Elizabeth Boyle (19 page)

“I couldn’t agree more,” Giles said. “And you are right, I am fatigued. Perhaps I will go outside and get some fresh air.”

Isnard bowed and rejoined the company in the salon, while Giles lingered for a moment in the library. He walked over to the desk, where he found a piece of paper and a quill. Dipping it into the well of ink, he began a simple note.

Meet me .. .

“Citizeness,” a servant whispered at Sophia’s elbow. “I have a message for you.” He slipped a piece of paper into her hand.

She turned to her unwanted companion, Louis Saint-Just, and smiled. “It seems I have a secret admirer.” Holding up the paper, she laughed. “Any wagers on who sent it?”

“You have many admirers,
ma cherie
. You bring out the spirit of liberty in men.” Louis glanced back at the departing servant.

“So it seems.” She knew he would question the servant as to who gave him the note, but if her contact was as careful as he had been in the past, the search for her mysterious messenger would be for naught.

Opening the folded slip, Sophia tried to still her shaking hands. Tonight’s meeting was to be the first step in the culmination of months of hard work, starting with an exchange of gold in an amount that could have saved even the King from the executioner.

Best of all, it meant her deceptions were finally nearing an end.

Over Emma’s and Oliver’s objections regarding the threat Lord Trahern posed to their plans, Sophia had convinced them that the annoying Englishman would not find her at Danton’s.

How could he? she’d asked them. He’d had nothing on her but the Delaney bracelet, and even that he no longer possessed. How could he make any connection between the Brazen Angel and Citizeness Devinette? But the best argument she’d come up with for attending the affair was that her contact would be looking for Citizeness Devinette, not Emma or Oliver. And without Sophia present they would never be able to make the transaction.

Firm in her arguments, she’d won out against the better judgment of her overprotective friends. And while she’d put on a great show of indifference that Giles would never be able to find her, she’d spent most of the evening agitated and jumpy.

What if he did arrive? What if he did find her?

If he revealed her identity before . . .

He would leave her no choice but to denounce him before he could expose her.

She’d risked everything to raise the necessary money, and now that she stood this close to succeeding, with so many lives at stake, she wouldn’t allow him to ruin everything.

So denounce she would. She must. No matter what her feelings for him argued. And then she’d figure out how to save his neck from the blade.

“What does it say?” Saint-Just asked, barely concealing his jealousy and annoyance.

Sophia sniffed. This man was becoming more and more of a problem. At first she regarded his indifference to her as a blessing; however, as his power expanded he seemed to believe that all of France was his for the taking, including her.

Just as he had when they had met years and years ago. But this time she had the advantage. He showed no signs of recognizing the connection between La Devinette and the blushing girl of fifteen he’d showered with his affections.

“An invitation to dine tomorrow,” she lied. Tearing the note into pieces, she strolled over to the fireplace, knelt before the flames, and fed the pieces into the eager blaze. “As if I have time for such frivolous pursuits with so much work to be done.”

Saint-Just joined her in front of the grate as the paper curled and darkened before it burst into flames.

Brushing her hands on her skirt, she made a great show of getting up from the fireplace and directing a scathing gaze around the room. “If he is still here I want to make sure he is well aware of my response.”

“He could not help but understand your message.” He offered his arm again and smiled when she placed her hand on his forearm. “I am pleased as much as my adversary is disappointed. You are a remarkable woman not to be swayed by all the attention you receive.”

“It is a small price to pay for what I can do for my country.”

Saint-Just nodded and they continued strolling around the room. Sophia’s mind raced with excuses for extricating herself from his company. Her rescue came in the form of Citizen Isnard, an annoying but harmless barrel manufacturer who styled himself as quite in the thick of things.

“Citizen Saint-Just, a word with you.” Isnard bowed low, his nose twitching. “Citizeness, I beg your indulgence in allowing me to steal the citizen away from your company for a few moments.”

