Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  “The tumbrels have arrived,” the warden said.

  Gabrielle’s breath hitched. They had so little time.

  “They will take the condemned to the Conciergerie for their last night.”

  A brisk knock sounded, and the door opened. An emaciated woman dressed in a shabby peach dress and a once-white fichu entered carrying an owlish child. The little girl’s hair was matted, and her brown eyes were huge in her thin face, which was pale but clean. Gabrielle judged her to be almost a year old, but she wore clothing for a child much younger. She clung to her mother’s neck and buried her head against her mother’s shoulder after taking a quick look at her new surroundings.

  Gabrielle had the urge to hug the child fiercely and tell her all would be well. She thought of herself as a child. She’d never wanted for anything, never had more than a moment’s fright, and then only because of a nightmare that was easily soothed away. But this child had seen more than her share of waking nightmares. Would she ever lose the haunted look in her eyes?

  Gabrielle noticed that Ramsey had pushed away from the wall. His hands were clenched in anger. She understood the anger he felt and the impulse to act, to save. Not now, she thought. Now was the most crucial moment.

  “Comtesse, I—“

  “Call her citoyenne,” the warden interrupted as the guard closed the door.

  Gabrielle nodded. “Citoyenne Tonnerre, my name is Gabrielle, and I’ve come from London, from your husband.”

  The comtesse swayed with this news. “From Jean-Paul? Is he well?”

  “Yes, he is quite well, but he has asked us to bring you to London to be with him.”

  The comtesse clutched her daughter closer.

  “Both of you. Your daughter is Aline, yes? He calls her mon chou d’amour.”

  The comtesse’s jaw dropped. “Yes.” She glanced at the warden. “But how?”

  The warden banged on his table, and the door opened again. “Have the prisoners wait outside my door. I will escort her back to her cell myself.”

  “Yes, citoyen,” the soldier answered, taking the comtesse’s arm. “The tumbrels are here.”

  “Good. Have the prisoners called out and put in line to be counted.”

  “Yes, citoyen.” The door closed again.

  “Well?” the warden sat behind his makeshift desk again and raised his brows. “I have done my part. You saw the former comtesse and the child. Both are well.”

  Gabrielle would not call their state well, but she would not argue semantics. Alex had given her a small red reticule with white tassels and blue fringe. Gabrielle opened it now and withdrew a soft velvet pouch.

  She laid it on the warden’s desk. His large, fumbling fingers unwrapped the black material, and he lifted the bracelet. The office was dark, and he carried the piece to the small window and held it to the light. “Mon dieu,” he breathed.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God anymore,” Ramsey muttered.

  Gabrielle ignored him. The warden turned quickly. “How did you get this? How did—“

  “Citoyen, I have little time to waste on explanations. It is the price for the former comtesse and the child, is it not?”

  “Yes.” He studied it again, obviously trying to find some evidence that it was a fake.

  “I understand your grandfather made it for Louis XV,” Gabrielle said. “Do you know anything about jewelry?”

  “My grandfather and my father were both jewelers. They taught me something of their trade.” He was still studying the piece. “Here.” He pointed to the center of the cuff, under the mount for the white sapphire. “This is my grandfather’s mark.”

  “I assure you, citoyen, the bracelet is real,” Ramsey said. “We went to some trouble to acquire it.”

  There was the noise of voices outside and the shuffling of many feet. The prisoners were being lined up for their transfer to the Conciergerie. Gabrielle’s heart was pounding. Hurry, hurry, hurry, she thought.

  “You mentioned something about another exit,” she said, her voice betraying nothing of the panic she felt inside. “It seems this one”—she indicated the corridor outside the office—“is becoming quite crowded.”

  The warden’s head jerked up. He looked as though he were waking from a dream. “Yes, of course.” He crossed to the desk, wrapped the bracelet back in the velvet, and stuck the piece into his breast pocket. Gabrielle felt almost sick leaving such a treasure with this man. At least he seemed to appreciate it.

  He went to the door, paused, and glanced back at them. “Follow me. Do not speak to anyone, even if spoken to.”

