Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  Then he was taken to the machine and laid on the pallet, his head positioned under the blade. A bloody basket filled with bloody straw slid under his face.

  Was that the last thing he ever saw?

  Sanson went to the guillotine and raised his hand, prepared to release the blade. It might be routine, but he still knew how to make the moment dramatic. He paused, just long enough for the crowd to hold its breath or the victim to cry out. But the aristocrat made no sound, and in the silence the whoosh of the blade was as loud as the shot of a pistol.

  Gabrielle jumped when the head fell into the basket. She would have turned away then. God knew she did not want to see the boy’s face, but she happened to look to her right and saw the female sansculotte had her gaze on her. And so she held her head high, as the boy had done, and forced herself to look upon the horror.

  But she did not cheer as the rest of the crowd did. Instead, she sent a silent prayer for the safe delivery of the boy’s soul to heaven.

  A young woman—the boy’s sister or wife?—was next, but Ramsey was already backing away. “We’ve made our point,” he said in Gabrielle’s ear. “We don’t need to stay any longer.”

  “I’ll follow you,” she said. He took her hand and led her through the crowds. Gabrielle was glad to follow. She could hardly remember to move her feet, much less recall where Alex lived. She looked over her shoulder more times than she could count, but the sansculotte had not followed.

  After what seemed an eternity, Ramsey was leading her through the back door of Alex’s house, through what would have been the servants’ domain, and up the stairs. They stopped in the drawing room, and after he checked the fireplace for hidden guests, he led her to a chair. She sat, as was expected of her.

  “Would you like me to find you some tea or a glass of wine?”

  She shook her head. The images from the guillotine were still fresh in her mind. She looked down at her half boots to see they were stained red from the blood. If—no, when—she returned to England, she would burn these boots and everything she had brought to Paris.

  “I’m quite well,” she said to Ramsey. “I don’t need anything.”

  But that wasn’t true. She needed to know she could trust someone. She felt so incredibly alone. Everywhere she turned there was danger. Alex couldn’t risk helping Gabrielle any more than she had. Sir Andrew was gone. And Ramsey…

  He told her himself she couldn’t trust him. She should believe him. But he continued to contradict himself. He continued to be there when she needed him.

  She looked down at her cockade with the information about le Saphir Blanc. Could she steal it herself? If she were in London, she would have answered unequivocally yes.

  But here? In France? She was not so certain. It seemed here her luck had turned.

  Ramsey’s face came into focus, and she realized he was kneeling in front of her. “You should go lie down.”

  “No. The comtesse needs me. The Scarlet Pimpernel has entrusted me with a mission. Tonight we steal le Saphir Blanc.”

  “Then Ffoulkes was able to give you the information as to its whereabouts.”

  Gabrielle unpinned the cockade. Pressed behind the ornament was a small slip of paper with a red flower on the outside.

  She opened the paper.

  The writing was the same as that on the papers directing her to board the Fugitive. Did that mean the Scarlet Pimpernel was in France? Had he seen her? Had she passed him and not known him?

  She studied the words on the paper, taking a moment to switch her mind from French to the English written on the page.

  The White Sapphire is kept in a locked desk drawer in Robespierre’s office at the Hôtel de Ville. He will be detained tonight from midnight until two in the morning. Steal the bracelet and bring it to Citoyen Toulan at La Force at eight in the morning.

  “What does it say?” Ramsey asked.

  She handed him the paper. If she could not trust him, then she was doomed long before now. She had doomed herself the first time she ever saw him. She remembered meeting him in George’s drawing room—now her drawing room—and feeling a sudden connection to him. Feeling as though she had known him all of her life.

  She had felt that she should go to him and embrace him, as one did a long-lost friend. Only propriety and George’s sweet smiling expression had stopped her. She had always imagined Sedgwick would have been shocked had she done what she imagined, but now she was not so sure. He had not been shocked at her behavior in Exeter’s greenhouse.

  He had not been shocked to find her in the Duchess of Beaumont’s boudoir. He was not shocked that she was handing him a missive from the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  “We act tonight then,” he said, looking up.

