Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  If she knew why he had really come to Paris…

  He’d thought warning her not to trust him would assuage his guilt. He planned to use her to expose the Scarlet Pimpernel. He’d half hoped she wouldn’t trust him and he’d fail at his mission.

  Well, he deserved whatever her reaction would be when she learned he planned to turn over the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to a woman like Madame Fouchet. Now that he was in Paris, he realized just how precarious the Pimpernel’s position really was. Anonymity was everything if he hoped to continue his work of smuggling the condemned out of France. Ramsey knew, better than anyone, that the woman had no soft spot for heroes. She’d destroy whoever stood in her way, including the lovely Gabrielle. He could tell her Madame Fouchet knew about her mission. He could reveal his involvement, who he really was.

  And if Gabrielle knew who he really was…

  He imagined she’d recoil in as much disgust as he’d done when Madame’s assistant had touched his cheek. She didn’t want a peasant’s lips on hers, a peasant’s hands on her. She’d be glad to see him hung at Tyburn, and as much as he liked her, he wasn’t quite prepared to have his neck stretched to impress her with his honesty and newfound trustworthiness.

  “Citoyen,” she said with a nod. “I have an appointment at the Palais-Royal.”

  She would go to the Palais-Royal to meet Ffoulkes. Right now, Ffoulkes was the closest thing he had to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  “I’ll accompany you.”

  She paused, and he wondered if she hadn’t read his thoughts as she approached. Hadn’t guessed that his motives were less than pure.

  “I have an appointment as well,” he lied, taking her arm and steering her away from La Force. “I plan to meet with a solicitor about my family’s French properties.”

  She slanted a gaze at him. “In the Palais-Royal? Not his place of business?”

  “He thought it better if we appeared to meet by chance at one of the cafés rather than give anyone cause to wonder why a soldier need speak with a solicitor, especially a solicitor already under suspicion for his dealings with the nobility.” The fabrication came almost too easily. He could see by the way her face lost its earlier tension she believed him.

  “Very well.” The street was uneven, and she lost her footing slightly, leaning into him. For a moment her breast pressed against his arm, and he was reminded vividly of what had passed between them the night before. He was reminded of how she’d looked when she’d dropped her sheet. She’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist her, even before she stood naked before him.

  But when she’d dropped the sheet…

  He hadn’t imagined she would look so perfect. He’d been with other women—hasty couplings with courtesans and tavern maids—and he’d seen beautiful women practically naked. The prevailing fashion did not lean toward modesty.

  But he had never seen anything like Gabrielle. He had never touched anything like her either. Her skin had been like silk, her lips like flower petals, her neck…

  Good God! Was he about to write her a poem or take her to bed?

  She moved away from him quickly, and he thought he would probably do neither at the moment. If ever.

  They turned the corner, leaving La Force behind, and he took her arm as they neared a busy street. A tumbrel filled with the condemned was passing ahead and the onlookers hurled insults and rotten produce at the lost souls. “This way.” He steered her around the crowd, onto a smaller side street. The Palais-Royal was not far from the prison, and he followed an innate sense of direction to lead her that way.

  “This city is horrible,” Gabrielle told him when they were moving quickly again. “I knew it would be. I read the papers.”

  “Yes, but reading about them in the Times is quite different from passing a tumbrel filled with fodder for Madame Guillotine.”

  “It is rather like a nightmare,” she admitted, cutting him a sideways look. “But I don’t regret coming. Who else will help the comtesse? Who else can steal the bracelet?”

  If anyone could do it, she could. Ramsey was quickly learning not to underestimate her. He’d never doubted she was strong, but he hadn’t realized she had a backbone of steel.

  “The sooner we acquire the bracelet, the better,” Ramsey told her.

  She glanced at him. “We? You will help me?”

  He shouldn’t. The smart thing to do was to get out of Paris as quickly as possible, not endanger themselves further by stealing a precious bracelet. But then he never had been very smart.

  “Of course.”

  They were almost to the entrance of the Palais-Royal. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him. “I fear I’ve caused you more trouble than I’m worth.”

