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

by Shana Galen

  “I’m sorry, citoyen. What did you say?” Tristan ruffled the blank pages before him.

  “I asked if you could read back Citoyen Saint-Just’s earlier proposal.”

  “Saint-Just’s proposal?” Tristan pretended to scan the pages. The back of his neck felt warm, and he had the urge to loosen his neckcloth. After a few seconds of silence but for the paper rustling, Saint-Just cleared his throat.

  “I can repeat it. I said—”

  Tristan leaned close to Robespierre. “Excuse me, citoyen. I’m not feeling well.”

  “Go get a breath of fresh air,” Robespierre muttered, his focus still on Saint-Just. “And when you return, citoyen, I expect you will be cured.”

  “Yes, citoyen.”

  He left the room quickly, exiting the salon in the Tuileries where the committee met, and walking the short distance to the Palais-Royal. The autumn breeze felt refreshing after the closed room stuffed with committee members. Tristan walked past the coffee shops, where men had once debated philosophy, government, and economics. He’d often sat for hours listening and speaking and arguing. Men still sat and drank, but they no longer jumped on tables and expounded on their views. Now they spoke to one another in whispers and hushed tones. If any of his friends from those days were here now, they would probably look down and hope he didn’t acknowledge them.

  Vendors still stood by stalls, advertising their wares, but it seemed even fewer had goods to sell. He saw half a dozen stalls offering tricolor cockades. These were a necessity, as no one ventured out without proof of their loyalty to the republic.

  And of course there were the ever-present prostitutes. Only a few moved about at this time of the day, but the mall would be filled with them later. One of them smiled at him and gestured for him to approach. He shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal before realizing it had not been a prostitute at all.

  Alexandra stood leaning against a pillar, the hood of her red cape pushed down and a spill of blond curls about her shoulders. He knew it must be a wig, but it was a good one. For a moment he had not recognized her. He started toward her, unable to stop himself from wondering what she wore under the cape.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Looking for you.”

  “But how can you have known—”

  She tucked her arm through his. “Let’s walk. The ladies here will think I am stealing their business.”

  They strolled along the wide walks as though they had not a care in the world. Finally, he repeated his question. “How did you know I would be here?”

  “I didn’t. I followed you.”

  He glanced at her and then away, disgusted with himself for not even having noticed he was being followed.

  “There’s no need to berate yourself. I’m very good at not being seen.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing that wig?”

  “It’s an easy disguise. After all, you weren’t looking for a woman with long hair.”

  “How do you know I was looking for you at all?”

  She stopped and peered up at him. “Because I can’t be the only one who wonders what might have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted last night.”

  He took a breath and began to walk again. “You received my note.”

  “I did. And I’ve come to invite you to my house for dinner.”

  He knew what her invitation entailed and it was no innocent dinner. “When?”

  “Tonight. Come an hour before curfew.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too risky for me to be out after curfew.”

  “If you decide to sleep at home, we’ll make sure you arrive there without being seen.”

  His heart pounded in his chest at her use of if. Was that an invitation to share her bed? No matter. He could not risk being caught at her house if the guard decided to search residences.

  “I will arrive two hours before curfew and leave twenty minutes before.”

  “I won’t be home and my neighbors will all talk more than they do about what a loose woman I am.” She pulled away from him. “Trust me, Chevalier. It’s better if you do as I say.”

  “You really give me no choice.”

  She shrugged. “C’est la vie.” She started away, obviously having said all she intended.

  “It doesn’t suit you,” he said, causing her to pause and give him a perplexed look over her shoulder.

  “The wig.”

  “Really? Most men prefer me with long hair.”

  “It doesn’t suit your face.”

  She smiled. “Most men don’t look at my face.” She blew him a kiss and walked away. Within moments, she was gone. He knew she couldn’t have disappeared, but it was still disconcerting how quickly she could blend into the crowd, even a sparse crowd, wearing a scarlet cape.