  “There’s a curfew,” Alex said from the door. She held up a hand. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing or where, but I heard there’s a curfew at ten tonight. They’ve closed the theaters to make certain everyone is at home. I expect there will be more domiciliary visits.”

  “Are they still searching for the duc de Courtenay?” Gabrielle asked.

  Alex smiled. “If so, they won’t find him.” She was looking at Gabrielle’s boots. “It looks as though you’ve had a productive day. Anyone interesting meet our National Razor today?”

  “We didn’t stay long,” Ramsey said. “How do we get around the patrols? Unfortunately, our business takes us out after ten.”

  Alex tilted her head. “There are two ways to avoid the patrols.” She held up a finger. “One, be where you need to go before the curfew. Or two”—she held up another finger—“hide in the sewers.”

  “With the rats?” Gabrielle hadn’t meant to blurt her thoughts out, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words from spewing forth.

  “Sometimes we hide enemies of the republic in the catacombs, but the entrances are more difficult to find than those to the sewers.”

  “More rats,” Gabrielle said.

  “Are you afraid of rats?” Alex asked. “They’re mostly harmless. Far less dangerous than the tribunal or Madame Guillotine.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Gabrielle said, but she could feel Ramsey’s gaze on her. She made a point of not meeting his eyes, afraid he would see right through her.

  “Good.” Alex turned to leave. “Be careful,” she said over her shoulder. “And good luck. You’ll need it.”

  It was only later that Gabrielle realized Ramsey had not kept his appointment with the solicitor in the Palais-Royal. By then she had learned the truth.

  Chapter 13

  Ramsey had never intended to lie. He had not been a deceitful child. Oh, Ramsey was no George Washington—that paragon of honesty the Americans liked to brag about—but he had told the truth more often than not. As a child, he had not understood why the reclusive Earl of Sedgwick singled him out, providing him with books to read and conversation about everything from art to music. Perhaps the old earl, who had no surviving children of his own, was lonely. Or perhaps he saw something in Ramsey, the son of one of his tenant farmers, that reminded him of himself.

  Ramsey didn’t know what that something could be. He was the eldest of eight brothers and sisters, all sharing a two-room cottage in Cumbria. His family had been poor, and Ramsey had gone to bed hungry more than once. His father was a self-educated man, who read to the family from whatever books Ramsey brought home from the earl’s country estate.

  In the old earl, Ramsey saw nothing of himself. But he saw what he wanted to be. He dreamed of going to London, living in a town house, spending the afternoon at Boodles, White’s, or one of the other gentleman’s clubs, buying horseflesh at Tattersalls, boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s, dancing—well, perhaps not dancing; he’d never been fond of dancing—at Vauxhall Gardens.

  It was only a dream.

  Until the old earl died.

  He shouldn’t have lied. He shouldn’t have deceived. Even with the best of intentions—that of saving his family from starvation, his sisters from prostitution, his brothers
from a harsh life at sea—it was wrong.

  And he had paid for his transgression. Sincerely, he regretted it.

  If he hadn’t impersonated the earl’s heir, he wouldn’t be under Madame Fouchet’s thumb. He wouldn’t be in France with his neck a hairsbreadth from the guillotine.

  And he wouldn’t be with Gabrielle McCullough. He wouldn’t have held her last night. He wouldn’t have had his lips on her mouth, had his farmer’s hands on her soft body. He didn’t regret that. In fact, he wanted her still.

  Even though he knew it was wrong on so many levels.

  He paced the hallway outside the bedroom he shared with Gabrielle and tried not to think of all the reasons he shouldn’t take her to bed.

  First, he was not who she thought he was. That had never stopped him before, but he cared for Gabrielle more than he had for other women he had been with. She was no courtesan. She was the widow of his friend.

  That was the second reason. George McCullough had been a good friend. The man was an idiot who loved gambling more than himself or his wife, but he had taken the new earl under his wing and protected him from the worst of the dangers facing young gallants unaccustomed to life in London.

