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

by Shana Galen

  “I don’t care whas wrong with her,” he said, righting himself again. “No one leaves the city after curfew. By order of the Committee of Public Safety.” The sergeant held out his hand as though expecting something, though Tristan knew not what.

  Tristan knew the law. He’d been there when it had been drafted. He’d helped Robespierre write the law before it had been proposed. And while he agreed with the law in theory, in fact, the spread of smallpox in a heavily populated city like Paris was no small matter. This drunken guard was basically condemning who knew how many hundreds to death by sending a clearly infected woman back into the city.

  Tristan’s anger began to rise, and it was the salute that lit the fuse. The guard finished his speech about the Committee, then gave a mock salute, as though he were the greatest patriot that lived.

  “Just who the devil do you think you are?” Tristan said, rising and pushing the guard back so he might climb out of the carriage. “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I told you. My wife has smallpox. Do you know what smallpox is?” He jabbed the guard in the chest, making the man stumble backward unsteadily.

  The footman, who had been standing respectfully to the side, glanced at Tristan with interest. He was a large man with dark hair and features, and Tristan saw his hand move to his belt, where, no doubt, he had a pistol hidden,

  “I may be a poor man, but I know the law. No one passes,” the guard said.

  “What’s all this about?” another drunken voice called from the little shack that housed the guards at the gate. “Sergeant?”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, Sergeant,” Tristan went on, feeling righteous anger eclipse his better judgment. “If you were really concerned about the law, you might have looked at our papers. If we were not who we said, that would be a reason to detain us, but you are too much an idiot to think of that.”

  “You don’t have to give him ideas,” the footman muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  “If you had any sense at all,” Tristan said, pushing the man backward again, “you would let us pass. Doing so makes you a national hero. You will have saved the city from an outbreak of disease.”

  The sergeant finally righted himself, and Tristan saw that his last words had fallen on deaf ears. If he’d said them earlier, they might have been effective, but now the sergeant’s cheeks were red and his breath huffed in and out with rage.

  “I’ll see you on the scaffold for daring to touch me,” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “I’ll have the lot of you arrested and sent to La Force. You’ll be dead within—”

  A hand came from behind Tristan and slammed the sergeant in the jaw. Tristan turned sharply, shocked to see Alexandra Martin behind him, looking quite recovered from her illness.

  “That one!” she said to the footman, who had also been staring at her with some surprise. But now he raced after the other guard who had emerged from the shack and seeing his superior struck, turned to sound the alarm. Tristan held his breath for a moment, certain all was lost, before the footman made a flying leap and tackled the man just inches from the warning bell.

  He punched the man, sending him sliding across the ground in a cloud of dust. Tristan looked down at the man Citoyenne Martin had struck and noted he was getting to his feet. “Sound the alarm!” he bellowed. “We are under—”

  Tristan punched him, pulling his hand back sharply at the pain.

  “Good work,” Citoyenne Martin said. “He’s out.”

  Tristan looked at his feet, where the sergeant lay in a heap.

  “Too bad you had to ruin everything else.”

  Tristan gaped at her. “Me? Ruin everything? I tried to save our hides! I was the only one not pretending to die or pray. Without me, we’d be on our way back to the city.”

  She glared at him. “Without you, we would be on the other side of this gate. All you had to do was keep quiet and let the man realize he had no choice but to let us pass.”

  “He was too drunk to realize that.”

  “He was not too drunk to want a bribe, which my man was prepared to offer. Before you jumped up and pushed your way out of the carriage, ruining everything.”

  Tristan opened his mouth, then shut it again. How had he missed it? The sergeant’s mention of being poor. The way he had cited the law and held out his hand. He’d wanted assignats. But of course! Tristan had not considered a bribe. He forgot everyone did not have his principles. Not everyone cared more about liberty, equality, and fraternity as much as they did about greasing their own pockets.

  “Now get back in the carriage.”

  “I apologize,” Tristan said, knowing the sentiment was too little too late.