  And so tonight was when he would fully turn traitor. He’d always wondered how the famous traitors—Brutus, Fawkes, Arnold—had made the decision to turn their backs on their country. Now he knew it was not one decision but a thousand tiny ones.

  He turned back the way he had come. He had committee work to be done before he betrayed the republic.

  Twelve

  “I think you know everyone,” Alexandra said after leading him to the attic through a secret panel and a narrow staircase. Tristan wondered how many other residences had features like this and whether the National Guard knew of them. And then he wondered why people would feel the need for such features. Was this really liberty?

  Tristan bowed at the quartet gathered near a table on which wine and glasses had been placed.

  “Can we at least attempt civility?” The tall, slim man with the refined accent rose, managing to look both weary and expectant.

  “Very well,” Alexandra said. “Tristan Chevalier, may I present the former Marquis de Montagne.”

  “Citoyen.” Tristan nodded his head. He’d known at first sight the man was a noble, and he already disliked him for it.

  Montagne sighed. “You should have presented him to me.”

  Ignoring him, Alexandra gestured to the other woman in the room. She was an indisputable beauty with eyes the color of violets. “Miss Honoria Blake.”

  She curtsied slightly. “Sir, a pleasure,” she said in English.

  Montagne moved closer to her, and Tristan understood the warning to keep away.

  “This is our leader”—Alexandra indicated the blond man who looked to be the youngest of the group—“Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.”

  “Welcome, citizen,” Ffoulkes said, also in English. Tristan nodded and turned his attention to the black-haired, broad-chested man he’d met when they’d freed the abbé.

  “And you’re Dewhurst, I believe.”

  Dewhurst smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lord Anthony Dewhurst. I know how important titles are to you.”

  Tristan gritted his teeth. He was practically surrounded by nobility. He would have laughed if he didn’t think they’d all be dead in a few days.

  Ffoulkes gestured to the table and they all crowded around. There were four seats, so Ffoulkes stood at one end and Dewhurst moved to a corner near the door. Across from Tristan, Montagne leaned back as though the chair was a throne while Miss Blake arranged her skirts gracefully and Alex perched on the edge of her seat beside Tristan.

  “Do you mind if we continue in English?” Ffoulkes asked. Tristan shrugged.

  “Good. Now that you have seen the error of your ways and come over to our side,” Ffoulkes began. Tristan stiffened and Alex laid a hand on his arm. Ffoulkes went on. “We need a plan to rescue the king.”

  “You don’t have a plan?” Tristan stared at the group, incredulous.

  “Our plan was to recruit you,” Montagne drawled. He pointed to Tristan. “Check.”

  Ffoulkes frowned. “That’s not the whole of it. But it was difficult to plan much further without knowing all of the variables. Since you are—how to put it—rowing in our boat, we will be able to utilize some of your unique qualities.”


  Tristan looked to Alexandra to translate.

  “He means he wants to take advantage of your position and proximity to Robespierre.” She looked at Ffoulkes. “But we may already benefit from that. Chevalier was inside the Temple prison last night.” She cut her gaze to him. “Was it only last night? In any case, he can describe the security around Louis Charles.”

  “I don’t have a good...image of where he is being held. I followed the guard to his cell.”

  “Leave that to me,” Montagne said. He lifted a hand. “Dewhurst, my sketch.”

  Dewhurst didn’t so much as blink. Montagne sighed, rose, and crossed to the escritoire. He slid open a drawer and pulled out a roll of paper. Then he unfurled it on the table, smoothing it with long, elegant fingers. “This is a map of the Temple prison.”

  Tristan rose and studied the detailed drawing of the interior of the prison. Every room was drawn to scale, labeled, and doors and windows noted. Staircases and guard stations had been identified as well as what looked like secret passages.

  “Mon Dieu.” Tristan stepped back. If Robespierre had any idea the league had something like this, he would not sleep until he caught every last one of them.

  “Monsieur will do,” Montagne remarked drily. Tristan really would have liked to punch him in that perfect nose.

