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

by Shana Galen

  “I can’t make you a girl,” she told Dewhurst, pulling out two jackets she could fashion into those like the guard wore. “We’re going as members of the National Guard.”

  “That won’t fit Chevalier,” Dewhurst said, pointing to the smaller of the jackets.

  “You and I are going,” she said.

  “Change of plan. Ffoulkes wants Chevalier to go in. After last night, we can’t be certain you weren’t identified.”

  “I wasn’t identified, and in any case, I’ll be in disguise.”

  Dewhurst shrugged. “Take it up with Ffoulkes. I want the big cockade.”

  Alex blew out a breath. There was no point in taking the matter up with Ffoulkes. He was the Pimpernel’s second-in-command. She followed his orders or left the Pimpernel’s service.

  “Dewhurst won’t let anything happen to Mr. Chevalier,” Honoria said, glancing up from her work. “Will you, Tony?”

  “I’ll keep him safe and sound.” Dewhurst’s tone was snide.

  “Plus, these passes will be so good no one will look twice at them. They’ll be in and out and back in an hour.”

  Alex glanced at Dewhurst. “If anything happens to him—”

  “I won’t touch a hair on his head. Not until after we rescue the king, anyway. Then...we’ll see.”

  “I thought I was the first man you wanted to kill after we rescued Louis Charles,” Montagne said without looking up from his map.

  Dewhurst stood. “How about I kill you now?”

  Honoria slammed a hand on the table. “Stop fighting, all of you. You’re interrupting my concentration.”

  Dewhurst sat back down, his eyes locked on Montagne, who smiled smugly from across the room. Alex blew out a breath and found a jacket she thought would fit Tristan, then began to create the disguises.

  By the time Tristan arrived, Ffoulkes had returned and they’d all sat down to dinner. She ushered Tristan to the attic where they ate the soup and bread Ffoulkes had somehow managed to procure. Tristan took a bowl without comment, sitting beside Alex and keeping quiet. He ate very little, offering Alex the remainder in his bowl.

  “You’d better eat something,” Ffoulkes told him. “You and Dewhurst are going to La Force tonight.”

  Tristan looked at Alex, and she gave him an apologetic look. “I didn’t know until I returned home this morning.”

  “I had planned to send Alex and Dewhurst,” Ffoulkes told them, “but after your fiasco last night, I thought better of it. Alex has the disguises ready. You can dress and have your makeup done after you finish eating.”

  “Makeup?”

  “I’ll use theatrical makeup to keep anyone from recognizing you. And if the absence of the locksmith is questioned later, the guards won’t be able to accurately describe you.”

  “Why me?” Tristan asked. “Why not you?” he asked Ffoulkes. “Or him?” He nodded at Montagne.

  “Because you’re the man I want to do it.”

  Tristan folded his arms and sat back. “This is a test.”

  Alex expected Ffoulkes to deny it, but he merely shrugged. “You could call it that. If you plan to betray us, I’d rather you do it now than once we’re with you and inside the Temple.”

  “I’ll be with him tonight,” Dewhurst said indignantly.

  “I already freed the abbé for you. What more proof do you need?”

  “I need the locksmith.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Under the table Alex clenched her hands. “Tristan—”

  He held up a hand. “If I refuse?”

  “Then we make your life unpleasant,” Ffoulkes said.

  “How? If you turn over the documents I gave you, Robespierre will have me arrested. Then I can’t help you free Citoyen Capet.”

  “So I don’t give him anything on you.”

  Ffoulkes’s blue eyes and Tristan’s brown ones locked. Alex stood. “I think this is unnecessary. I’ll go with Dewhurst.”

  “Chevalier will go,” Ffoulkes said, still watching Tristan. “Because if he doesn’t, his brother’s commander on the front will receive some very disturbing news.”

  Tristan rose. “You bastard. He has done nothing!”

  “That’s not what the documents we created say.”

  Alex darted a glance at Honoria, who lowered her head, cheeks pink.

