He turned on his heel and crossed the avenue leading to Rue Richelieu. He would turn his focus to finding the actress, Mademoiselle Garnier. Could they both be part of the Comédie-Française, now the reformed théâtre de la République? He would search all the theatres in Paris if need be. It was drawing a long bow, but someone might remember two exceptionally lovely blonde women.
* * *
Verity entered her apartment. The furniture rescued from her father’s house, before it had been seized and stripped after his arrest, looked dusty and out of place. She’d tried to make a home for herself here, but it never really felt like one. The rooms smelled musty. An odd feeling stole over her as if she’d never expected to return and was surprised to find herself here again.
Her kind landlord, Monsieur Balzac offered to take the trunk to Argenteuil tomorrow in his cart. Bless the man. Without his help she would have been desperate. He’d been a caretaker at the Sorbonne. He came to her aid after her father’s arrest and brought her here to live.
Before returning to Argenteuil, she would go to the theatre. Speak to Monsieur Morel. That man had tentacles everywhere. Many people died in the massacre, but he might have heard something of her father.
She changed into a sober gown of dark blue linen, added her cape and a straw bonnet, and left for the Gaite theatre.
* * *
“Mademoiselle. I am glad you came. The season ends. I must look to the next.” Monsieur Morel glanced over Verity’s shoulder. “And where is the beautiful Henrietta today?”
“She has not been well, monsieur. Can I contact you about the play, or do you need a firm answer now?”
“There is time.” He sucked his pipe, a shocking habit, Verity thought, since theatres so often burned down.
“I came to ask you for a further favor. Would you ask around about my father? I understand he has been held in the dungeons of the Conciergerie, but now...” She faltered, unable to continue.
He patted her back. “A terrible time, mademoiselle. I doubt anyone in that prison survived the massacre.” He scratched his head. “There is so much confusion it will be difficult. I can’t promise anything. A stagehand has a relative who works as a guard there. If you please wait, I’ll go and ask him.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Morel. I am most grateful.”
Verity wandered around the room and searched through the costumes. A pile of soft caps and sashes lay on a table. She snatched them up and wrapped them in her shawl.
Monsieur Morel returned. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. He has gone for the day. If you could come back tomorrow?
Verity left the theatre with her bundle. She dabbed at her eyes. Strange, she’d shed few tears since her father had been dragged away, she’d been so focused on getting him released. And even when she’d begun to doubt he ever would be, the ice in her heart refused to thaw. Now she was like a watering pot.
As she tucked her handkerchief in her reticule, a man dressed in shabby clothes barred her way. She glared at him and was about to order him to stand aside when he bowed. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to find you at last, Mademoiselle Garnier.”
Verity’s heart skipped a beat. Beneath his almost impeccable French, which would fool many, she detected a language of which she was familiar. English. “And you are, monsieur?”
Blue-gray eyes searched hers. “We share a mutual acquaintance.”
“I hardly think so. Who would that be?”
“We don’t have time to dice with words, mademoiselle.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a deserted laneway. “When I last saw you, you were in the company of a certain young lady.”
She shook her arm from his grasp and moved away. “What might you want with her?”
“I intend to help her.”
“What makes you think she needs your help?”
“If she remains in France, then that is self-explanatory I should think.”
“And why do you wish to help her?”
“Suffice to say, I knew her in a better time.”
“We are talking at cross purposes, monsieur.”
A man passed the laneway entrance and gave them a curious glance. “Such are the times, mademoiselle.”
They studied each other while Verity wondered where she’d seen him before. Would it be foolish to trust him? “You wear the cockade. What is your name?”
“No need for names. Why did you and our mutual acquaintance come to Paris?”
Verity’s heart galloped. Was it an open secret? Would Danton hear of it? “What interest is it of yours, monsieur?”
He’d read her thoughts, his gray eyes grave. “Your secret is safe with me. I am a friend.”
“Where did you meet this, acquaintance, of mine?”
“London. Where I first saw you, in fact. You performed a piece from Shakespeare’s Hamlet at the home of Baroness Le Trobe.”
So that was it. But she must remain cautious. “There were many there that night. I don’t remember you.”
“You wore a white gown with flowers in your hair and sang very sweetly.”
“Surely it isn’t wise for an Englishman to be in Paris?”
“Business brings me here.” He looked over his shoulder. A man and woman passed the entrance and glanced their way. “We can’t talk here, it is drawing unwanted attention. Is there somewhere we can go?”
He was tall and possessed of a charming smile. His smile made their bleak surroundings vanish for a moment. It was also a smile that had her trusting him. But should she? Would Henrietta be pleased if she took him back to Argenteuil? “I’ve seen you before,” she said, remembering. “It was Hyde Park, you were riding in Rotten Row.”
“Ah, good.” He glanced around. No one was in sight. “I am at your service, mademoiselle. I suspect you and Lady Henrietta are in trouble. As I have said, I want to help.”