  “How did you acquire this?” Tristan asked.

  “You don’t need to know that,” Ffoulkes said just as Miss Blake opened her mouth, presumably to answer. “And you should also be aware that we have made copies of the documents you provided us and given them to a friend for safekeeping. If anything should happen to us, Robespierre will have the proof of your perfidy within the hour.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Dewhurst moved out of the shadows. “We’re simply providing you all of the necessary information. Now, it’s your turn.” He pointed to the map. “Start talking.”

  Tristan sighed. “I believe this is correct and that Citoyen Capet is held here.” He indicated the room already marked with the words Dauphin de France. “He’s held alone with a guard outside at all times.”

  Montagne nodded. “We infiltrate the Temple, make our way to the king’s cell, and force the guard to open it for us. Voilà!”

  Tristan shook his head. “I think the only person with a key to the cell is Antoine Simon, who has been charged with reforming the boy.”

  The group muttered quietly, obviously having heard of Simon and disapproving.

  “Then we make Simon open the door,” Dewhurst said.

  “How?” Alexandra asked. “He knows to do so will mean death by guillotine.”

  Dewhurst made a fist with one hand and smacked his open palm. “There are ways of convincing him.”

  “We won’t have time for that,” Montagne said.

  “And I believe you are all forgetting that we want the king’s removal to go unnoticed until we are out of the city.” Ffoulkes crossed his arms.

  Montagne nodded. “Perhaps we pick the lock. Alex?”

  “I can manage a common door or window, but nothing reinforced. What type of lock was it?” she asked Tristan.

  “I don’t know the word in English. Cadenas.”

  “Padlock,” Ffoulkes translated.

  “Gabrielle could do it,” Alexandra said.

  “She’s in England, and it will take too long to arrange for her return.” Ffoulkes turned to Miss Blake. “We’ll need release papers for a locksmith.”

  “I can make them as soon as we know the name.”

  “Chevalier can take care of that for us,” Dewhurst said.

  “I don’t follow.” Tristan looked at Alexandra.

  She held up a staying hand. “Every task we ask of him puts him at risk of suspicion. We need him to gain us entrance to the prison. That’s foremost. I’d rather ask the Pimpernel to send us Gabrielle than compromise Chevalier.”

  Dewhurst bore down on her. “And I’d like it if we didn’t treat this”—he flicked his wrist at Tristan—“murderer like a china doll. Let him get his hands dirty with something other than innocent blood.”

  “Dewhurst,” Montagne said, his tone a warning.

  Dewhurst sneered at him. “This is why we don’t sleep with the enemy.”

  Tristan lunged for Dewhurst, but Ffoulkes stepped in front of him. Alexandra calmly lifted her glass of wine and threw it in Dewhurst’s face.

  “Fils de salope.” Montagne quickly moved the map off the table and Miss Blake gave him a handkerchief to dry the edge that had been stained.

  “What I do or do not do on my time and with my body is not your concern, Tony,” Alexandra said. “And the next time you mention it, it will be my fist in your face.”

  Wiping his face on his sleeve, Dewhurst moved back. “I overstepped. Forgive me. But my point stands. We can’t coddle him.”

  Ffoulkes eyed Tristan, who gave him a steely nod. Clearly, Alexandra could handle herself. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t punch Dewhurst the next time he had the opportunity. Montagne wasn’t looking so bad.

  “We could send for Lady—” He broke off, clearly not wanting to say more about the identity of the mysterious Gabrielle. “We could send for our friend, but three weeks is optimistic. It could be three months before she can slip into Paris, and that’s if the situation here doesn’t worsen. Do we have that kind of time? Chevalier, you saw the king?”

  “He’s not the king. He’s Citoyen Capet.” Before he knew what had happened, Montagne had him by the throat.

  “He is the king, and while you’re here you’ll give him the respect he deserves.”

  So he’d been right to hate Montagne from the beginning.

  “Laurent,” Miss Blake said. “Release him, please.”

