To Tempt a Rebel (The Scarlet Chronicles, #4)

by Shana Galen

“Do I have a choice?” he asked.

  She couldn’t resist and reached out one finger to caress his cheek. “My dear Chevalier,” she said in English. “One always has a choice.”

  Instead of drawing away from her touch, he leaned into it, the stubble on his cheek rasping against the palm of her hand. He turned his face so his lips touched her skin instead. He pressed a kiss on the sensitive skin, then slid his mouth lower, to where her pulse hammered on the inside of her wrist, and kissed her there as well.

  Alex tried very hard not to draw in a quick breath. She did not want this man to know how his touch affected her. Her duty was to keep him in check, and if she gave away any weakness, he would certainly take advantage of it. She would have, in his position.

  And so she drew her hand away from his warm lips and tucked it into the folds of her cloak. “As I was saying, you have a choice. What is it?”

  “I suppose one way or another, this night’s events will lead me to the Conciergerie. I’ll go with you now.”

  “And free the abbé?”

  “If I can.”

  “You had better pray you can.” She blew out the flame in the lamp and rapped on the roof of the carriage again. A moment later it turned in the direction of the prison.

  Alex sat back, increasing the distance between her and the revolutionary. This was the part of the mission she most loved and most hated. The anticipation of success made her giddy, but the possibility that all could go wrong terrified her. Her part in all of this was done for the moment. She would wait in the carriage, as though backstage, until Chevalier and the abbé arrived. Then she and Hastings would accompany the abbé out of the city and Hastings would see him safely to England.

  Chevalier would have to find his own way home, which was a small risk to him as, if he was found breaking the curfew, he could always claim it was on business for the Convention or Robespierre.

  If all went as planned, she would be sleeping in the safe house by dawn. But all seldom went as planned, and she did not trust Chevalier. One word against them and she would find herself in the Conciergerie followed by an appointment with Madame Guillotine.

  It would be small comfort, lying in an unmarked grave, that the Pimpernel made sure the Committee of Public Safety knew about Chevalier’s treachery and sentenced him to die as well. She would rather live than die to be avenged.

  But her future was in Chevalier’s hands now, and there was little she could do about it. Hastings and Dewhurst, who was driving the coach, were at risk as well, but she knew neither of them had ever shied away from danger, and she would not either.

  “Why must he go free?” Chevalier asked, startling her with the sound of his voice in the silence.

  “Who? The abbé?”

  “Yes. If I am to free him, I want to know why. There are hundreds of prisoners in the Conciergerie. What makes this man so special?”

  She didn’t know. The Pimpernel rarely told them his reasons for rescuing prisoners. The few times the information had been pertinent, she’d been made to understand that the prisoner was innocent or had family who had fled to England or Austria and had begged for the safe return of their loved one.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Like you, it is not my job to ask questions but to follow orders.”

  “And what if this abbé is an enemy of the revolution? What if he is justly imprisoned?”

  “He is a man of God,” she said, hearing the incredulity in her voice. “What crime could he have committed?”

  “Speaking out against the revolution, for one.”

  She curled her lip in disgust at his words. “That can hardly be counted a crime when the revolution has taken the very thing he has given his life to and trampled all over it. I am not a pious woman, Chevalier, but even I know the heresy of declaring God dead.”

  “And you think God approves of the acts of greed and privilege the men and women who claim to serve him perpetrate? The people starve while the bishops and the priests grow fat.”

  “And those same people are still starving under the Cult of the Supreme Being, but now they have no hospitals for the sick or even the sanctuary of a monastery when traveling.”

  “I don’t want to argue politics,” he said. “I asked about the Abbé Bertrand.”

  “I don’t know anything about him other than he is to be rescued,” she said. “You will have to take my word that he is worthy.”

  “Your word? The word of a woman who is blackmailing me.”

  “For a good reason,” she pointed out. “I know you aren’t the unquestioning patriot you pretend to be. This is your chance to do something good and right. You became a revolutionary to help your country and your people. Tonight you can help the abbé.”

  The carriage stopped, and she prayed she had said enough to convince him. If not, the next part of her mission would be very short indeed.

  They sat in the carriage for a long moment, Alex holding her breath, waiting for Chevalier to move. When he did so, he took her hand and pulled her close. “This is far from over.” He shocked her by giving her a quick hard kiss on the lips and then opening the carriage door and stepping outside.

  Before the door closed again, she saw the Conciergerie, a lone man in black approaching it with papers tucked under his arm.

  She couldn’t help but think that her fate—for better or worse—was in his hands.

  It seemed hours passed while she waited in the carriage. Hastings walked the horses in a narrow lane out of sight of the Conciergerie, but there was still the danger of discovery. If the guard ventured this way or one of the people living in the buildings on either side of the alley reported them for being out after curfew, they might be arrested. Dewhurst had gone to watch the Conciergerie in order to direct Chevalier if and when he emerged with the abbé, but as the time passed, Alex began to fear Chevalier would not return and they’d been betrayed.

  Outside she could hear Hastings’s steady footsteps as he walked the horses to the end of the lane, turned them, and walked them back again. Half a dozen times she reached for the window, intent upon lowering it and telling Hastings to leave Chevalier, collect Dewhurst, and run.