  “Oh, I imagine you will be sorry enough,” she said. Tristan narrowed his eyes, not liking the way that sounded. But then she gestured for him to climb into the carriage again and he did. She followed, but the carriage did not move.

  In the silence, he heard two muffled pistol shots, one coming almost right after the other.

  “What was that?” he demanded.

  “After that fiasco, we can’t have witnesses,” she said, her face looking pale and strained. The abbé began to pray in earnest then, and Tristan turned his head to stare out the window. But all he saw was the footman walking back to the carriage and climbing onto the back. The coachman called to the horses and they were away.

  But Tristan’s thoughts lingered for a long time on the two dead men and the fact that though he hadn’t pulled the trigger, he was as much their murderer as the man who had.

  Five

  Chevalier was quiet for the rest of the journey to the safe house in the countryside outside Paris, near Saint-Germain-en-Laye. When they were about an hour outside the city, they stopped to change horses and Dewhurst climbed inside the coach and sat next to Alex. “It’s freezing out there,” he said by way of explanation. “I didn’t dress for travel since I didn’t expect to be leaving the city for long.” He gave Chevalier a dark look.

  Alex understood his anger. She was annoyed as well, but she could hardly fault Chevalier when he had not known the plan. She had herself to blame for that oversight as Dewhurst and Hastings had wanted to tell him, but she hadn’t trusted him enough. Had Chevalier known they planned to bribe the guard, exit the city with the abbé, and then send the abbé and Hastings on their way while the three of them doubled back and entered the city through a secret tunnel, Chevalier might not have felt so desperate that he challenged the sergeant at the gate.

  He hadn’t even realized the guard wanted a bribe. Alex had known many government officials in her life, and bribery was rampant and commonplace. But Chevalier seemed shocked the man had wanted a bribe and almost disappointed, as though he expected more from his fellow countrymen.

  Alex could tell him if that was where he’d placed his faith, he would be disappointed over and over. The peasants had run the nobility out of power and out of France itself, but they’d quickly stepped in to fill the gap and their abuses were as heinous as, if not more so, those of the nobility.

  As it was, they all had to stay hidden for a day or two, long enough for the commotion the dead guards would cause to pass. No one could take any risks, especially not sneaking into the city.

  The carriage stopped at a little farmhouse just outside Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and Dewhurst alighted to speak with the man and woman who lived here. Alex parted the curtains and saw them emerge with a lamp, looking as one might expect them to look after being unceremoniously awakened in the middle of the night. The man wore his shirt untucked over a pair of trousers and the woman wore a chemise with a thick shawl about her shoulders. In the doorway, three small dark-haired children peeked out. One of them had a hand on the back of a rather large dog.

  She could not hear the discussion, but she saw the man gesture toward the barn and the woman beckoned Dewhurst inside. Dewhurst nodded and returned to the coach, opening the door. “Everyone out. There’s coffee and bread and a bit of broth. Hastings, I’ll help with the horses
.”

  Dewhurst glanced at Alex. She knew the look in his eye. He was leaving her in charge of Abbé Bertrand and Chevalier, and he wanted her to be on her guard. She gave him a confident nod and greeted the woman with a kiss on both cheeks. “Nicole, we are sorry to inconvenience you.”

  The woman, in her late twenties with dark curly hair like the children, smiled. “It is no imposition. Jean-Louis and I have missed you, Alex. And the children, of course, love to see you. And you have brought guests.” She spread her arms in greeting toward Chevalier and the abbé. “How lovely. Please, please come in.”

  Alex linked her arm with Nicole’s and walked with the woman into the small farmhouse. As soon as she stepped inside, the children surrounded her. “Madame! Madame! Did you bring us treats?”

  Alex gave them a look of regret. “I did not. I am so sorry. Our visit is as much a surprise to me as to you. Hello, Jacques.” She gave the dog a pat on the head when he nosed her hand. “Please meet my friends, Citoyen Chevalier and Abbé Bertrand.”