  He opened the door and addressed the soldier standing beside the comtesse. “I will see this prisoner back to her cell.”

  The soldier frowned. “But, citoyen, she is on the list.”

  “Do you question me, citoyen?” the warden asked. “There has been a change to the list.”

  “Yes, citoyen.”

  The warden took the comtesse’s elbow and marched her and her daughter away. Gabrielle followed, keeping her head down. She could hear Ramsey’s boots clicking behind her as they were led deeper into the prison. Dear God, if the warden decided to imprison them all, they had little recourse. They were completely at his mercy. Perhaps she should have held on to the bracelet until the last moment…

  They passed rows of prisoners, and Gabrielle could not help but meet their eyes. Sad eyes. Tired eyes. Eyes rimmed with red from crying. Young eyes. Old eyes. Eyes filled with despair.

  If only she could take them all with her. She turned her head and saw Aline looking at her from over her mother’s shoulder. The little girl’s eyes were questioning. Gabrielle tried to smile. At least the little girl had not yet given up her curiosity about the world. She hoped a new life in England would restore her and give her much to explore to feed that curiosity.

  The warden led them away from the prisoners and the cells and down a long hallway. Cobwebs hung in the corners, and Gabrielle let out a little squeak when she heard what sounded like the scurrying of tiny rat feet.

  Ramsey’s hand was instantly on her back, guiding her, pushing her forward. He would not allow any harm to come to her.

  The warden paused at the end of the corridor and took out a set of keys. He inserted one into a wooden door and turned it. It creaked and protested, and he had to yank the door open. And then all of them blinked as the bright sunlight lit the dim corridor. Gabrielle peered into what looked like a courtyard.

  “What is this?”

  “A way out,” the warden said. “You’d better hurry. When the comtesse does not arrive at the Conciergerie, the search will begin. They will come to me, but our records will indicate she was on the last tumbrel to the Conciergerie. And yet if they press me, I might speak of a brunette Englishwoman…” He gestured into the sunlight. “Quickly now, before the barrières are closed.”

  Gabrielle stepped into the courtyard followed by the comtesse and Ramsey. She heard the door shut behind her and the creak of the key in the lock. The comtesse gasped and cradled her daughter so she could not see. Gabrielle put a hand to her throat.

  The stones of the courtyard were red, everywhere red. Even the stone walls, intricately carved, were splashed with faded crimson.

  “Blood,” Ramsey said quietly. “From the massacres. The mobs pulled the prisoners out and tore them limb from limb.”

  Gabrielle remembered the stories she’d heard about the mobs, remembered the Princess de Lamballe. Was this where she was stripped naked, beaten, then murdered and beheaded? Was this where she had died? Where so many had died?

  “Let’s go before we’re discovered,” Ramsey said.

  Gabrielle took a deep breath and followed him through a small gate. They stepped into a narrow alley behind La Force, so narrow they could not even walk side by side.

  In the distance, she could hear the wheels of the tumbrels roll.

  Chapter 17

  Ramsey led the small party—Gabrielle, the countess, and her daughter—through h
idden walkways and alleys from the Rue Roi de Sicile to the Île de la Cité, where Notre Dame was located. The distance was not great, which was fortunate as the countess did not appear in the best of health, but Ramsey had no choice but to add to the trip by skirting around a procession of tumbrels then doubling back. Ramsey would have found it amusing that he was leading this party, if he’d allowed himself to dwell on it. Instead, he tried to focus his thoughts on safer topics—those that wouldn’t see him killed by the national guard—topics like his last visit to Paris.

  He remembered Notre Dame quite clearly. McCullough had been winning at the tables and was content to stay there all day, but Ramsey grew weary with the games and had decided to walk the city. He’d ended up walking along the Seine and coming upon Notre Dame from the west, as they did now.

  The Gothic architecture still appealed to him. And there was that familiar western facade with its pylon. It gave the church an imposing presence, something staid and serious. But then one circled around to the apse and stood before all the flying buttresses and the church was suddenly a work of art.