  He laughed. “Oh, you’re worth far more trouble than we’ve encountered so far.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Well, do tell me when I’ve run out of funds.”

  He bowed to her and turned to enter the entertainment complex. When he had been in Paris, coincidentally with Viscount McCullough a year or so before the viscount’s marriage to Gabrielle, Ramsey had visited the Palais-Royal. The large building complex was the seat of the Orléans family, most notably the former duc d’Orléans, Louis Philippe, cousin to the king. Now known as Philippe Égalité, the former duc had voted for the king’s death. He had recently fallen out of favor with the revolutionary government, though the people championed him still. Ramsey imagined that courting the people was one reason Orléans had opened the gardens of the palace to the public.

  The Palais-Royal had been a place of boutiques, cafés, and salons—as well as prostitutes—when Ramsey had been here before. It was still thus, though the atmosphere was somewhat less frivolous. Still, some things never changed. The cafés were bursting with men talking politics.

  “Where are you to meet our friend?” Ramsey asked. Gabrielle took a moment to answer. She looked about her, noting the changes.

  “There are colonnades now,” she observed. “It’s an improvement…Oh? He will be near Le Grand Véfour.”

  “Of course.” Ramsey had taken coffee at the restaurant when he’d last been here. He steered Gabrielle in that direction, noting the crowds spilling from Le Grand Véfour’s rooms.

  “Will you go inside and search for him?” Gabrielle asked.

  He nodded. “Will you be all right here on your own?”

  She indicated a small bench. “I shall wait right here.” And she sat primly on the edge. Ramsey gave her a last look and waded into the restaurant. He moved through the men and women talking, eating, and drinking, looking for Ffoulkes’s blond hair. But after circling the establishment twice, and drawing several curious looks, he had not found the man. He was standing near a window, though, and chanced to glance out.

  Gabrielle was no longer on the bench.

  He turned abruptly, intending to leave, and stared into the smiling face of Madame’s assistant.

  “We meet again,” she cooed.

  Chapter 12

  “Do you mind if we walk?” Ffoulkes asked Gabrielle as he led her along a row of shops not far from Le Grand Véfour. “I don’t like to be in one place for long.”

  Gabrielle threaded her arm with his. She liked Sir Andrew. He had a boyish charm that would have appealed to almost anyone. She supposed that was why he was a successful member of the Pimpernel’s League. Who would suspect a man with a baby face and such big blue eyes of anything clandestine? As they left the colonnades beside the restaurant, she glanced back, hoping to signal to Ramsey.

  “I saw your friend go inside,” Ffoulkes said, walking leisurely but with purpose. “I hope you don’t mind if we leave him for a moment.”

  “No.” She looked back at Ffoulkes. “You don’t trust him?”

  Ffoulkes raised a brow. “Do you?”

  “No, but he’s a good thief. I could use his help with…the item.”

  Ffoulkes nodded. “That’s your decision, of course.” He pulled her aside as a group of Jacobins passed. Gabriel
le felt the men’s eyes study and assess her. When they were out of earshot, he murmured, “Did you have any trouble on your way?”

  “No,” she replied.

  “Your cockade looks a bit ragged,” Ffoulkes said. Gabrielle glanced down at the crisp red, white, and blue ribbons Alex had pinned on her this morning. She doubted it had ever been worn.

  “Allow me to purchase you a new one, citoyenne.”

  “Thank you,” Gabrielle said. She had learned not to ask too many questions or to argue in this new France.

  He directed her to a cart selling revolutionary souvenirs and handed over an assignat. When Gabrielle had the new cockade, Ffoulkes held out a hand. “Allow me, citoyenne.” She dropped the pin into his palm. Gabrielle felt perfectly capable of pinning the ornament on herself, but something in Ffoulkes’s steady gaze held her tongue.

  As he pinned the cockade to her lapel, his gaze never left hers. Finally, he stepped back to admire his work. “There you are, citoyenne. You have everything you need.” He made a show of producing his pocket watch. “I’m afraid I have another appointment. Shall I see you back to Le Grand Véfour?”