  But Alex kept her hands still in her lap. She had waited before, and she knew half the battle was keeping the panic at bay. The republic might be quick to sentence and lop off the head of the condemned, but it was not so quick to free them. Papers had to be reviewed, superiors consulted, not to mention the difficult task of finding one prisoner among the ever-growing masses.

  She heard footsteps approaching and tensed. She searched her memory for the tale she would tell if the guard had found them, but a moment later she heard Dewhurst’s voice. “He’s coming. Quick! Around the corner. We’ll meet him in front and be away.”

  The carriage rocked as Hastings and Dewhurst climbed into position and then the horses jerked forward and they were off. Alex closed her eyes and said a quick prayer they were not driving into a trap.

  TRISTAN WAS DISMAYED by how easily he had freed the abbé. The prison’s warden had barely glanced at his papers after he’d recognized him as Robespierre’s secretary. No one had questioned Tristan as to why the abbé was to be freed or where Tristan would take him. Guards merely left to fetch the man and after some time, during which Tristan and the warden shared a glass of wine, a man who could not have been more than forty but who looked a decade older was brought out.

  The thin man in the dark clothing and small clerical collar had squinted in the lamplight. “What do you want with me?” he’d asked, clearly afraid some new horror awaited him.

  Tristan had no ready answer, and so he’d brushed the question aside. “I will ask the questions, prisoner.” Then he’d saluted the guards, gathered the man by the back of his neck and pushed him, a bit too hastily, through the doors.

  As they walked away from the guards, Tristan’s heart hammered in his chest and his blood pumped so hard in his veins he could feel it throb in his neck. He recognized the feeling as the same one
he’d felt as a boy and he’d won races against other boys. It was the thrill of victory. The thrill of winning.

  He did not have time to analyze the feeling then, and he was rather glad of that fact because if he thought too closely about the rush of excitement flowing through him, he might have to acknowledge that the foe he had beaten was the very government he’d worked so hard to install.

  Instead, he prodded the abbé along, releasing the man’s neck because it felt so frail and thin under his fingers. He wondered when the man had last eaten or—judging from his smell—bathed. And then a bolt of fear struck him hard in the chest because the carriage he’d shared with Alexandra Martin was nowhere to be seen. Tristan curled his hands into fists. This had not been a test, as she’d claimed. This had merely been a way to trick him into a criminal act so he might be captured and tried.

  But even as he thought it, he dismissed it. They needn’t go to these lengths to expose him. They had the papers he’d copied. His career, and possibly his life, would be over if those were made public.

  “What now, citoyen?” the abbé asked.

  Then they both looked to the street as the sound of horses’ hooves broke the night’s silence. The conveyance had not even come to a halt when the door flew open and Citoyenne Martin’s face looked out at them from the dark interior. “Come on!” She beckoned them with one small hand, starkly white against the red of her cloak.

  And then they were running, and the anticipation fired his blood again. The abbé climbed into the carriage and Tristan was right after him, barely making it inside before the horses were off again. The carriage tore through the empty city streets, and Tristan, still floating from his recent success, parted the curtains.

  His heart stopped painfully in his chest. “Where are we going?” he asked, but he already knew. The city gates.

  “Abbé Bertrand, would you like bread and a little wine?” Citoyenne Martin asked the man, ignoring Tristan. She held out a napkin with several slices of bread and a flask that Tristan supposed held wine.

  “Thank you,” the abbé said, taking the food, his hands shaking as though he feared he would drop the precious cargo and it would be lost to him forever. He had not taken a bite when he looked at the woman and then Tristan. “Will you not join me in breaking bread?”

  Citoyenne Martin shook her head. “I have already supped.” Then she looked at Tristan. “He is quite content as well. Please eat and drink. Your journey will be long, and you need your strength.”

  “And who am I to thank for this kindness?” the abbé asked.

  “A friend,” she said, putting her hand on top of his. “Forgive me if I do not say more. It is better if we do not tell you our names.”

  Her voice had a softness, a compassion Tristan found almost novel. She obviously felt a benevolence for this man, although she had never met him and might not ever see him again after this. When had the people of France lost their compassion? When had they began to love vengeance more than compassion?

  “Where is he taking us?” Tristan asked, indicating the coachman. He kept his voice low, though it would be impossible in such a small, enclosed space for the abbé not to hear.

  “The abbé has a ship to catch tomorrow evening. He must leave the city tonight.” She had drawn the hood of her cloak up about her face again, but he could see the outline of her face in the shadows.

  “Are you mad?” he demanded. “The gates are closed. We risk our freedom as it is, being out after curfew.”

  The abbé glanced at Tristan, then Alexandra. “I do not wish anyone harmed on my account.”

  “Do not trouble yourself, abbé,” the woman told him. “This has been the plan from the beginning.”

  “Why wasn’t I told?” Tristan asked. “I would have told you leaving the city at night is impossible.”

  “Not if you know the right people,” she said, her gaze steady on his.

