Den of Thieves (18 page)

Argue though we might about kings, I certainly agreed with Frank on this. We would mention what
we'd seen to no one and just hope the drunken coachman would do the same.

We arrived back at Madame Beaufort's lodgings as a nearby clock sounded midday.

‘Oh blast! I'm
so
late: she'll kill me!' I exclaimed as it dawned on me that I had missed two hours of ballet while I had been making my acquaintance with death Parisian style.

‘Poor Cat,' grimaced Frank. ‘I completely forgot you have balletic duties. You'd better go straight up.'

Leaving Frank and Joseph to make themselves decent for a call on the Avons, I ran upstairs, two at a time, and burst into the practice room where all the dancers were gathered. They were standing in a long line, looking at themselves critically in a wall of mirrors, bending and swaying like willow trees in a breeze. In contrast to the hustle of the streets I had just left, the quiet in the room was a shock.

My entrance broke the concentration in the room as surely as a hot pin lancing a boil lets
the pent-up unpleasantness spurt out.

‘If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is lateness,' rapped Madame Beaufort, bearing down on me like an angry poodle, her mass of hair wobbling in time with the shake of her head.

‘I am sorry, madame, but I have a very good excuse. When you hear what happened –'

‘I do not want to hear excuses – there is no special treatment for anyone in my ensemble.' Her gaze alighted on my new clothes. ‘And what is that you are wearing?'

I opened my mouth to explain.

‘Never mind, no time to change now. To the barre and copy Belle.'

‘But don't you want to hear about the king . . .?'

‘Quiet! Dance! By Saint Anne, you have more than enough to learn without being the only one to miss our lessons!'

Clearly nothing short of an earthquake would prevent Madame Beaufort from putting her girls through their paces. I took my place at the end of the row of dancers and turned to face the mirror. I looked so out of place, it was laughable. Belle,
my neighbour, was tall and graceful, dressed in a loose white practice gown; I was short, angular and decidedly rumpled in my patched striped skirt and apron. As for learning to dance, who did Madame Beaufort think she was fooling? I had no more chance of succeeding than a monkey of writing
Hamlet
.

Swish! The rod tapped my wrist.

‘Bend it so, Cat. Imagine your hands are exclamation marks to your movements, not full stops.' Madame Beaufort curled her own palm over the back of my wrist, easing it into the required shape. I was taken aback to hear anything so poetic from her. ‘See, you can do it when you try.'

Gazing at myself in the mirror, I understood what she meant. If I thought of myself as awkward, my body behaved accordingly; if I forgot myself and let the music flow through me, I became far more elegant.

Oh no, I'm beginning to think like a ballerina! Help! It must be the after-effect of the events of the morning. I frowned at my reflection. Thank
goodness nothing else could possibly happen today.

Just as this comforting thought had floated through my mind, the door banged open and Frank erupted into the room. Seizing me roughly by the arm, he dragged me after him, knocking dancers over like ninepins.

‘Apologies, madame, but I have to speak to Cat urgently,' he shouted over his shoulder.

‘My lord!' she exclaimed in protest, but he slammed the door behind us.

My heart was in my mouth. Frank looked absolutely terrified. Taking me by the shoulders, he announced:

‘They've arrested my family – all of them: Mama, Father and Lizzie – on suspicion of helping the king to flee.'

*
Struck through by censor

Paris, 22nd June 1791

My dear Patron
,

I had not expected to have so much to write after being here only a day, but Paris has turned out to be far more interesting than I had imagined and I can wait no longer with my news. The chief point is that the king and his family fled last night, leaving the city in confusion. Fortunately the streets, with a few exceptions, are calm. My impression is that most care little for the king himself but no one wants war. Death and destruction is bad for business, one entrepreneur told me.

This is not my only news. A disaster has struck much closer to home: our friends from Grosvenor Square have been arrested on suspicion of aiding the king's escape. On what grounds I know not, other than the unfortunate fact that they are English. Please do all you can through your channels to
secure their release; I'm doing what I can here. I'll be meeting our friend, the Captain, as soon as possible. He may be able to help.

Your Diamond
.

P.S.
By the by, Frank and I almost got hanged today were robbed by a charming gang of thieves so there is no need for you to worry that I will feel homesick for old London.

P.P.S.
I hope you agree my first letter is not devoid of interest and worth a guinea.

‘The first thing we need to do, Frank,' I told my friend as we huddled together in my little room, ‘is we need to disguise you. If they're after the Avon family – and they can't be too particular if they took Lizzie – they might just arrest you to make it a round number.'

Frank nodded, staring blankly at his feet, not yet recovered from the shock of finding his parents had been led off in chains. Joseph stood sentry at the door, on the watch for any snooping ballerinas, but he kept casting anxious looks at his master. Neither of us liked this dejected mood: Frank was normally so full of life you usually wished someone would sit on him to keep him quiet.

‘Why the handcuffs?' I asked Joseph when I realized that I was going to get very little from Frank for the moment. ‘I thought they'd treat a
duke with more respect – he must have
some
sort of standing, even in France.'