  And reason three.

  Ramsey stopped pacing, listening for a moment to the sounds inside the closed bedroom door. What was taking the woman so long? They were to steal a bracelet, not be presented at court.

  Reason three—he began pacing again—he was using her to find the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Not for good. Oh no. She was trying to do a good deed—God love the woman—and save a woman and child. He, of course, would destroy the Pimpernel for his own selfish reasons—to save himself.

  But then he’d always been good at thinking of himself.

  So perhaps he could save the woman and child before he revealed the name of the Pimpernel.

  Except now the plot—which was already thick enough to make his head ache—thickened further.

  He had been taken off guard when Madame Fouchet’s assistant had cornered him in Le Grand Véfour. And then he’d been quite powerless to do anything to prevent her from seeing Gabrielle walking with Ffoulkes.

  She’d turned to Ramsey and raised one slim eyebrow. “Is that he?”

  He shook his head. “No.” He tried to take her arm and lead her away from the window, but she stood resolute.

  “I told you I would give you the information when I have it.”

  She kept her eyes on Gabrielle. “And I told you, Madame grows impatient. I think you know how that pains me.”

  He did. Madame Fouchet was dangerous when she was displeased. Waiting for anything displeased her immensely.

  “That’s not the one you seek,” he said, not certain why he was trying to protect Ffoulkes. Wouldn’t he be betraying the whole League by revealing the Pimpernel’s identity? “Madame hates errors even more than waiting.”

  “How do you know he’s not the one?” the woman asked, stroking a lock of her hair.

  How did he know? “I suppose I cannot be certain. I’ll be certain when I do find the man.”

  “And perhaps I shall find him first. Perhaps your blond friend out there”—she pointed to Ffoulkes—“will assist me.”

  She’d strode after Ffoulkes, and Ramsey had briefly debated going after her. But if Ffoulkes was part of the League, he could undoubtedly take care of himself. Gabrielle could not.

  Or could she? She’d seen something. That much was certain. She’d looked at him with suspicion ever since they’d left Le Grand Véfour. And yet he didn’t volunteer any information. Which probably made her more suspicious.

  And now—bloody damn hell—he would have to find a way to warn Ffoulkes about Madame’s assistant because he couldn’t just leave the man unaware that he’d been compromised. And Ramsey didn’t even want to consider all of the ironies involved in that decision.

  The door opened, and he turned quickly to see Gabrielle stepping into the hallway. She was dressed in black from head to toe, the area just above her toes being the most interesting.

  “You’re wearing breeches,” he said, unable to stop staring at her legs. He had never realized she had such long legs before. He had never noticed her calves were so perfectly rounded or that her thighs were so lean or that her derriere…

  “I thought it might make movement easier in case we need to leave quickly.”

  You’re wearing breeches. He almost said it again before he realized he’d already pointed that out.

  “Don’t you agree?” she asked.

  “I…” You’re wearing breeches. He finally looked up. She was wearing a man’s shirt and coat as well. “Where are your…?” He gestured helplessly at her shirt.

  “I bound them,” she answered matter-of-factly. “I know this clothing might cause more harm than good if we are caught by one of the patrols, but skirts are so cumbersome.”

  He wanted to remove the coat and shirt, take hold of the bindings, and turn her around and around until he had her free. Then he’d put his hands on…

  “Sedgwick?” she said sharply.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  He had no idea what response she expected. And his gaze was dropping to her derriere again.

  “Do you think I should change?” she asked. He couldn’t help but note that she sounded a bit impatient now.

  “Change what?”

  She stared at him, clearly annoyed. “My clothing!” She was holding a cap, one like those worn by the sansculottes, and she pulled it onto her head. He noticed now she’d pinned most of her hair up, but some hung down, giving a good impression of an unkempt workman.

  Except she was no man. Still, now that he was looking at her face and trying to imagine her as a boy, he thought the disguise might work. Her lips were still too feminine, and there was that small freckle beside them that drove him half mad with lust, but if he were not looking for a woman, he did not think he would see one. She was slim enough to pass, though the bindings on her breasts did nothing to conceal the curves of her hips.