  He had heard the church had been desecrated in the name of the revolution and rededicated to the Cult of Reason. Statues had been beheaded and Lady Liberty replaced the Virgin Mary on the altars.

  Ramsey had spent some time inside the building on his last trip, studying the Rose Window. He had attended church every Sunday as a child, and he had dragged his feet and protested as much as he dared. But Ramsey thought had the small, spartan church in Cumbria had a Rose Window, he might have gone voluntarily.

  He had always appreciated beauty.

  He looked at Gabrielle now, saw she too was studying the cathedral. Her head was tilted back, and he could see her face in profile. She had a strong nose, full lips, and a slash of cheekbones. Like the church, she appeared initially cold and serious. But then she would smile or—better yet—laugh, and she was a thing of beauty.

  How would he ever let her go?

  He had no choice. She didn’t know who the Pimpernel was, and he was glad. Glad he did not have to betray her in that, though if she ever learned of his treachery, she would hate him just the same.

  And what choice had he been given? He was almost willing to sacrifice himself—he deserved the punishment he received for his misdeeds, but he was not willing to sacrifice his family. He had become the earl to save them from certain starvation or worse. What would happen to them, to the earl’s estate, if it were discovered he was not the earl—that the earl had no heir?

  His father and mother and younger sisters and brothers would lose the meager cottage and the scant possessions they had. They might even be imprisoned for their part in his charade.

  No, this was not only about him. This was about all who mattered to him.

  He looked at the comtesse and her small daughter. The Pimpernel was doing good work, but didn’t his own family, his little nieces and nephews, deserve to live as well?

  A man stepped away from the north tower and began walking toward them. He was dressed in the striped trousers and carmagnole coat of a sansculotte, but Ramsey recognized him.

  It was Lord Antony Dewhurst.

  Except for the clothing, he looked much as Ramsey had seen him in London—same inky black hair, same dark eyes and brutish shoulders. His step faltered almost imperceptibly when his gaze met Ramsey’s, but then he hurried forward. He ushered the small party down a set of steps until they were walking along the quay beside the Seine. Only then did he take a moment to greet them. “You must be the comtesse de Tonnerre,” he said. “Forgive my impertinence in not bowing, but one never knows when one is watched.”

  “It is no matter, sir, I assure you,” the comtesse answered, still holding her daughter in her arms. The little girl had not spoken, but her eyes took in everything and everyone.

  “I did not expect to see you, Lady McCullough.” He turned to Gabrielle. Ramsey was still watching the comtesse and noted that her brows shot up. She had not known who her rescuer had been. Nor did she know how her rescue had been accomplished. To her credit, she did not ask. Perhaps she had learned that in Paris even a little knowledge is dangerous.

  “And you, sir,” Lord Antony nodded at Ramsey. “I had heard you were in Paris.”

  They were approaching a small rowboat, and Ramsey realized that Lord Antony intended the party to board it. He wondered why he had not considered that as a means of escaping Paris before.

  “We must hurry,” he said to the comtesse when she handed her daughter to Gabrielle before taking Lord Antony’s hand and boarding the small vessel. The child made a small, weak sound of protest, which Gabrielle soothed away, and then she handed the baby to her mother again.

  Ramsey realized this must be goodbye. He had not thought how he would part from Gabrielle, what he would say, and now there was no time for all that he wanted to say. He was glad Gabrielle was leaving now. He wanted her safely away before Madame Fouchet’s assistant could do her any harm.

  “I’m not leaving,” he said before she could climb on board. “I have business yet in Paris.”

  Her eyes widened, but before she could speak, Lord Antony said, “Neither of you are coming with me. Three traveling together is a family. Four is suspicious.”

  Gabrielle nodded. “I understand.”

  But Ramsey didn’t. He wanted her out of Paris and safe.

  “I will send word to Sir Andrew, who will take you out of Paris safely,” Lord Antony told them.

  Ramsey nodded. “The sooner the better. Paris grows more dangerous every day.”

  “You should not tarry, Lord Antony,” Gabrielle said. “Bonne chance.”

