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

by Shana Galen

  She blinked. “Nothing.”

  He felt his throat go dry. “Are you saying that if I open this, you’ll be bare underneath?”

  “I can’t exactly wear a chemise, and as you see the shirt is an illusion. There’s just a collar to fool the audience and make costume changes easier.”

  She went on about costumes and seamstresses and their tricks, but he wasn’t listening any longer. No wonder he had encountered her flesh so quickly. She wore nothing under the garment. He reached for another button, then paused. “You never answered. May I take it off?”

  She nodded, and he started on the button again.

  “And what will you do when you’ve divested me of it?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” He pressed his lips to the swath of flesh he’d revealed and she made a small sound in the back of her throat.

  “There’s something else you might want to know about this garment.”

  “I don’t care that it’s hand sewn.”

  “That isn’t it. It’s about the buttons. There are only five.”

  He looked at the material again. There were a least twenty buttons, but now he saw that some of them were decorative. He’d opened three and had already revealed the valley between her breasts. “You actors are a wicked lot.” He unfastened the next button and revealed a section of pale abdomen. His fingers trembled as he reached the last button and unfastened it. The heavy garment didn’t open, so he took both sides and parted it slowly.

  Her breasts were small but round and firm. The nipples were hard and dark red and just slightly tilted up as though waiting for his mouth to claim them. He pushed the doublet off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She was so slender and delicate. He was almost afraid to touch her.

  She took his hand and brought it to her mouth, kissing the palm and then each of the five fingers. His breathing sped up as she tilted her head back and trailed his hand down her neck and between her breasts. Her heart pounded under his palm, cushioned by the round weight of her. He couldn’t stop his fingers from tracing that curve. She shivered and lifted his other hand. When she kissed the palm, he bent and ran his lips over her flesh, settling on the dark nipple and taking it into his mouth. She drew his finger into her mouth, sucking hard, and he had to sink to his knees to keep them from buckling.

  His hand skated down her body taking her plump flesh in his hand and kneading it while his lips slid over her abdomen.

  “I think you should take your clothes off.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But first I want to see what you’re wearing beneath these breeches.”

  His hand dipped to the placket, loosened it, and slid inside. Mon Dieu. She truly wore nothing. Her hot flesh all but seared his hand, and he knew if he dipped into the dusting of blond curls she would be warm and wet for him.

  He kissed her lower abdomen, wondering if she tasted as good as she smelled, and then he felt her stiffen. Before he could ask why, he knew the reason. He heard the sound of horses’ hooves on cobblestones that could only mean one thing.

  A carriage was approaching, and only high-ranking government officials would be out after curfew. She stepped back and went to the window, standing to the side and parting the curtains ever so slightly. “A black carriage with four unmatched horses. I can’t tell much more from here.”

  Tristan handed her the doublet and took her place while she tugged it on. “It’s Robespierre,” he said, recognizing the conveyance immediately.

  “And he’s coming here?”

  “More than likely.”

  She paused in the act of buttoning the doublet. “I can’t climb out that window. He’ll see me. What if you were to undress? He will think he’s taken you from bed with me. It’s not far from the truth.”

  Tristan shook his head. She didn’t know Robespierre like he did. The leader of the Jacobins would not see her as some faceless, nameless woman. He would want to know who she was, and the closer he looked at her, the worse it would be for both of them. But he didn’t have time to explain all of that. “No, he must think I’m alone. Hide in the bedchamber and don’t make a sound.”

  She gave him a dubious look, but gathered up her cape and retreated, still fastening her doublet. She didn’t trust him, and he could not blame her, but he would have been a fool to turn her over to Robespierre. They would both go to the guillotine. And if Robespierre found her here, they might still.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Tristan went to his desk and opened a compartment, pulling out several documents just as the knock thudded on the door. Tristan opened it immediately. “Citoyen,” he said with a slight bow. “I heard your carriage and hoped you might be coming to see me.” Tristan opened the door wider to admit the short man into the main room. He was careful not to look back at the door to his bedchamber. He had to trust Alexandra Martin was well hidden.

  “I am glad you are awake, citoyen,” Robespierre said, looking about the room with a keen eye. “I see you are still working.”

  “Not work, really. I was reading this essay by Voltaire.” He lifted the paper from the desk to show Robespierre.

  His superior glanced at the paper. “A worthy use of your time. May I sit?” He indicated the table.

  “Of course. Would you like wine?”

  “No, thank you.” Removing his hat, he looked about again, his gaze pausing on the bedchamber. Tristan gripped the back of the chair to keep from following that gaze.

  “I like how you live, Citoyen Chevalier. You are a frugal man.”

  “Thank you, citoyen.”

  Robespierre lifted a hand. “I realized tonight that I had not seen you all day. Not until you came to request permission to go to the Temple prison.”

  “I was unwell, citoyen.”

  “And the day before?”

  “Also unwell. I only began to feel better this afternoon and that’s when I went to see you.”

  Robespierre nodded his head. “With a request to see Citoyen Capet.” His eyes, behind the green-tinted glasses, were sharp. “Why, after a bout of sickness, did you decide you needed to visit our young prisoner?”