  “Oh, my God,” Alex whispered. It wasn’t the first time they’d used tactics like this to reach their objectives. It was simply the first time she felt the twinge of guilt at their impact. While she believed Tristan could be trusted, she understood why Ffoulkes still had doubts. Moreover, she understood that sometimes people were willing to suffer for their crimes but less likely to allow loved ones to suffer. Ffoulkes was taking no chances.

  He couldn’t. Saving the king was the most important thing any of them would ever do.

  “I hope you all burn in hell,” Tristan said striding across the room and slamming the attic door closed on his way out.

  “Brilliant!” Dewhurst put his hands behind his head. “I think that went well.”

  “Shut up, Dewhurst,” the others said in unison.

  Sixteen

  Her green eyes were full of apologies as she layered the heavy makeup on him. He felt as though anyone who looked at him would see the cosmetics and question him, but when he stepped in front of the looking glass, he didn’t appear to be wearing any cosmetics at all. He also didn’t look at all like himself. She’d made him seem older and haggard with a scar across one cheek. He looked very much like one of the dozens of peasants from Faubourg Saint-Antoine who’d joined the National Guard out of revolutionary fervor and the desire to feed his family. Dewhurst, on the other hand, looked younger and, if possible, more stupid. She shoved a wadded-up handkerchief in his mouth to stilt his speech and gave him pox scars.

  “What is this?” Dewhurst said, pointing to his forehead, which protruded slightly, giving him a loutish look.

  “A disguise.”

  “Why can’t he look like the simpleton?” Dewhurst mumbled around the handkerchief.

  “If the cosmetics fit...”

  With a curse, Dewhurst stomped out of her bedchamber. Tristan moved to follow, but she grasped his hand. He didn’t look back at her; instead, he stood rigidly.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “You have to believe that.”

  “I do.”

  “Then why are you still angry?” Careful of his makeup, she turned his chin so he looked at her.

  “Because you may not have known, but you don’t disapprove.”

  She dropped her hand. “And does the republic act any differently?”

  “No. And you may remember that is the reason I turned on Robespierre.” He started for the door again.

  “Tristan, I—”

  He paused, hand on the latch.

  “I’ll talk with you when you return.”

  Without a word, he followed Dewhurst through a secret passage and out a secret door. There was an hour until curfew, so they had no time to waste. Dewhurst headed toward La Force, his step purposeful. People they passed shied away or touched their cockades, checking to make certain they’d remembered to pin them on. Tristan tried not to notice how hungry and pale they looked. He tried not to think about the pain in Alex’s eyes. Who was he to cause her pain? He’d known it would end like this as soon as he’d first woken in that attic. Once he acted against the republic, there was no going back. He’d be forced to flee Paris and France. Possibly forever.

  Maybe he’d known that the first time he met with Citoyen Allié or the first time he’d given the man papers detailing Robespierre’s crimes and excesses. Even if he hadn’t known Alex, hadn’t kissed her, lain with her, touched her, he would not want to leave the city of his birth.

  But it seemed particularly egregious to be forced out and to have the last member of his family threatened by a group of rosbifs who would still be here when he was long gone. And that was the other thorn that pricked him. If they actually succeeded
in rescuing the boy from the Temple, Tristan would have to leave Alex.

  It would have been better not to take her to bed at all, but how was he to know he would begin to feel something for her?

  “You’d better stop mooning over Alex and start playing your part,” Dewhurst muttered. “You’re supposed to be the superior. We’re almost there.”

  Tristan looked up and saw La Force was just down the street. From the outside it appeared to be an ordinary house. It had been a house at one point, in fact. Now it held the imprisoned nobles who hadn’t been quick enough to escape the revolutionaries, as well as those citizens accused of disloyalty. Tristan had no wish to go inside and to see so many of the people he had been instrumental in putting there.

  But they were approaching the entrance now, Dewhurst walking as confidently as before, and Tristan pulled out the forged orders Miss Blake had made for them. Dewhurst slowed as they walked through the entrance, wide enough to allow carts and horses through, and Tristan took the lead, looking about for the man who appeared the most senior. He didn’t have to look hard. A man approached him immediately, dressed as a soldier and with a face weathered and hardened.