  Gabrielle glanced over her shoulder. The restaurant was not far. “No. I wouldn’t want you to be late.”

  “Adieu.”

  Gabrielle blinked. He had used adieu, not au revoir. She did not think that was by accident, and she knew suddenly she would not see him again. He bowed, stepped away from her, and she almost called him back. What about le Saphir Blanc? How would she find it without Sir Andrew’s aid?

  But Sir Andrew raised a hand and touched it to his cockade before turning from her. With a sharp intake of breath, Gabrielle glanced down at her own cockade. Was it her imagination or was a slip of paper pinned beside the white ruffles?

  She started back for Le Grand Véfour, intending to rendezvous with Sedgwick and return to Alex’s to study the cockade more closely, but as she neared the restaurant, she saw Sedgwick step outside. A beautiful dark-haired woman was with him, and the two parted before he spotted Gabrielle. She stepped quickly behind a colonnade, not wanting to be seen. From her place in the shadows, she watched the woman stride quickly after Sir Andrew.

  Gabrielle’s heart rose in her throat. Who was this woman and why was she following Sir Andrew? Why had she been meeting with Sedgwick? He’d told her he had an appointment with a solicitor. Clearly, he had lied. Gabrielle had known she could not trust him, but she didn’t think he would betray her.

  She pressed back against the colonnade, uncertain what to do next. Should she walk away without meeting him? Where would she go? Alex might be able to find her another safe place, but hadn’t she already compromised Alex and the League by involving Ramsey?

  Should she approach him and act as though she’d seen nothing? Should she ask him outright about the woman? Perhaps there was nothing to worry about. Perhaps she was overreacting. The woman might have been an old acquaintance who just happened to set off in the same direction as Sir Andrew.

  Gabrielle certainly wished she could convince herself of the plausibility of any of these scenarios, but her instincts were better than that. Something was not right.

  “Why are you hiding, citoyenne?”

  She jumped straight into the air and let out a small shriek. She put her hand over the cockade to protect it, then realizing she did so, moved her hand to cover her racing heart. “You startled me!”

  Ramsey was frowning at her. “Forgive me.” He took her hand and led her away from the colonnade. “Why were you hiding?”

  “I wasn’t hiding.” But she knew she’d answered too quickly. Her tone sounded guilty. He led her out of the Palais-Royal and away from the groups of people who might hear them. “I was looking for you.”

  “In the shadows?”

  “No, I…” Now was the time to ask about the woman she’d seen him with. Would he deny having been with her?

  “I didn’t find Sir Andrew in Le Grand Véfour,” he said.

  “He found me,” she answered. “We strolled for a few moments, and I purchased a new cockade.”

  He glanced at it quickly. Did she imagine his actions were jerky? Was he trying as hard as she to act nonchalant? “I met an old friend in the restaurant,” he said.

  “Oh?” She tried very hard to sound surprised and thought she sounded more like a strangled cat. “Who was she? Or he? It could have been either, I suppose.”

  Oh good God! What had the Pimpernel seen in her?

  She took a deep breath and felt a wave of calm descend. She could do this. “I didn’t realize you had any friends in Paris,” she said calmly, her voice level.

  “I have a few. We only spoke for a moment. I would have introduced you, but she’s not the sort of woman one introduces.”

  “I see.” It was a very plausible story. She wanted desperately to believe it. But the woman had started after Sir Andrew as if following him…

  They had been walking in the direction of Alex’s house, but a crowd had formed ahead, and they were forced to pause and look for a path around. She glanced down the street and saw yet another tumbrel making slow progress to meet Madame Guillotine. “Are there so many sent to die?”

  “The prisons are full of nobility and enemies of the republic,” a sansculotte standing near her said. “Which are you?”

  “We are friends of the republic, citoyen,” Ramsey said. “You see our patriotism here.” He indicated their cockades.

  The sansculotte scratched his matted hair under the red Phrygian cap he wore. Gabrielle noticed he had dried blood under his fingernails. “Pretty symbols. But do they mean anything?”