  But Tristan didn’t need her help. He grasped Montagne’s hand and pried it off his throat. “He’s no better than you or me, and I won’t treat him or you any differently.”

  Montagne stared at him and Tristan stared back.

  “Boys,” Alexandra said. “We’re wasting time. Let’s all sit down and return to the task at hand or we’ll be arguing politics in the tumbrels.”

  Tristan returned to his chair as did Montagne, but he didn’t sit quite so negligently now.

  “As I was saying.” Ffoulkes straightened his sleeves. “Chevalier, you saw Louis Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his condition?”

  Tristan blew out a breath.

  “It must have been poor for you to be here,” Alex prompted him. “Tell us.”

  “As I said, he’s kept alone. I don’t think he’s allowed out of his cell or that anyone is let in. So Simon may have the key to the—ah, padlock, but I think it’s rarely used. It must have been this way for some time. The child’s feces had piled in a corner and the stench was considerable. There is a slot in the door to pass a tray of food through—”

  Montagne jumped up. “What kind of monsters would do this to a child? I’ll fucking kill them all.”

  For the first time, Tristan actually felt some fear. The expression of Montagne’s face was that of a man who would do exactly as he’d said.

  “Monsieur, your outbursts won’t help the child,” Ffoulkes said calmly. “If you can’t bear it, then you’d better leave.”

  It was a cold response, but it seemed to have worked. Montagne sat again and Miss Blake poured him more wine, then slipped her hand into his.

  “Go on, citizen,” Ffoulkes said.

  “Food is passed through the door. When I was there it was night and the boy was sleeping. I asked Simon to rouse him, and he did so.”

  “What did he look like?” Montagne asked, his voice ragged.

  “It was...him. I’d seen him before the revolution, and it was the same child, but he was thin and dirty. The room was cold, and he shivered and walked rather unsteadily.”

  Montagne rose abruptly and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Ffoulkes held up a hand, stalling Miss Blake who rose to go after him. “
We need you here, and he could probably use some time to compose himself.”

  She nodded, then addressed herself to Tristan. “He knew the royal children and loves them like siblings. He’d do anything for them.”

  Tristan nodded. He knew what it was like to watch a beloved sibling suffer. He knew the pain and agony of being helpless to stop it.

  “Perhaps we might buy time if Robespierre was made aware of the child’s condition. If it could be improved—”

  “No,” Alex interrupted Ffoulkes. “Robespierre knows. I heard Chevalier tell him last night.” She exchanged a look with Tristan. He’d supposed she’d heard, but this confirmed it. She had been even closer to being discovered than he’d wanted to accept. “Robespierre doesn’t care. He won’t kill the king, but if the child dies that is one more problem he won’t have to deal with.”

  “Hold.” Ffoulkes leaned both hands on the table. “Are you saying Robespierre visited Chevalier’s apartments when you were there?”

  “I hid.”

  “Good God, Alex! If you’d been discovered—”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Not this time. And I don’t want to risk a next time. There is no time to lose. We need a locksmith if we’re to have any hope of opening that cell. Montagne can get the locksmith in, and Chevalier can distract the guard, but he can’t walk out with Louis Charles.”

  “And Montagne and I discussed it. We don’t think it’s wise for us to use the secret tunnel again,” Dewhurst said. “It will be guarded or walled up now.”

  Miss Blake raised a brow. “You were having a discussion with Laurent?”

  His mouth curved slightly. “It was brief.”

  “If we can smuggle Laurent in, he knows all sorts of secret passages inside the Temple.”

  “Exactly how many people do you think I can walk in with?” Chevalier demanded. “Why don’t you all come? That won’t seem suspicious.”

  “What if someone from the inside let us in a back way?” Alexandra said, tapping her chin. “Perhaps someone who is very good at disguise could pretend to be a servant and—”

  “While I was there, the captain told me he knows every guard and every servant personally. If you tried it, you would be caught and questioned.” Tristan didn’t need to add that Alex would also be killed.