both stood in the mausoleum’s doorway and stared at the dark graveyard. Ramsey let out a breath. Soldiers could be hiding in the shadows. They might be crouching behind other mausoleums, waiting to pounce. Or he and Gabrielle might make it to the edge of the cemetery only to be caught and questioned as they left.

  But he supposed it would be no better if they waited until morning. There would be more bodies delivered by daylight, and really he could not tolerate the smell of the quicklime any longer. He’d been in Paris only a day and already the smell of death and decay permeated his every sense.

  “Is it safe?�
� Gabrielle asked.

  “Nothing is safe anymore,” he answered, but he took her hand and led her out of the mausoleum. He used the weight of his body to push the door back into place, then replaced the crowbar behind the building. Keeping to the shadows, he and Gabrielle crept from the cemetery, along the winding alleys and shadows of Paris, and back to Alexandra Martin’s house.

  When they entered, she pounced. “Where have you been?” she demanded. She was no longer dressed in her Tudor costume but was wearing a simple muslin gown without adornment of any kind.

  “How kind of you to wait for us,” Ramsey said, ushering Gabrielle inside and closing the door behind him.

  “It’s not out of kindness,” she snapped.

  He removed Gabrielle’s mantle, and Miss Martin took it.

  “I don’t employ servants,” she explained. “They talk too much.” She narrowed her large green eyes. “I suppose you two are hungry now. I brought some bread and cheese home.” She began walking toward the dining room, gesturing them to follow. Ramsey trailed after Gabrielle, taking in the small rooms with their layers of dust and general untidiness. She had obviously been telling the truth about the servants. But despite the dust, the house was cozy and charming. It felt welcoming. Could it be a safe place for the Scarlet Pimpernel’s League? If so, how many of the Pimpernel’s men had hidden here and how many other houses of refuge were scattered about the city?

  The bread and cheese were set on a platter in the dining room, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Alex fetched a third and poured. “To another day!” she toasted, and took a sip.

  Gabrielle drank, then sank into one of the chairs. Ramsey’s stomach rumbled, but he didn’t reach for the food. He had a bad feeling…

  “Now tell me what you’ve been doing this evening,” Alex demanded, cutting a hunk of cheese and eating it. “I heard the national guard are conducting domiciliary visits.”

  “What are those?” Gabrielle asked.

  “Searches,” she answered, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf. “The soldiers come into your home and search it from top to bottom. They look at all of your correspondence, bayonet your mattresses and couches, and if they’re hungry, eat all of your food and drink all of your wine.” She looked at Ramsey. “You’d better eat now.”