  “We are true patriots, citoyen,” Gabrielle added. Oh, why had she not learned to keep her mouth shut? She was not in London anymore. She could not speak freely.

  The last tumbrel rolled by, its wheels clattering on the street stones. The crowd closed in to follow, yelling insults and hurling refuse at the poor condemned.

  “You will come with us to the Place de la Révolution,” the sansculotte said. It was not a request.

  Gabrielle’s mind raced. How could they escape? How could they make their way back to the house without arousing suspicion?

  And then a woman with a smear of blood on her cheek stepped beside the sansculotte they had been speaking to. “Such a loyal patriot,” she said, indicating Gabrielle’s new cockade. “Very pretty.” She reached out to touch it, and Gabrielle, afraid the woman would spot the paper inside this cockade—with its instructions from the Scarlet Pimpernel—covered it with her hand.

  The woman frowned and stepped closer. “Let us go!” Gabrielle said. “We will miss the best part if we dawdle.”

  She caught Ramsey’s surprised look before she started for the Place de la Révolution. She knew where it was. It had been called Place Louis XV, and it was near the Tuileries—not far from where Alex lived. But the violence was everywhere in Paris, and all of it too close for her liking.

  Soon the female sansculotte was leading them, but Gabrielle could feel the man’s eyes on her back. She dared not turn around or veer from her path to the guillotine. She didn’t know what she would do when she reached the Place de la Révolution. She did not want to see anyone murdered. Did the blood spurt when the head was chopped off? Did the body jerk and flail about after the neck was sliced through?

  She had heard that some of the heads held up for inspection after decapitation continued to blink. Did that mean the head was still alive?

  She shuddered and felt Ramsey’s hand on the small of her back, leading her. She was grateful for the modest gesture. In the middle of this storm of violence, he was a tree she could cling to. But how strong were his roots?

  Please, God, let me be able to trust him.

  She put her hand over the cockade again. If she could just escape the woman sansculotte with her cockade intact…

  If she could just live another day without being caught…

  If she could just steal le Saphir Blanc and escape this godforsaken coun
try. If she could go home…

  The noise of the cheering crowds startled her, as did the size of the group. Children ran about, chopping the heads off dolls and vegetables with toy guillotines. Women sat and knit. Some of them were so close to the scaffolds that their skirts were covered in blood. Indeed, Gabrielle could smell the blood. It had pooled under the scaffold and ran in the street. As they neared the Place de la Révolution, she stepped in puddles of blood.

  Everyone did. It was unavoidable.

  Her stomach turned, but she could not afford to be squeamish. She was not afraid of blood. She was not afraid of anything.

  Except rats.

  The blade of the guillotine swished and she heard the crowd roar with approval.

  And dying under the blade of the guillotine.

  Once again, Ramsey was beside her. “We will not stay long,” he whispered in her ear. His voice was comforting, his hand on her waist reassuring. She wanted to turn into him, close her eyes, and make all of this go away.

  Instead, she raised her eyes and stared at the monstrosity before her.

  It was a simple machine, really. A rectangular frame with a blade in the center. The blade was cut at an angle and fell at a rapid rate of speed, cutting the head off the victim lying, head down, on a pallet underneath. Soldiers surrounded the scaffolds, keeping the crowds at a respectable distance and keeping the condemned from making any last attempts at escape. The tumbrels approached the scaffolds and the damned were loaded off, then directed up the steps of the scaffold.

  Gabrielle watched as one young man—he was handsome with his long unbound hair and dark eyes—mounted the scaffold. He held his head high, allowing his hands and feet to be bound without protest. The executioner, a man everyone seemed to refer to as Sanson, watched as his assistant, a man with a red rose clenched between his teeth, completed what was obviously a tiresome routine.

  How many times did they do this each day?

  The young aristocrat—for Gabrielle felt the handsome man, a boy, really, must be an aristocrat—had no words for the crowd, who pelted him with rotten fruit and harsh words. His lips seemed to move silently, and Gabrielle wondered if he was praying or cursing.