Elizabeth Boyle (18 page)

“I will do no such thing,” Sophia sputtered, realizing she sounded like a spoiled miss in need of a scolding for sneaking out on a walk in the park unescorted.

She and Emma stood nose to pipe, glaring at each other.

Oliver broke the silence. “If you weren’t caught by the Guard, then who?”

His stern, paternal voice snapped her back to attention and tugged her anger away from Emma. Oliver had been with her mother’s family all his life, as had his father before him. He had traveled to France when her mother had eloped. Though England was his homeland, he’d never planned to return until the Comte requested that he escort Sophia to her aunt’s house. He had been her only connection to France during those first lonely months in England years ago. With Oliver she shared her homesickness. He understood her jokes about her sister’s desires for suitors, about Julien’s boundless search for mischief, and her beloved older brother and his ever-growing family.

She loved Oliver like a dear uncle. So when she had approached him to help her with her plans, he had fought and protested over the desperate notion of returning to Paris, just like a family member would.

Her father would never allow it. She should stay safe in London and he would return, Oliver had argued.

But Sophia would not relent, and Oliver had eventually given in when she’d finally convinced him she would go with or without his blessing.

“Who caught you, little Piper?” he asked again, using a long-unused family nickname for her. “Was it Balsac or one of his henchmen?”

She looked first at Emma, then back to Oliver. She had no reason not to tell them, but she was reluctant to face what would be nothing less than an inquisition from Emma when her friend discovered who had kept her so late. “No, it was not Balsac.”

“So, if it wasn’t that horrid little man or the Guard, then who?” Emma prodded, her gaze boring into Sophia. Then it fell to pass over her rumpled clothing, the state of her costume. And if she couldn’t see the truth behind Sophia’s reluctance, she saw it well enough by the grass stains on her skirt.

The realization widened Emma’s eyes. “Oh, no. It can’t be. Not him.”

“Who?” Oliver asked, a note of impatience in his voice.

“Lord Trahern,” Sophia replied.

The satchel in Emma’s hand fell to the floor with a loud
thump
. “Oh, merciful heavens. We’re hanged for sure this time.”

Giles knew he was pushing his luck by attending an evening’s entertainment at the house of Georges Danton. The large, ugly man was one of the most powerful men in the new Republic, part of the group of dangerous, unshakable radicals called
The Mountain
.

The only reason Giles dared risk his neck in such company was because he’d been assured that Danton’s guest list included La Devinette.

Milling near the doorway, Giles scanned the crowd.

For a group that disdained the trappings of aristocracy, Giles noticed immediately that Danton did not hide his love of luxury or wealth. Richly decorated in pastels and expensive fabrics, his salon appeared more appropriate for the home of a nobleman, not one who murdered nobles. Even the ceiling, with its bucolic country scenes, depicted a lifestyle swept aside by the Revolution. Only Danton, secure in his power with this new Republic, could dare what others would not.

“Corliss? Is that you? My favorite customer, you are back,
mon ami
!” Jacques Isnard called out, excusing himself from a conversation with a tall, darkly dressed man.

One of the few men in Paris Giles trusted completely, Isnard the merchant had provided him introductions into a wide array of powerful circles over the years. Since the last time they’d met, the man had put on a few more pounds and the cut of Isnard’s suit was no longer a resplendent display of his wealth. Like the others in the room, he wore a plain-cut jacket and the new-fashioned trousers rather than breeches.

As the tides of French power rose and fell, Isnard, like the barrels he manufactured, floated along in the changing tides, always with his head above the fast-moving waters.

“Good to see you, sir,” Giles said, offering his hand in greeting.

The merchant pumped his arm enthusiastically. “Come meet the new France.” Isnard escorted Giles through the room, introducing him as an American planter from Virginia. The fact that Giles actually owned a small plantation in the former colony gave credence to his story. And it helped that he had visited the place, so as to lend some realism to his ruse. A number of the gentlemen at the dinner party had fought with Lafayette during the Colonies’ revolt, so their questions had been both probing and on point.

And his answers were accepted.

For now
, he thought warily.