In past meetings with the man, Isnard had skittered around her like a nervous puppy. He probably believed the outrageous gossip about her circulating the Paris salons. Since she knew she already frightened the man, she added a glare to her response, if only to see his bushy eyebrows flutter nervously. “Of course, citizen. I was just saying to Louis that I had heard of the problems in your jurisdiction.” She turned and smiled to Saint-Just. From the smug look on Louis’s face she knew he not only approved of her pricking the pompous Isnard, but probably wished he’d thought of it himself.

“Problems?
Non
, citizeness. Where could you have heard such a lie? My district is extremely loyal to the Republic. We have no problems.”

“Of course you don’t,” Saint-Just soothed. “The citizeness is teasing.”

“Ah,
oui
. I suspected as much,” Isnard said. “I was just saying to my American friend that the citizeness is known for her fine humor. He sought an introduction, but I thought to spare you. He is a rather coarse fellow and hardly your type.”

Sophia smiled. “And what is my type, Citizen Isnard?”

As the man coughed and sputtered she excused herself, well pleased with his timely interruption.

She strolled carefully toward the door, searching for some sign as to which of the guests was her new contact. But no one seemed to acknowledge her with anything other than the usual curiosity or cautious disdain. The note had said to meet outside, so perhaps her contact had already slipped from the crowded salon.

Near the doorway she bumped into a woman who was entertaining three rather pompous men. “
Excusez-moi
, citizeness,” Sophia said politely. But before she moved on she leaned closer and said to Emma, “It is time. I am to go outside.”

Emma gave no indication as to whether or not she had heard the message, continuing her animated discussion with barely a pause.

Sophia wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and slipped from the salon to the hallway. Nodding to the footman at the door, she smiled at him. “If Citizen Saint-Just inquires about me, will you tell him that I stepped out for some fresh air?”

“
Oui
, citizeness,” the man replied, his gaze quickly lowering to the floor, unwilling to look her in the eye or gain her displeasure in any fashion.

She knew Emma was responsible for the rumor that La Devinette emasculated her lovers when she was through with them, and she would have to remember to thank her friend for the inventive tale.

The cool night air assailed her, whipping through her thin dress. She couldn’t say much for these new fashions. They might be delightful in August, but in the growing chill of October they offered little warmth or utility.

Carefully making her way down the steps, she scanned the empty street. At first she thought perhaps she had misread the note. It had said to meet him outside. Had she taken too long? Perhaps Balsac’s information had been false. Or worse, this was a trap.

A ripple of fear edged down her limbs as she carefully looked up and down the street again.

There was no one in sight.

Then she heard it—a soft whistle floating on the wind in a lonely lilt. She turned toward the notes and followed.

Her senses told her this was all wrong. She had never met an informant in anything but the safety of a crowd, with Emma or Oliver watching her back.

She knew Emma would leave the salon quickly and find Oliver, who waited for them in a tavern several blocks away. The plan was for Sophia to escort the man to the tavern, where they would transfer the gold to his care.

Taking a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders back and tried to look as menacing as La Devinette’s reputation allowed.

In the shadows of a doorway she spied a looming figure.

“I have a riddle for you, Lady Brazen.”

The voice tangled and teased her nerves. She’d heard it interrogate her, she’d heard it whisper into her ear words of passion. It startled her tonight with the depth of its anger and intensity.

The man stepped closer until Sophia saw the wicked gleam lighting his eyes. She stilled her trembling limbs, her racing thoughts of escape. It was no use to flee.

Lord Trahern was once again the hunter, and she, his prey.

“Or should I say,” he continued, “feeling brazen this evening, Citizeness Devinette?”

S
ophia’s mouth went dry.

Lord Trahern!

She recovered quickly and turned on one heel to flee for the relative safety of Danton’s house. Though not fast enough.

He caught her easily.

“Let me go, you great ponderous—” she gasped before his hand clamped down on her mouth. Twisting one hand free, her fingers grasped the hilt of her sword. She didn’t know what she was going to do with the weapon if she got it unsheathed, but perhaps she could use it to convince him to leave her before someone saw them.