She recalled that he had been on friendly terms with Anthony and Henrietta. But that wasn’t enough to trust him. Some Englishmen found the Revolution beneficial. Was he one? “Your name, monsieur?”
He smiled. “Later perhaps.”
“What help can you offer?”
He took her arm and led her out into the street. “We will discuss it further, where the walls don’t have ears.”
“What is this business you speak of?”
“That I cannot tell you, mademoiselle. You shall have to take my words at face value.”
At least he didn’t create a story to convince her. Verity made up her mind. She instinctively liked the look of this man. And her instincts were generally sound. “You’d best come to my rooms.” She looked for a carriage in the traffic rumbling past.
He stepped onto the road and hailed a passing fiacre. When it stopped, he assisted her into it. His actions were those of a gentleman. And he moved in Anthony’s circle. She studied him from beneath her lashes as they negotiated the Paris streets. He had a certain elegance, despite his ill-fitting clothes.
“Will we find Lady Henrietta at your home?”
She shook her head.
“Will you tell me where she is?”
Verity raised her eyebrows and gave him back some of his own. “Later, perhaps, monsieur. When I learn your name.”
He acknowledged it with a bow of his head as the fiacre drove through the open fields of La Butte Montmartre.
Chapter Twenty
Verity removed her bonnet. “Would you like water? I’m sorry. Apart from a bite of cheese, there’s nothing to eat here.”
“Water is fine.” He leaned back on the sofa, stretching his long legs over the rug, tucked his fingers into his gray cotton waistcoat and glanced around. “You have some nice possessions.”
She handed him the tumbler of water. “They belonged to my father,” she said, stung into defending herself.
“This is your father’s house?”
Annoyingly, her eyes teared up again. “He never lived here.”
He put his tumbler down on the table purposefully. “Best you tell me all.”<
br />
Verity sat on the sofa and took a sip of water to dampen her parched throat. “First you must tell me more about yourself, monsieur.”
She listened quietly while he described how he’d seen her and Henrietta leaving London in the carriage and followed them to France.
“You came to France because of us?”
“No. On business.”
She suspected there was much he wasn’t prepared to tell her. There was something reassuring about him, confidence, and a core of solid strength. She was tempted to trust him but what was he doing here? An Englishman, seemingly at home in the heart of Paris, shabbily dressed and blending in with the rest wandering the streets, and wearing the cockade. Certainly not the man of means she’d seen, dressed in tailored riding clothes atop a thoroughbred in Hyde Park. Was he an English spy working against France?
“Can you not throw me a crumb? Some reason for you to be in Paris. Dressed like that?”
“Not now, mademoiselle.”
He wouldn’t tell her later either. But for some reason, recognizing the fact didn’t increase her apprehension. He seemed totally in control. She was exhausted and heartbroken and very tempted to hand the matter over to him and see just what he was capable of. Her muscles loosened as fatigue settled like a weight on her shoulders. Her back ached.
She confessed it all. What had happened, where Anthony, Phillipe and Henrietta were, and prayed she’d made the right decision.
He gave her very little in return, except his given name. Christian.
Christian was relieved to hear that Henrietta was not in Paris. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to your uncle’s house.” He patted the sofa. “I’ll sleep here tonight, if I may.”
“Take the bed.” Verity eyed his lanky frame. “You won’t fit on that.”
“No need. I’ve slept on worse.” He rose to go to the window and looked down into the street. “You’ve arranged a cart to take your trunk to Argenteuil, you say. The man is trustworthy?”
“I would stake my life on it.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to. We must make a stop on the way.”
“Two stops, si vous plaît. Monsieur Morel at the Gaite theatre may have news of my father.”
“If you find out that he still lives, what will you do?”
“I will try to help him.”
“I’ll consult a friend of mine who runs the Hotel de Buci. Some of the guards from the Conciergerie drink in the bar there.” He studied her as if gauging her emotional strength. “And if… there is nothing further we can do here in Paris… we will fetch my bag and leave the city.”
She nodded in agreement. “I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket.”
At dawn, he still wore his shabby clothes, and she her dark-blue linen. Christian told her of a story he’d come up with to use if they were stopped by the guard. He was Verity’s lover who hoped to become employed as a stage hand at the theatre where Verity was soon to perform.
Monsieur Balzac had come to the door, bearing warm rolls from his wife’s oven and two fresh peaches. They ate the food gratefully. Christian climbed into the back of the cart and sat on the trunk while her big landlord took up the reins and drove them to the theatre. He and Christian remained outside with the trap while she visited Monsieur Morel, only to be told he’d heard nothing about her father because his source had not shown up. Morel’s eyes shifted away from hers. What wasn’t he telling her? Had his man been carted off to prison? Or did he lie for another reason? She wrapped her shawl tight around herself and hurried out. Despite everything, she held on to a shred of hope.
She took Christian’s hand and climbed up beside Balzac. In St Germaine Christian entered the hotel. She searched his face when he reappeared, her heart pounding. He looked grim as he climbed aboard.