People continued to filter in, stragglers who had not been deemed worthy enough for feeding though they clearly would enliven the evening’s discourse. Though much to Giles’s chagrin, there was no sign of the lady he sought.

“You look a little tired,
mon ami
,” Isnard observed, pausing for a moment in the doorway that adjoined the salon to Danton’s famous library. “Eh, too much wine last night or a good woman?”

Smiling, Giles nodded. “Too much of one and not enough of the other.”

“An agreeable woman is hard to find anymore,” the man said, slapping him hard on the back. “This regime is favorable in many ways, but the women, bah. They have no manners, no sophistication.” Isnard grinned. “But if I know you it is not a lack of companionship that keeps you frowning this evening. Perhaps you will share your
petite praline
with an old friend,
oui
?”

“No, Isnard,” Giles said with a laugh. “She’s hardly your type. Much too jaded for your taste. If I remember correctly you prefer the ones fresh from the country or straight out of the convent.”

“Ah, the convents.” The man rubbed his hands together over his protruding stomach. “They produced such sweet morsels. And alas, they are gone as well.”

“Careful what you say,” Giles warned. Though they stood beyond the guests conversing in the salon, it still wouldn’t do to have such talk overheard. “You sound like a man who regrets change.”

“Regrets only when it comes to issues of the heart,” the wily old scoundrel laughed. “Shake off the sour taste this whore left in your mouth and come meet our host, Danton. He is as dry and boring as a spinster’s thighs, but he is too powerful to snub. A good man to have as a friend, if you know what I mean. And good timing—his guest of honor just arrived, so I will be able to say I introduced you to La Devinette.”

“I’ve heard of this woman,” Giles commented. “What is she like?”

“See for yourself.” Isnard nodded across the room.

Standing next to the hefty Danton stood a slight woman. As if sensing someone was watching her, she turned and glanced in their direction.

Instead of stepping forward into the open salon, Giles took a step back into the library, concealing himself from her. Even in this latest transformation he recognized her instantly.

The Brazen Angel.

Now he possessed his final proof, he thought as he watched the lady Paris called “La Devinette” nod politely to Isnard and coolly return to her conversation with Danton.

His hands knotted into fists at his sides.

Isnard nudged him. “There’s one for your adventurous Colonial blood, though I doubt she’d have you.”

Giles tamped down the anger building in his gut. So she did dally with the highest members of France’s Revolutionaries. Her duplicity was unmatched. Stepping farther back into the library and out of her line of vision, he asked Isnard, “Who is she?”

“Like I said, they call her
Citizeness Devinette
, for her history is a riddle to everyone. The only thing anyone knows for sure is her loyalty to the Republic.”

She’s certainly dressed the part of a loyal daughter of France, he thought, glancing over Isnard’s shoulder as she made her way through the room, having left Danton and been joined by a young man Isnard had introduced as Louis Antoine Saint-Just.

In his mid-twenties, Saint-Just’s ascendency in France had been accomplished through the young man’s devoted service to Robespierre.

“They make a striking couple,” Isnard commented. “The daughter of liberty and the son of the devil,” he muttered under his breath.

Giles had to admit La Devinette held the attention of every man in the room. Including his, which angered him more than her alliance with the self-serving Saint-Just.

Her dark hair, so captivating the night before, now revealed a cast of chestnut under the brilliant candlelight of the chandeliers. Partially tucked into the red cap of the
sans-culottes
, the rest of the luxurious strands curled down to her shoulders in thick curls.

Her gown, of the plainest cream muslin, left her shoulders, arms, and neck bare, falling in a straight line to just past her ankles. The simple design of her dress was broken at the waist by a red, white, and blue sash, into which she’d jauntily tucked a short sword, signifying her unity with the Fraternity of the Revolution.

For all appearances she looked the Amazon warrior, confident in her cause, unshakable in her loyalty. But Giles studied her closer and saw her flinch ever so slightly as Saint-Just took her elbow, and she watched the room in stolen, furtive glances.

She was waiting for something or someone. And the waiting frightened her.

It reminded him of how she’d acted as she’d entered Delaney’s house—cautious and wary.