  “No, don’t change,” he finally answered. And it was not only for his own pleasure that he made that determination. They’d decided earlier to hide in the building housing the Committee of Public Safety so as to have access to Robespierre’s office directly at midnight without risking encountering a patrol on the way.

  Getting out was trickier, and they didn’t have a plan for that yet.

  “It’s half past nine,” Gabrielle said. “We should go.”

  “Into the lion’s den.” He gestured for her to descend the stairs first and immediately regretted his chivalry. The view from the rear was better than he’d hoped. She needed a longer coat.

  They made their way through the dark, winding through the maze of Paris’s narrow streets. The buildings seemed to jut like decaying boulders above them and the few people they encountered appeared and disappeared like specters.

  “I don’t like this,” Gabrielle murmured as they passed a doorway where several men stood smoking. “I’ve been to Paris dozens of times and was never afraid after dark.”

  “This isn’t the Paris you knew,” Ramsey said. “It doesn’t even know what it is anymore. It changes from day to day, night to night.”

  “How horrible not to be able to sleep in peace,” she murmured as they approached the buildings of the committee. “How awful to lie in bed, uncertain whether you shall sleep through the night or be woken violently by soldiers intent upon ransacking your possessions and dragging you to prison for the least infraction.”

  “Makes me yearn for the squalor of London.”

  She laughed. “It does, yes. Here we are. Are you ready?”

  “No, but I’ll proceed nonetheless.” Ramsey approached the guard at the entry door. He had to wait until the man ahead of him finished his business. Apparently, the committee did not rest. He was counting on it.

  “C
itoyen,” Ramsey said to the guard. “We are here to see Citoyen d’Herbois. We have information of an urgent nature.”

  The guard did not even raise a brow. He probably heard such as this every day. “Citoyen d’Herbois is not here. Come back tomorrow. Besides it is almost time for the curfew.”

  “But citoyen,” Gabrielle stepped forward. “Tomorrow may be too late. Please, if Citoyen d’Herbois is not available, what about Citoyen Billaud-Varenne or Citoyen Robespierre? We must see one of the Paris representatives tonight. Surely once the committee learns of our information, they will give us a pass.”

  “It’s your neck,” the guard observed. “I believe Citoyen Billaud-Varenne and Citoyen Robespierre are still meeting. I’ll have you escorted inside.” The guard gestured to another farther inside the gates. “That doesn’t guarantee you an audience,” he added.

  “Thank you, citoyen,” Ramsey said. “The boy and I will be happy to see either of those illustrious men.”

  The guard spoke to his compatriot and the second man led them into the building. Ramsey was pleased the guard was no behemoth. He’d been envisioning David and Goliath scenarios all the way over—it was something to take his mind off Gabrielle’s lovely form.

  He noted the halls and corridors were mostly empty. No one would see them enter. Gabrielle had been clever to time their arrival just before curfew. Although the committee members would have passes, the citizens and clerks did not. Their escort led them up a wide marble staircase into a quiet corridor. The runner on the floor looked expensive. It would mute any sounds of running feet well.

  “Citoyen Robespierre’s office is just ahead,” the guard told them.

  “Whose office is this?” Gabrielle asked, pointing to the one they were passing.

  “Citoyen Saint-Just. He is not here.”

  “Good,” Ramsey said. “Then he won’t mind if we borrow it.”

  Gabrielle cut to the left, trying the door. When it opened, Ramsey grabbed the sputtering escort about the neck and dragged him inside. Gabrielle closed the door and stood outside, while Ramsey struggled with the man. He was armed with a bayonet and rifle, but that did little good when he couldn’t reach it. Ramsey dragged the guard into the office—a lamp still burned and he could see it was sumptuously decorated with chairs upholstered in silk, velvet draperies, and if he was not mistaken, an Aubusson rug—and reached for an expensive-looking vase. He lowered the treasure, bashing it over the escort’s head.