  “Citoyen, what can I do for you?”

  “Orders signed by Citoyen Lindet of the Committee for Public Safety.” Tristan held out the paper. “One prisoner was left off the list to be taken to the Conciergerie. We’re here to collect him.”

  The soldier’s eyes narrowed as he read the documents. “Everything looks in order.” He gestured Tristan and Dewhurst to follow him. “I’ll have him brought out. Wait in the guardhouse, if you like.”

  “Thank you, citoyen.” Tristan moved that way, but once the soldier with their papers walked away, he didn’t move any closer.

  “Let’s sit down. This will take an age,” Dewhurst said.

  “I’d rather not mingle with anyone. If they recognize me, we’re in trouble.”

  “Even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.” Dewhurst put an arm around his shoulder and dragged Tristan toward the small building that had probably originally been used by footmen and grooms who waited upon arriving conveyances.

  “It’s not a good idea.” Tristan kept his voice low, but didn’t fight Dewhurst’s grip. He didn’t want to attract the other soldiers’ attention.

  “Yes, it is. I want to hear any news, and they have wine.”

  Tristan bit back a rebuke. Dewhurst was obviously an incorrigible risktaker. Tristan wished Ffoulkes had come with him. The blond man seemed far more levelheaded. Dewhurst greeted the soldiers jovially and laid down his assignats to join their game of hazard. Tristan sat back in the corner, keeping watch on the courtyard for the return of the leader.

  “Another man need shaving by the National Razor?” one of the soldiers asked once the die had been thrown.

  Dewhurst shrugged. “I didn’t ask questions. That only causes trouble, eh?”

  The other men laughed, but Tristan frowned. Once he’d been of that opinion. He’d thought it disloyal to question the leaders of the revolution. Now he realized that those who weren’t questioned gained too much power. Was that why they’d wanted to depose the king? Because he was seen as divine and therefore above reproach?

  “Do you have anyone interesting inside?” Dewhurst relinquished the die and paid what he owed. Tristan assumed he was losing on purpose. Everyone liked a man who lost amiably.

  “No.” A young soldier with long brown hair shook his head. “We had a former marquis, but he sneezed into the basket.”

  “Now just old men and women who cry about how innocent they are all day,” said another soldier who looked far too young to be so callous.

  “What if they are innocent?” Tristan asked more to himself than the others, but he’d spoken aloud.

  “If they was so innocent, they wouldn’t be here,” the young soldier answered.

  Tristan rose. “No? People lie. Accuse neighbors out of vengeance and—”

  Dewhurst laughed loudly, cutting Tristan off. “He thinks too much, and he forgets that’s why we have the Tribunal. If anyone is innocent, the Tribunal will find out.”

  Tristan glanced at Dewhurst. The soldiers didn’t believe that any more than the rest of Paris did. But Dewhurst’s dark eyes were filled with warning.

  “You’re correct, of course.” Tristan walked away, the men’s conversation fading as he stepped into the shadow of La Force. The prison, which held hundreds, was eerily quiet. Tristan could almost feel the despair of the condemned seeping out through the stones of the building. Quite suddenly, he wished he could free all of them, not just the locksmith.

  Tristan clenched his hands. What was happening to him? What had Alexandra done to him? He closed his eyes and remembered the face of the Duc du Mérignac as he’d watched his men defile Tristan’s sister. He couldn’t bear to think of the attack he’d endured, but it had been enough to see the duc’s impassive look as sister had been raped.

  He wasn’t sorry the duc had gone to the guillotine. He wasn’t sorry the man’s family had suffered as they’d made his family suffer. Revenge was not noble. It was petty and vindictive, and Tristan could accept that he had acted as badly as the duc in some regards.

  What he could not accept was how he’d allowed his hatred for the duc to extend to all of the nobility. He’d wanted to punish them all for the sins of one man. Like the young soldier, Tristan hadn’t wanted to see how petty vindictiveness opened a door for injustice. And now all of France paid the price as the bloodthirsty Robespierre put hundreds to the guillotine every week.