His other hand clamped down over the hilt, pinning her fingers and blade to the scabbard. “Would you run me through and be done with the deed or give me over to the guillotine for all to watch your betrayal?” he whispered into her ear.

“Both,” she mumbled through his hand. Her traitorous limbs seemed to recognize his hard lines, melting into his body in anticipation of the pleasure he’d pulled from her the night before.

If his body felt the same longing he didn’t show it, his hold on her deadly and impersonal in its icy grasp.

“Will you call for help if I release you?”

She shook her head.

Slowly his hand dropped from her mouth.

She gasped for air, but did not cry out. The last thing she wanted to do was explain to Saint-Just and her host, Danton, why she was being accosted by an Englishman in the street.

While he gave her the air she needed to breathe, he denied her freedom from his iron trap. She lifted her foot to stomp on his, much as she’d done at the Parkers’ ball, but he anticipated her move, spinning her around until her feet tangled and she nearly stepped on her own foot. His hands wrestled her arms until they were pinned to her sides.

“Now I will have some answers, Lady Brazen.” He glanced back at the house. “Or should I say citizeness?”

The sarcasm in his voice shocked her. She’d been reckless to push his limits last night concerning her knowledge of Webb, but it had been as much for his own good as it had been for her need to punish him. She’d needed him to hate her, to leave her alone.

Now she saw the terrible destruction she’d wrought between them.

She’d done more than wound him. She’d pushed him beyond his measured control.

His dark gaze drilled into her, his mouth and jaw set into hard lines as he waited for her to respond.

“Leave me be,” she whispered. “You’re ruining everything. Please, just let me go.” What would she do if Saint-Just saw them like this?

Cold indifference filled his gaze. “How prettily you beg when you want something,” he sneered. “And it must be something you need very badly to warrant such a convincing performance.”

“What I want is for you to return to London. Can’t you see the danger you are in?” How she wanted to touch his cheek, brush back his hair, find his gaze looking down at her as it had the night before. “I want you safe. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you because of me.”

Beneath his arched brows, his eyes widened with disbelief. “I don’t see how my death should be of any consequence to your conscience. What is another man’s corpse to the likes of you … to the likes of them,” he added, nodding at the lighted windows of Danton’s house.

Sophia had never anticipated this burning hatred. Of course she’d heard accounts of his strength of character and loyalty before she’d ever met him.

But to stand at the very cauldron of Paris, at the steps of one of its most powerful men, and demand justice for his friend? Sophia didn’t know whether to admire him or wonder at his sanity.

Face to face with his stubborn resolve to uncover the truth about Webb Dryden, she realized those noble characteristics that she admired so much would only lead to his demise.

And hers if she didn’t find a way to get him to leave her be.

“I will tell you everything, if only you will let me go tonight.”

His hand reached up and toyed with the binding partially covering her face. “And you expect me to believe you, when only last night you told me the secrets you hold would never pass your lips? Why this sudden offer to open the sacred gates?”

She glanced hastily up at the salon windows. One of the curtains fluttered as if being hastily replaced. “I haven’t the time to explain. There is too much at stake right now.” Sophia struggled free from his grasp, her hands going to his chest, pushing him down the street one step at a time. “Can’t you believe me when I tell you, this is no place for you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her words seemed to snap something inside him, as a look of confusion passed over his features.

Instead, he shook his head, the raw emotions so close to her own tossed aside. “No need to reach for tears to convince me, citizeness. I’ve seen all your tricks.
All of them
. The only thing I’d like to know is which ones you used to lure Webb to his death.”

Sophia blinked, not quite sure she understood what he had said. “His death? I sent him to no such end. Why I—”

“Stop,” he ordered. “I’ve enough evidence to see your pretty neck stretched from an English rope for what you did to him. Half a dozen people in this house could give statements that you were often in his company. I know you and Webb were very close—that is, until you turned him in.”