  Tristan kept his hands still. “Before I became ill, on the day of the festival, I heard rumors of drunkenness at the Temple. I thought it best to investigate.”

  “Why did you not mention this concern to me earlier?”

  “I didn’t want to trouble you with my concerns if they were unfounded.”

  “And? Were they?” Robespierre arched a brow.

  “Yes, citoyen. All was as it should be when I visited.”

  “Good.”

  Tristan could end the exchange now. Robespierre would leave in a few minutes, and Alexandra would be safe. But Tristan knew he wouldn’t have another opportunity to mention the boy king. Robespierre was extremely busy. The only reason the leader hadn’t questioned Tristan more before signing the form allowing Tristan into the Temple was that Robespierre was already late for a committee meeting. But the leader of the republic was here now.

  “I wonder if I might ask you a question, Citoyen Robespierre.”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you been to visit Citoyen Capet?”

  Robespierre narrowed his eyes. “I have.”

  “And what did you think of his care? He seems rather young for such harsh measures.”

  Robespierre rose. “You think Simon is doing a poor job reforming the brat?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good, because I have every faith in Simon. You of all people should know what the nobility is like—their hauteur, their pride, their contempt for those they deem lesser. Simon does not have an easy task. That child will be all but impossible to reform. His sister is already a lost cause. She won’t even speak—not to me, not to anyone.” Robespierre paced the room, coming much closer than Tristan would have liked to the door of the bedchamber. “But the sister does not matter. Only the boy, and yes, Simon’s methods are harsh, but we can’t coddle the brat. He must be shown his new place
in the world.”

  “I understand, citoyen. But...”

  Robespierre rounded on him, expression hard. “But?”

  “But he is still a child. Would it not be possible to allow him the comfort of his sister or aunt?”

  “So they may undo all of Simon’s teachings? No!”

  “Then a peasant woman to act as a mother and help keep him clean and comfort him at night—”

  “Yes! And why don’t we just provide the brat with a retinue of servants while we’re at it. He need never lift a finger. I’m surprised at you, Chevalier. I thought you supported the cause.”

  “I do, citoyen. I believe in it with all my heart and mind, but I don’t like to see children suffer.”

  Robespierre’s expression softened slightly then. “If you want to help suffering children, there are plenty of children in Paris suffering. Help me sweep away the last vestiges of the ancien régime. That will do more to end suffering than anything else.”

  “Yes, citoyen—”

  A thud of something moving or falling came from the bedchamber, and both Tristan and Robespierre turned their attention to that room.

  “What was that?” Robespierre asked.

  “I’m sure it was nothing. The wind.”

  Robespierre edged closer. “Are you alone, citoyen?”

  Tristan hesitated. If he said yes and Robespierre burst through the door and found Alexandra, he would doom them both. If he said no, it would go no better for him. The nature of the conversation tonight meant Tristan should have revealed anyone else present who might overhear.

  “Yes, I’m alone. As I said, it was probably nothing.”

  “Bring me that lamp.”

  Tristan could do nothing but comply. He took his time, hoping Alexandra was well-hidden, though where she could find to hide in the sparsely furnished room, he did not know.

  He held the lamp out to Robespierre but the man gestured for Tristan to lead the way. Tristan walked slowly into his bedchamber, holding the lamp aloft. He scanned it quickly, his mind in turmoil as he tried to fabricate explanations. Robespierre entered after him.

  “There’s nothing here.”

  The room was empty, and Tristan stifled the urge to peer about, looking for Alexandra. A cat meowed, drawing their attention to the window. The open window. The cat sat in the window and licked his paw.

  “Is that your cat?” Robespierre asked.

  “No. It belongs to the shopkeeper below.”

  “You’d better close your window or the cat will come inside.”

  Tristan went to the small window and looked out. He would not have been able to fit through, but Alexandra was small and slender. She might have managed it. He lingered long enough to pet the cat, using the opportunity to search the roof. But there was no sign of Alexandra.

  “Now that I know you have such a soft heart,” Robespierre was saying, “I will see what I can find for you to do to help the children of Paris.” He moved out of the bedchamber and collected his hat.

  “Thank you, citoyen. I will see you tomorrow.”

  Robespierre took his leave, and Tristan sat heavily in the chair at the table. That had been too close. He hated this new game he played. He detested danger and intrigue, and somehow he’d found himself in the middle of it. Tristan tried to think of a way out, but all he could see was the small, thin figure of Louis Charles marching about his foul, cold cell.

  And he knew, noble or not, he could not leave that boy to die.

  Eleven

  Alex had barely had time to take a few sips of coffee the next morning when a knock sounded on the door. Thankfully, she was the only one downstairs. Since Hastings had left with the abbé, she had to maintain the pretense that she was living alone. That meant the neighbors would have been suspicious if they heard talking or saw people moving around. Dewhurst, Ffoulkes, Honoria, and Montagne were careful to keep mainly to the hidden attic. Alex knew why such an arrangement was necessary, but it meant most of the cooking and housekeeping were left to her.