  He inclined his head and turned toward the boat where the comtesse and her daughter waited. Before he could reach it, Ramsey strode forward and caught his arm.

  “A private word, Dewhurst.”

  Lord Antony scowled, but Ramsey pulled him a little ways down the quay. “You told Gabrielle you could get a message to Ffoulkes.”

  Lord Antony’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that to you, Sedgwick?”

  “I have a message for him.”

  Lord Antony gave him a steely stare. “Say on.”

  “He’s been compromised, suspected of being the Pimpernel.”

  Lord Antony blinked. “And you know this how?”

  “I can’t answer that, but—“

  Dewhurst grabbed him about the throat and shoved him against the wall behind them. “You bastard. You betrayed him, didn’t you?”

  Gabrielle rushed forward. “What’s wrong?”

  Ramsey held up a hand. “Stay back.” His gaze met Lord Antony’s again. “I’m trying to help.”

  “I never trusted you. Never.” His grip on Ramsey’s neck tightened.

  “Then you have good instincts. Get Ffoulkes out before it’s too late.”

  Lord Antony’s gaze shifted to where Gabrielle stood watching them, her hands locked together before her. “Ffoulkes is the only man in Paris who can get her out at the moment.”

  “Where’s the rest of the League?”

  Lord Antony scowled at him. “That’s not your concern.”

  “I’ll get her out,” Ramsey said, disentangling himself from Dewhurst’s hold. “I vow she will return to London safely.”

  “If any harm comes to her,” Lord Antony said, voice low and menacing, “you will dearly regret it.”

  Ramsey started back toward Gabrielle. “In more ways than you can know, citoyen.” He took Gabrielle’s arm and ushered her away from the river as Lord Antony climbed aboard the small boat and began to row.

  She shook his hand off her arm and frowned at him. “What was that all about?”

  “It seems Sir Andrew has to leave Paris immediately. I’ll have to see you safely out of the city.”

  “Wait a moment.” She whipped to face him, the imposing towers of Notre Dame at her back. “Three things.” She held up her hand and ticked off her fingers. “One, this is my mission, not yours. Two why would Lord Antony tell
you about Ffoulkes and not me? Three why was Lord Antony so…distraught?”

  Ramsey swallowed, his throat still aching from where Dewhurst had squeezed. “He seemed perfectly composed to me.”

  “Is that why he almost pummeled you?”

  “I don’t think so.” Ramsey was indignant now. “I could have taken him easily.”

  “Why didn’t Lord Antony tell me about Sir Andrew?”

  Ramsey clenched his jaw. What was one more lie between them now? “I couldn’t say.”

  “Oh, yes you could. And—“

  “And we’re attracting attention.” He took her arm again, steered her away from Notre Dame. “We have a plan to make if we’re to leave Paris. Let’s see if Alex can help with logistics.”

  She went along with him, probably because she was no idiot and could see they were indeed attracting attention, but as they walked, she grumbled. Finally, they reached the house, and after searching it for Alex and finding her out, retired to their small room.

  Gabrielle removed her hat and set it on the table. She rolled her neck, then gave him a look of blue steel. “I don’t trust you. Who was that woman in the Palais-Royal? What did you and Lord Antony discuss? Why did you lie to me about your business in Paris? There’s no solicitor you must meet, is there, Sedgwick?”

  He shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “I assure you that business with Lord Antony was nothing. As for the woman in the Palais-Royal, a man has to have some secrets.”

  “Secrets, yes. I understand secrets, though I seem to have told you all of mine. But there’s something more you’re hiding. What about your business in Paris?”

  “Are you the Inquisition now?” he asked, trying to sound flippant.

  Her look sharpened. “You are defensive. Tell me the truth, Ramsey, are you planning to betray me?”

  He was beside her in two strides and took hold of her arms. “Say anything about me that you like, but don’t accuse me of being a traitor. I’d never betray you.”

  She blinked up at him, and he could see the doubt in her eyes. And why shouldn’t she doubt? Until this moment, he’d been ready to betray her darling Pimpernel, if need be. Wasn’t that betraying her as well?