  Tristan slumped back on the seat as though a fist had punched him in the chest. They planned to use him—his name and connection to Robespierre—to escape the city with the abbé. Not only would Tristan be associated with the unauthorized release of a prisoner, but he would be associated with the man’s flight from the city.

  “I won’t do it,” he said flatly. He had already decided if he was questioned about the abbé he would claim the release papers were part of a large volume of papers he received from the Convention each day. They must have been given to him mistakenly. As he did receive a large quantity of papers each day and as mistakes were frequently made with prisoners—usually sending them to the guillotine without trial, not freeing them—this excuse would be believed.

  But no one would believe he had mistakenly escorted the abbé out of the city. That was highly irregular and quite suspicious.

  “You needn’t reveal who you are,” she told him. “We have papers, but if anything goes awry, we have you as our failsafe.”

  “And how am I to ever return if it becomes necessary for me to reveal my identity? I might as well flee with the abbé. My life will be forfeit.”

  She did not even blink. “Then you had better hope our papers are good.”

  Tristan parted the curtains again, peering out. They were close to the gates now, and his anxiety grew with each step the horses took. He had no faith in these papers. No faith that even with perfect papers, signed by Robespierre himself—which these very well might have been—the guards would not ask questions. No one was to be out and about during curfew, and the guards were most certainly not to allow anyone to pass through the gates in the middle of the night.

  It was then that Citoyenne Martin lowered her hood and positioned herself in a prone position on the seat across from Tristan and the abbé. “What are you about?” Tristan asked, and then he drew in a quick breath.

  The carriage was dark or else he would have seen it before. Small red spots dotted her face, and now she applied a bit of water to her temple and her upper lip so her hair would be damp and give the impression she was bathed in sweat. When had she developed smallpox? Her skin had been perfect and clear at the café.

  Beside him the abbé drew in a breath as well.

  “Do not fret, Abbé Bertrand,” she assured him. “I am not ill. This is a necessary ruse if we hope to leave the city tonight.” She looked at Tristan. “You are my husband, Citoyen Valois, and this is our priest. I have taken ill with smallpox, and you are removing me from the city before the sickness can spread. I am close to dying, and the priest has come so he might give me last rites before I am buried in the city of my birth, which is Chatou, just outside of Paris.”

  “I suppose you have family there who will nurse you in these last hours,” Tristan said, his voice flat. The plan was absolutely perfect. At the first sight of the contagious disease, the guards would almost certainly wave them right through. They did not want to catch the illness and would be in a hurry to see the carriage as far away as possible.

  “I have a dear sister who survived an outbreak of smallpox when she was a child. She has begged us to come to her so she might nurse me in these final days.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Tristan muttered. It was as close as he came to prayer these days.

  The carriage slowed, and Alexandra, taking that as her cue, began to moan and mutter unintelligibly. Outside Tristan heard voices as the guard stopped the carriage. His heart began to gallop again, but this time it was more terror than excitement. The abbé, who seemed to recover quickly from his shock, pulled a rosary from his pocket and began to pray, making the sign of the cross over her several times.

  The door swung open, and a guard in a stained uniform and a hat wildly askew on his head peered in. The man reeked of wine, and Tristan wondered at his ability to stand, much less speak.

  “Whadda we have here?” he said, his speech so slurred he was barely intelligible. Tristan looked to Citoyenne Martin, but she continued to moan and writhe on the seat across from him. Then Tristan looked to the abbé, who only bowed his head lower and prayed more f
ervently.

  What was it the English said? Bloody hell?

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, officer,” Tristan said, trying to sound contrite. “I know the gates are closed—”

  “Thas right.” He pointed a finger at Tristan, or in Tristan’s general direction at any rate. “Go home and come back tomorrow.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t have that much time. My wife, Citoyenne Valois”—he prayed he’d remembered the name correctly—“is gravely ill and I fear she will not live through the night. She would like to see her sister one last time before she passes into the next realm. As you see, we have our priest here, ready to do the last rites.” He pointed to the abbé who made the sign of the cross again and muttered something in Latin. “And we have our papers in order, I trust?” He said this last part loudly, hoping whoever had the papers in his possession would produce them. To Tristan’s relief, the footman stepped forward, bowed, and handed the guard the papers.

  The guard stared at them, squinted, and crumpled them in his large, meaty hand. “I don’t need any papers. The gate is closed. Go home or you can all go to the National Razor.”

  Tristan’s heart had begun to slow its rapid beating, and he kept his voice level now as he spoke. “I don’t think you understand, citoyen. My wife is ill. She has”—he made as though to look furtively about them—“smallpox.”

  Just then Citoyenne Martin began to convulse, her body rigid and rising up so the telltale red spots of the disease would be clearly visible to the guard in the light of the lamp he held.

  Tristan held his breath. If the guard did not panic, did not let them through now, then he would have to use his position to gain leverage. Clearly they could not return to the city with the abbé. But just as clearly to Tristan, he could not declare his true name.

  The guard seemed to waver unsteadily. Tristan looked at the man’s face and knew they were doomed. If he had been sober, he might have reacted as a normal man might—with panic and fear. But he was too drunk to understand the implications of what Tristan had told him.