  And, of course, she was the only one who could answer the door. She hadn’t yet gone to the attic to ask Honoria to help her dress, so Alex pulled her wrapper around her and padded barefoot to the door. It was after ten in the morning, but it still felt far too early for visitors.

  She pulled the door open and grunted. The boy on the stoop held out a crumpled paper. “For you, citoyenne.”

  Since Alex had her doubts as to whether or not the boy could read, she craned her neck to see the name and address on the paper. It was indeed addressed to her. She took it and gave the boy a coin, then closed and locked the door.

  She carried the paper back to the table where her coffee cooled. Perhaps she should pretend to hire Honoria as a servant. No, that was too dangerous. Honoria and Montagne had been rescued from the guards at the Temple recently, and their faces might be known. Dewhurst was not known. She could hire him as a footman. That idea appealed. She’d like ordering Dewhurst around...

  “What is that?”

  Alex spun around and found Ffoulkes standing in the open panel of one of the secret escapes to the attic. She scowled at him. “You know I hate when you do that.”

  Ffoulkes raised his brows, all innocence. “You do?”

  “I haven’t opened it yet.” She waved the paper. “It may be nothing.” She broke the unadorned wax seal and stared at the single word printed in the middle of the page.

  Oui.

  “Well?” Ffoulkes prompted.

  “I think I had better come upstairs.”

  She brought her coffee, and when all five of them had gathered around the small table, she showed them the letter.

  “How do you know it’s from Chevalier?” Dewhurst asked.

  “When I saw him last night he said he would think about what he’d seen at the Temple and send a simple yes or no to my residence.”

  “How do we know this isn’t a trick?” Ffoulkes asked.

  “We don’t. But if he betrays us, we will betray him back.”

  “Small consolation that will be when my head is under the blade of the guillotine,” Montagne grumbled.

  “Have faith, Laurent,” Honoria murmured. To the group, she said, “We need to involve him in our planning sooner rather than later. You said he had a pass to enter the Temple. If I could see it, I could more accurately reproduce it.”

  “But first we take precautions.” Ffoulkes looked at Honoria. “Miss Blake, have you copied the documents Chevalier gave to our friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then we keep those and send the originals to Mackenzie. If anything happens to us, he will know what to do with them and Chevalier will be doomed.”

  “How do we contact Mackenzie?” Dewhurst asked.

  Ffoulkes waved a hand. “Leave that to me. Miss Martin, you meet with Chevalier today and arrange a time for him to come here.”

  “Here?” Montagne asked, sitting straight. He tended to lounge as though affected by an eternal ennui. “You want to bring the wolf to the chicken coop?”

  “He has been here before,” Alex pointed out.

  “But he didn’t know where he was. He did not know your residence is the league’s hiding place.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Ffoulkes said. “We have to trust him at some point.”

  “Shall I tell him to come tonight or do you need more time to contact Mackenzie?” Alex asked.

  “Tonight,” Ffoulkes said. “Tell him to come an hour before curfew. That’s early enough that those with evening business won’t be scurrying home yet, but late enough that most people will be off the streets. The fewer people who see him arrive here, the better.”

  “The neighbors already think me a loose woman. If they see a man come here while Hastings is away, they’ll think I have a lover.”

  “If only they knew how many men you really live with.” Dewhurst wagged his brows suggestively.

  Alex rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s champagne and orgies every night.”


  Montagne sighed. “Ah, the good old days.”

  Honoria hit him, and he laughed. Alex suspected the marquis did miss the privileges that had come with his former life, but she knew he would not trade Honoria to have them back. She envied the two of them and not just because they frequently sneaked away for time alone. Although after what Chevalier had made her feel last night, she was keenly aware of how long it had been since she’d had a man in her bed. She missed the physical release, but more than that, she wanted the emotional connection she saw between Honoria and Montagne. She did not know that she wanted that with Chevalier. He was certainly the worst possible choice, but she would have to tread carefully with him or risk more than her life by inviting him in.

  Her heart would be in jeopardy as well.

  THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLIC Safety had been meeting for two hours and Tristan was falling asleep. The members were debating some new measure, whose implications probably should have horrified Tristan, but he really wasn’t paying attention. Instead of taking notes for Robespierre, his mind wandered back to the night before.

  Alexandra’s skin had been so soft, her body so perfectly formed, her reaction to his touch all that he could have wanted and more. He’d like to damn Robespierre for the interruption, but his superior had most likely done him a favor. If he had taken Alexandra Martin to bed, what then? It was bad enough that he’d agreed to help the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel—he glanced up at the committee guiltily even as he thought the name—but he dared not take one of the members as a lover. He couldn’t afford to harbor tender feelings for her. She might betray him at any moment, and he might very well do the same to her.

  They would rescue the boy king or die trying. If they succeeded, Tristan would almost certainly have to flee the country. It would be easier to do so without having to look back.

  “Did you hear me, Chevalier?”

  Tristan blinked and focused on Robespierre, who was staring at him behind his tinted spectacles. Indeed, the entire committee was staring at Tristan.