But one question still plagued him: Where did her loyalty lie?

“Surely someone knows who she is,” Giles insisted.

Isnard shook his head. “A question that has been asked by many and answered with nothing more than speculation. Some claim to have seen her leading the people at the Bastille, others say they heard her speak years ago in the gardens of the Palais Royal before anyone dreamed of Revolution.” The merchant threw up his hands. “As I said, it is all speculation, but it makes for a wonderful diversion from who is having his head cut off today.”

Giles glanced in her direction.

Saint-Just bent his head over her shoulder and was whispering into her ear. Sparkling laughter followed, laughter designed to tease and flatter a man.

“And is this Saint-Just her protector?”

“Her lover, you mean?” The man shook his head furiously. “The arrogant pup would give his right arm to find himself in her bed, though he’d never admit it.” Isnard nodded over to where Robespierre stood scowling from behind his thin wire-framed spectacles. “Saint-Just treads a delicate balance, pretending one moment he cares not for the vices of men, for the sake of his master, and the next—” Isnard’s eyebrows raised and his gaze slowly swept over the woman on Saint-Just’s arm.

“But has she taken a lover among these wolves?”

“Oh, you are a desperate man. Surely, you noticed the eye?” His voice dropped to the gossipy whisper of an old woman. “Oh, that eye . . . the wagers that have been placed on how she lost it! The most common theory is that she was used most foully by a nobleman, and when she complained of her mistreatment to the authorities, he retaliated by ordering her eyes put out so she could not identify him.”

Giles held back a smile. “But only one is missing,” he pointed out, knowing full well that if encouraged, Isnard would provide complete details on everyone in the room.

“
Oui
. For when he came for her, he and his henchman both found justice at the point of her sword, but not before she lost one of her eyes. It is said he was one of the first to die for the Revolution.” Isnard shuddered. “I could introduce you, but I must warn you she is most fastidious about who she takes into her company. I, for one, would be too nervous with such a woman, if you know what I mean. Besides, they say she never takes off that sword of hers.”

He didn’t know why Isnard’s announcement that she had taken lovers in the past bothered him but it did. “Who is she currently favoring?”

The older man laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous. Your tastes have definitely changed,
mon ami
.” Isnard glanced back in her direction. “Currently, she has no one, though Saint-Just certainly has the best chance, for he is her type.”

“And what type is that?”

Isnard shrugged. “A few months ago there was an American, not unlike yourself, but younger. He had an engaging manner, a refreshing change from the rest of this morose bunch. He was quite attentive and she was—how do you say—very receptive. They were seen everywhere, until—”

“Until?”

Isnard’s eyes narrowed. “This is why I would warn you not to entertain any notions about her. The woman is dangerous.”

“What happened to this American?” Giles asked, already sick with dread. “Perhaps I know him.” He tried to sound noncommittal, but the Angel’s acknowledgment last night that she knew Webb now seemed to be confirmed.

“
Knew
him would be a better phrase. About two months ago he disappeared. It was rumored he had gone back to the Americas, but others claimed to have seen him—”

“Seen him where?”

Isnard moved farther into the library. They were alone in the room, away from the chattering din of the salon. “It is said she betrayed him. Sent him to his death.”

Giles looked back toward the salon, fighting the urge to toss her over his shoulder and haul her back to London in chains. “Did he have a name, this American?”

“I’m just trying to remember that. He was only introduced to me once. . . . Your American names, they all sound alike to me. None of the beauty of our language.” Isnard scratched his head. “Seth . . .no, Wade …”

“Webb?” Giles suggested.

The man’s eyes lit up. “
Oui
, that is it. Webb. So you did know this man?”

“No, just a lucky guess.” Giles swallowed back the bile rising in his throat.

What had she said the night before?

I haven’t betrayed anyone . . . lately.

So it seemed she had betrayed Webb. And taunted him with her knowledge before she fled into the night. He unclenched his fists.

“You don’t look well,” Isnard commented. “Such treachery is always hard to stomach, but by a woman it is loathsome. Now you see why I told you she is not your type.”