  Five-year-old Monique and six-year-old Liliane made very pretty curtsies, their white nightgowns glowing in the firelight. Françoise, the little boy and the youngest of the three, made a formal bow. To Alex’s surprise, Chevalier bowed in return. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he said.

  “Please sit. I am Jean-Louis Daudier,” the farmer said, indicating the best chair and the one closest the fire. “And this is my wife Nicole. You are most welcome.”

  Instead of taking the chair closest to the fire, Chevalier offered it to the abbé. Once glance at him and Alex knew why. The man looked even paler than he had before. He had made no protest in the carriage, but it was apparent that the motion of the travel had not agreed with him. Alex could only hope the voyage to England was a calm one, for she’d endured more than once Channel crossings fraught with storms and waves so high she thought they would engulf the ship.

  The abbé thanked Chevalier and sat, closing his eyes. Chevalier then pulled out a chair at the table for her and took the one beside it. The children situated themselves on a bench across the table and stared in open fascination at their guests.

  Nicole was at the hearth, warming coffee and broth, but she’d placed bread on the table. Hastings would have some coin to give the family for their generosity, but Alex felt awful that she had no gifts for the children. In the past when she’d come, she’d brought the little girls ribbons. She’d given Françoise a carved wooden bird. But she had nothing to offer tonight. Or did she?

  She glanced at Chevalier.

  “Would you like me to tell you a story?” she asked the children.

  “Oh, yes, madame!” the three chirped in unison.

  “Is that acceptable to you, Nicole?” she asked.

  “Of course. And then back to bed with you because morning and your chores will come sooner than you think.”

  Alex raised a brow at Chevalier, hoping to annoy him. “It’s a tale taken from Shakespeare so you might not approve.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Believe it or not, I actually do like some of Shakespeare’s plays.”

  She pressed a hand to her heart. “This is disturbing news indeed, but you may rely upon me to keep your secret.” She turned to the children. “Do you know the story of the fairy queen?” And she proceeded to tell them of Titania and Oberon from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, changing the tale so it was appropriate for young ears.

  By the time the story had finished, the children were yawning and she had finished her coffee. Hastings and Dewhurst had entered during the tale, and now Hastings rose from his spot near the door. “We should all get some sleep.”

  When Jean-Louis pointed toward his own bed in the loft above, Hastings shook his head. “We won’t turn you out of your own bed. We can sleep in the barn.”

  “But surely you will not sleep in the barn,” Nicole said to Alex.

  Alex patted her hand and rose. “I’ve slept in far less comfortable lodgings. And we will be gone early tomorrow. You’ll forgive us if we say our farewells tonight.”

  The five of them made their way through the dark yard and into the barn, which smelled of animals and straw and oiled leather. Hastings carried a lamp with him, and he set it on a shelf as Dewhurst closed the barn door.

  “That plan went to the devil and back,” Hastings said. “Do we even bother to make another or do you expect this clodpole to try and help again?” He pointed to Chevalier.

  Chevalier straightened indignantly. Before the men could start punching each other, Alex stepped between them. “We make another plan, my lord. You and the abbé will continue as originally planned, and Tony, Citoyen Chevalier, and I will return to Paris.”

  “And how do you think to do that?” Hastings asked. “The abbé and I will take the horses from the carriage and ride them to Le Havre. But even if we found another means of traveling, you can’t go in the carriage. It’s too conspicuous in a country on the hunt for escaping nobles. We are fortunate we weren’t stopped tonight.”

  “We’ll walk,” Dewhurst said, “and look for a farmer with a cart who will take us closer to Paris.”

  Alex sighed. She was no great walker, but Dewhurst’s suggestion was really the only option.

  “And what about you?” Hastings asked, looking at Chevalier.

  “I am capable of walking,” Chevalier said, head held as high as that of any king.

  “Yes, but are you capable of keeping your mouth shut? Can you be trusted?”