‘It wasn't for the duke, miss,' said Joseph solemnly. He need say no more: I could see it as if I'd been there. The duchess was not a woman to allow herself to be dragged off without a struggle.

‘How many did she injure?'

‘The butler said that she felled two guardsmen before they resorted to the irons, miss. The duke also sustained an injury to his nose, possibly broken.'

‘What! They didn't dare mistreat him, did they?'

Joseph shook his head. ‘Not them. Her grace accidentally caught him with a punch right in the face when he tried to restrain her.'

‘Ah. And Lady Elizabeth?'

‘Distressed but otherwise calm.'

Of course. I expected nothing less of my friend.

I got up from the bed and walked to the window to think. We'd already sent a message to Johnny and were expecting an answer at any
moment. After that, the next step would be to find out where they were being held and see if they had any immediate wants; I knew from my own brief experience of prison
*
that it would be short on any comforts. We also needed to inform the British representative in Paris. My letter would take days to reach London and we had to have help much faster than that. Secretly, I was hoping that this would all be over before Mr Sheridan even had time to break the seal on my letter. The Avons were bound to be released before the day was over, weren't they?

I gazed at the sun setting over the rooftops, shafts of light spotlighting the smoke twisting up from the cooking fires. A sparrow hopped on to the ledge beside me, looking hopeful. I had nothing to give him; in fact, I realized I'd eaten nothing since breakfast. My stomach rumbled.

‘I'm going down to the kitchen,' I told my companions. ‘I'll see if I can arrange a place for you to stay. It's best, I think, that we say nothing to
Madame Beaufort about this until we are sure of her – she's been acting strangely since she returned home and I couldn't swear that she won't hand you over to the authorities.'

Frank nodded glumly.

‘At least, sir, we have our disguise already provided for us,' said Joseph brightly. ‘Courtesy of that extraordinary young gentleman we met this morning.'

‘Thanks, Joseph,' I said, patting him on the back as I passed. ‘Keep an eye on him for me, will you?'

‘Need you ask, miss?'

‘No. Of course not.'

The kitchen was quiet. The ballerinas had already dined and gone out with Madame Beaufort to visit the Opera, the place where they were to perform. Only the old concierge was there, stirring the fire with a long black poker.

‘There you are, mademoiselle,' he said gruffly. ‘Your dinner is still in the pot, if you want it.'

My growling stomach decided rapidly that I
might as well have some before sorting out supper and lodgings for my friends.

‘Thank you, monsieur.'

I helped myself to the stew and broke off a piece of bread from one of those long sticks the French prefer, a little too dry for my taste but not bad when dipped in the gravy.

‘What have you done now, miss?'

‘What?' I was surprised to be interrupted by the concierge. ‘I mean, pardon, monsieur?'

‘Those little madams were talking about you as if you were the worst of the worst. “What, her? That little thing?” I thought to myself. You must have done something very bad to earn their dislike.'

‘Oh.' I put my spoon down, my appetite vanishing.

‘So what did you do?' The concierge took the poker from the fire and dipped it in a mug of wine at his elbow. The smell of nutmeg and cinnamon wafted into the air as the liquid fizzed. I thought of Caleb Braithwaite, who is partial to warm porter, which he heats in the same manner by his little fire at Drury Lane. Used to heat, I corrected myself.
His post by the stage door was probably rubble by now.

‘Speak up, mademoiselle. I like a story. I can't believe anything too bad of you. I've a grandson who must be about your age – you remind me of him.'

I sighed. I needed some allies just now and he seemed a pleasant fellow. ‘Well, monsieur, I'm not exactly sure what I've done, but I think the root of the problem is that I've been telling too many stories about myself for their liking. They think I think I'm better than them.'

‘And do you think that?' He took a mouthful of wine and spluttered. ‘
Mon dieu
, that's hot!'

I passed him a jug of water from the table.

‘Of course I don't. I'm no better than anyone. No parents, no home, no situation in life; I can't even dance like they can – how could I possibly think I am superior to them?'

He smiled, his wrinkles deepening into little valleys.

‘That's not what I heard. I was told – by a friend of mine, you understand – that you are one of the royalty.'

‘You're joking?'

He shook his head. ‘Street royalty. A certain king took a shine to you this morning.'

‘That's not all he took.' I smiled ruefully, remembering my dress, Joseph's livery and Frank's money. I shook myself. ‘How did you know that?'

He touched his finger to the side of his nose. ‘What do you think an old thief king does when he gets too old to play the game?'

‘He . . .' I looked around me. ‘He becomes a concierge?'

The old man nodded. ‘Guarding empty buildings is a fine job for a man with, shall we say, interesting connections. The old king recognizes the authority of the new, even if he is the cheeky offspring of his no-good son.'

‘You're J-F's grandfather?'

‘For my sins. Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Firecracker. He's asked me to look after you.'

I was astonished: this seemed a very sentimental gesture for the thief king. ‘Why?'

‘So no one else robs you blind, of course, my girl. He thinks of you as his property now – you
and the young lord: he called you his milk cows.'