  He still believed in the ideals of the revolution, but if he’d worried he’d resent being made to flee the country because of what the league would make him do, that worry was past. He had done enough harm, and perhaps when the papers he’d collected about Robespierre were made public, the country would see the man for who he was and his reign would end.

  “Here you are,” said the soldier leading a man on the early side of forty. His hair was long and unkempt, his clothing black and plain and much worn.

  His hands were bound in back, and he looked up at Tristan with dull eyes. He’d probably waited for his name to be called each morning and now that it had happened, he was glad for the waiting to end.

  Tristan took the papers back from the soldier holding the locksmith. “You are”—he glanced at the papers—“Citoyen Leroy?”

  “I am,” the man said, his voice low.

  “Locksmith by trade?” Tristan’s voice was neutral, but his heart began to pound. If the man was not a locksmith, the entire charade would be for nothing.

  “I was,” the man said, looking at his bare feet.

  “Good.” Tristan tucked the papers into his coat and took possession of Leroy. Dewhurst had left the dice game and joined him. “Citoyen.” Tristan saluted.

  The man saluted back and Tristan and Dewhurst led Leroy away.

  “Don’t look back,” Dewhurst said, sounding as though his jaw were clenched. “It looks guilty. Head high. Eyes forward.”

  Leroy lifted his head, looking from Dewhurst to Tristan. “Who are you?”

  “Shut up,” Dewhurst told him. “Or we’ll rob Madame Guillotine of her chance with you and kill you ourselves.”

  When they were out of sight of La Force, Dewhurst cut down a narrow alley, leading Tristan and Leroy through a series of winding paths that kept them off the main streets and led gradually back toward the Boulevard du Temple. Keeping Leroy between them, Dewhurst reached the end of a side street and motioned for Leroy and Tristan to wait. Tristan kept a hand on Leroy’s bindings as Dewhurst edged out, checking to make sure the street was safe. Then they’d cut down another alley and enter the safe house from a hidden door in the cellar.

  But as soon as Dewhurst peered out, he stepped back again, cursing.

  “What is it?” Tristan asked.

  “See for yourself.” Dewhurst held out his hand to take Leroy’s bindings. Leroy was not actively watching the two of them, clearly curious a
nd frightened, but keeping quiet.

  Tristan inched forward and peered around the corner of the building and out onto the street. Half a dozen soldiers surrounded the safe house, and Tristan recognized the carriage out front.

  Robespierre.

  No!

  Alexandra’s face flashed in his mind, and Tristan had to check the urge to rush forward to see if she’d been taken. If Robespierre’s men had so much as touched her...

  But to act so rashly would not save her and would ensure all of them were killed. Tristan clenched his fists and ducked back.

  No sooner had he taken a backward step than Dewhurst grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the building wall. Leroy started to run, but Dewhurst stuck out a foot, tripping him. With his hands bound, the man would have difficulty rising on his own.

  “What game are you playing now, rosbif?” Tristan wheezed.

  “That’s the question I have for you, traitor.”

  “Traitor? You think I sent Robespierre here?”

  “Who else? Convenient for him and his men to arrive when you’re not there.”

  “And how did you think I planned to explain him?” Tristan pointed to Leroy. “You think Robespierre doesn’t care that his own secretary is taking prisoners out of La Force for royalists?”

  “Then how did he know?” Dewhurst demanded, squeezing Tristan’s throat.

  “I don’t know!” Tristan squeaked. “I’ve heard nothing of this.”

  “If you’re lying to me...” Slowly Dewhurst released Tristan’s throat.

  “We can stand here arguing until Robespierre drives by and spots us or we can hide. Once they’re gone, we’ll go in and see if the attic was discovered.” Please, God let her be hiding there. Safe and unhurt. If she’d been taken...but he couldn’t think of that. The pain was too crushing, the panic too near the surface.

  “No.” Dewhurst picked Leroy up and prodded him forward. “If they weren’t caught, they won’t be there, and they won’t go back unless it’s absolutely necessary.”