  Chevalier shrugged in the way the French often did. “I’ve proved myself enough tonight.”

  Alex rolled her eyes, but Dewhurst barked out a laugh. “You almost got us killed. I vote we kill him and bury him in the field. He can fertilize Daudier’s crops.”

  Hastings looked as though he might agree to this, but Alex shook her head. “We still need him.”

  “We don’t need him,” Dewhurst said. “I know a way into the”—and then, as though remembering who was listening, he cleared his throat—“I know a way in.”

  “Then go ahead and kill him,” she said, ignoring the way Chevalier’s eyes widened. She didn’t care whether he lived or not. Well, she didn’t care much. “But you’ll answer to the Pimpernel.”

  Dewhurst gave Chevalier a menacing look. “Who wants first watch?”

  Alex supposed that meant Chevalier would live. She felt no sense of relief. “I’ll take it. You and Hastings have been riding outside most of the night. Sleep.”

  “I will sit with you,” the abbé said, his voice rather hoarse.

  “No.” Alex shook her head gently. “You should rest. You have a long journey ahead of you. I’ve done this before, and it is no trouble for me.”

  Hastings handed her his pistol before climbing the ladder to the hayloft and disappearing from sight.

  “Go ahead. Sleep,” Alex told the abbé, and the older man followed Hastings.

  Dewhurst looked from Alex to Chevalier. “Should I tie him?”

  “You don’t think I can handle him if he tries to escape?”

  Dewhurst opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever reply he might have made. The two of them had argued over her capabilities before, but she had hoped she’d gained some measure of his respect after all the time they’d worked together. Still, he was the younger son of a duke, and he’d been raised to view women as weak, frail things that must be protected, and she knew that upbringing was difficult for him to look beyond.

  “Of course, you can,” Dewhurst said. “I thought I’d make it easier for you.”

  “Go to sleep, Tony. I’ll wake you in four hours.” She glanced at Chevalier. “You might as well sleep too.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll sit up with you.”

  Dewhurst gave her another look full of meaning and when she merely smiled at him, he climbed the ladder. “Call me if you need me.” He disappeared into the loft.

  Alex sat with her back against one of the beams supporting the hayloft, her gaze on the barn’s door. She glanced
at the lamp, judging the amount of oil and how much would burn away by the end of her watch.

  Chevalier sat beside her.

  “Aren’t you tired?” she asked without looking at him.

  “Exhausted,” he answered. “But if I lie down, I’ll toss and turn. I might as well sit up with you.”

  He sounded so innocent, but she wasn’t fooled. “This wouldn’t be a ploy to escape, would it?”

  “You mean wait until the others are sleeping, overpower you, take the pistol, and head for the nearest town and the local governor?”

  She gave him a sidelong look. “I hadn’t thought it out in that much detail.”

  “No. I won’t try to escape, although I was under the impression I was a confederate, not a prisoner.”

  Now she shrugged. “I suppose you are a bit of both.”

  “Your big, dark friend wants to kill me.”

  She laughed quietly. “He wants to kill everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

  “And your Lord Hastings, he did not want to sit up with you? To keep watch with you?”

  She pointed a finger at the hayloft. “Do you hear that snoring? I believe that’s him.”

  “Then he is not a protective man?”

  Hastings would have given his life for any one of them in a moment, but he knew she’d do the same and trusted her implicitly. “Not particularly. Why?”

  “Because you were his lover.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, well.” She didn’t know what else to say.

  She listened to the sound of crickets and frogs outside and the rustling from the hayloft and the stalls. The countryside was quiet, and she should be able to hear approaching hoofbeats in plenty of time to warn the men.

  “He was never your lover, was he?” Chevalier asked.

  She might have lied, but to what end? “No. He was in France during the revolution to look after his family’s interests. When he had done all he could, he needed a reason to stay and so he played the role of my lover. But it was as much a ruse as my case of smallpox earlier tonight,” she said.

  “Then he isn’t in love with you?”