“Tell me.” she said breathlessly. She had to know.
“The prisoners were herded into a courtyard and killed. Your father was one of them. I’m truly sorry.”
Verity collapsed back against the wooden seat and covered her eyes with her hands as deep, racking sobs shook her shoulders.
Monsieur Balzac remained silent, rendered dumb by the terrible news. Christian jumped over onto the seat beside her and put his arm around her.
Verity wiped her eyes. “You are completely sure?”
He nodded, his gray eyes kind. “There is no possibility he could have survived.”
Monsieur Balzac made a strangled sound in his throat. Verity turned to him. “Oh monsieur, you were my father’s friend. I am sorry, you must be dreadfully upset.”
Monsieur Balzac wiped his nose with his sleeve. “A fine gentleman,” he muttered, and gave the reins a slap. The trap continued along the street.
Verity swallowed the pain at the back of her throat. Her beloved father, a good man who loved his country, was dead. And to die so violently. Fearing she would cry again, she tried not to dwell on it. There would be time later to give in to her grief.
Christian kindly remained beside her on the cramped seat in case she had need of his comfort. “Thank you for discovering the truth. Your connections are most impressive. I wish I knew who you are, monsieur.”
Christian took off his hat and leaned forward. Spoke softly. “I am someone who wishes he might have saved your father, but is determined to help you now.”
Verity nodded, grateful he was here.
He returned to sit on the trunk and the rest of the journey passed mostly in silence. Verity found herself spiraling into a hopeless melancholy. She had been so busy fighting to save her father, it had taken all her energy, and now it was over. When Anthony returned to England, she would be alone. Anxiety swirled around her. The future looked bleak indeed.
***
Henrietta worked beside her father and François as they mucked out the stables and forked hay. After her father left to check on Philippe, she edged closer to François. He worked well for an old man, his powerful arms sending the hay flying. “I heard men in the woods when I was riding. Who would they be?”
He paused and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowed in the glare of the afternoon sun. “Brigands. I hope you learned your lesson and won’t ride there again.”
Henrietta found his casual attitude at finding brigands on his doorstep surprising.
“Won’t they come here and rob you?”
“They might steal a chicken or two. I am not an aristocrat and there is little here of value to them. The Comte de Toulon’s chateau was ransacked; the peasants and brigands stripped the place of everything. Then they burned it down.”
“How dreadful.”
François shrugged. Stabbed his fork into the ground. “An arrogant man. He treated his servants abominably.”
“You are in favor of the revolution?”
“I welcome it in theory, but like all movements based on ideals, it is flawed and impractical.”
Henrietta was struck by the impassiveness of his words; impractical and flawed seemed an insensitive way to describe the deaths of thousands of innocent people.
She picked at a piece of hay. “Verity’s father did not share your opinions?”
François seized the fork and continued working. “We did not agree on many things.”
“Do you believe he is dead?”
“It would be a miracle if he were not.” He looked at her, his eyes clouded. “And I don’t believe in miracles.”
The sound of a vehicle sweeping around the corner, made them both turn. Henrietta ran to the corner of the house. “It’s Monsieur Balzac with Verity!” she cried. “And someone else.”
“I hope they don’t intend to stay,” François said. “We have little food.”
Henrietta picked up her skirts and ran down the path. By the time she reached the front of the cottage, the occupants had alighted. She stood, out of breath, as the two men removed the trunk, one stood on the back of the cart, the other on the ground. The tall, dark-haired man jumped down and turned toward her, and her mouth fell open.
/> She gasped. “Mr. Hartley!”
“Lady Henrietta.” He bent to help carry the trunk inside.
“You’ve met I see.” Verity came to kiss her cheek. She looked different—sad and resigned, but less fraught somehow.
With difficulty, Henrietta drew her gaze away from Christian. “Hello, Monsieur Balzac. It was good of you to bring them.”
“My pleasure, mademoiselle.” The big man shooed Christian away and shouldered the trunk. “Where do I put this? I must return to my work.”
As Verity led him up the path, Henrietta stood looking at Christian. He was dressed like a Frenchman. A poor one, his clothes threadbare. He removed his hat and was unpinning the cockade. He tucked it into his pocket. She met his gaze. “Why are you dressed like that? How did you find me?”
“One question at a time, Lady Henrietta.” He kissed her hand. For a moment they might be at a ball in London with him asking her to dance. “After you passed me on a London street in a carriage dressed in your page costume, I learned you were on your way to France. Then I spied you again, here in Paris. I went around the theatres and was fortunate to run into Mademoiselle Garnier.” He smiled as they walked up the path together. “I am dressed this way so as not to attract attention. One does not wish to come under scrutiny in France right now.”
She looked down at her grubby gown, brushed her skirts and put a hand up to her untidy hair. She lowered her arm as her heart leaped. He had tried to find her! She intended to learn more. There were gaps in his story. He spoke as if they’d been on a jaunt to Richmond for a picnic. An incredulous laugh bubbled up. “But why did you come here?”
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