Elizabeth Boyle (20 page)

This was why he followed her so intently: He thought her responsible for Webb’s death.

Oh, what a horrible mess this has turned into.

While she could easily tell him the truth, a glance at his angry stance and glaring features convinced her he would only accuse her of lying further.

And he wouldn’t be that far from the truth if he did.

“You truly think me capable of murder?” she whispered.

“I can count a dozen crimes you’ve committed so far in your illustrious career. What is such a sin in a list that includes theft, assault, larceny, fraud? And considering the bloodthirsty lot in there,” he said, nodding toward the salon window, “murder would be probably be an evening’s entertainment.”

“But after last night …” she started, struggling to reconcile the man who’d claimed her as his and this man before her accusing her of murder. “How could you . . . have . . . how could you come to me like you did last night if you thought me capable of murder?”

“A benefit and a risk of the job, you could say.” He smiled, though there was no hint of humor in the grim facade. “Nothing more.”

She stepped right up to him, until she stood within inches of him. His callous indifference hurt, more than she thought possible. She’d known the risk she’d taken when she’d offered herself to him. And when he found out the rest of her deception—that she was Lady Sophia— she knew his anger and outrage would sever all ties between them.

“I have done nothing,” she said. “Nothing you wouldn’t have done to save the lives of—”

Lord Trahern caught her by the shoulders. “Save the lives of whom?”

Her mouth closed tightly. She looked away before she said too much.

“I’ve had enough of your lies and your games.” He gave a short quick whistle, and from down the street a carriage pulled out from the shadows. The
clip-clop
of the horse’s feet on the cobbles seemed to toll the end of her masquerade.

“Will you not believe me?” she whispered, struggling against his grip as he pulled her toward the waiting conveyance. “Webb’s death … it was—” she broke off, as if struggling for the words, “—fate,” she finished.

“Fate?” He pulled to a stop. “I call it murder when an innocent is carted off to the guillotine. You’ve run with this pack of vultures too long, citizeness, if you think you have the right to choose who lives or dies and call it fate.”

“It isn’t like that,” she shot back. “I’ve never made that decision. Webb knew the dangers. He made his own choices—” Her gaze flicked warily toward the salon window above them. “If you would just trust me and leave this place now, I promise you—”

A voice Sophia dreaded finished her sentence for her. “Promise him what,
ma cherie
?” Saint-Just called down from the doorway.

Her captor immediately set her aside, and for that she was thankful.

“Corliss, is that you down there?” Isnard said, joining the young man on the steps. “This is the young man I spoke of earlier—Giles Corliss,” he told Saint-Just. “The one from the American provinces. He has a vast number of ships to help us break these wretched English blockades.”

Sophia stepped back and distanced herself from Lord Trahern. She only hoped that Louis’s jealousy would not put them both at risk. Smoothing her hands over her dress, she did not look up immediately or answer Saint-Just until she was positive her face would not betray her emotions.

Please, Lord Trahern, use your best judgment. Tread carefully; both our lives depend on it.

Saint-Just was down the steps and at her side without bothering to acknowledge Isnard’s chatter or this newcomer’s presence. “
Ma cherie
, what is it you were about to promise this man?”

She laughed, though to her ears she sounded more hysterical than amused. “Not to prove all the rumors about me are true.” She pulled her sword from its scabbard and pointed it at Lord Trahern’s heart. “You know my fascination with Americans, but this one holds the most alarming viewpoint on land ownership. I told him if he left immediately I wouldn’t hold his views against him, nor would I kill him outright.”

Louis seemed to relax at her explanation, an indulgent smile spreading across his lips. “You are too extreme in your ideas, citizeness. This new regime is about freedom of expression for all men.” He caught her by the elbow and began guiding her back into the house. “Sir,” he said over his shoulder to Giles, “would you care to rejoin us? I would be most pleased to hear your ideas. You have my word that my lovely companion and her radical theories will be held at bay. I will even disarm her if you so ask.”

Lord Trahern shook his head. “I have early business on the morrow with Citizen Isnard. I think it is time I was to my bed, so I will be in top form for my negotiations.”

Saint-Just nodded. “The early bird, eh? Is that not one of your Benjamin Franklin’s notions?”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. He bowed to her. “If one is after a worm.”

Sophia flinched at his words.

“Then happy hunting elsewhere,” Louis said pointedly, his icy hand resting possessively on her elbow. “I look forward to hearing your ideas another day, for I have a feeling we shall meet again.”

Sophia watched Giles climb into the carriage, pausing to catch his instructions to the driver. But Saint-Just’s impatience interrupted her.

“Come inside, my dear. It is too cold out here, and far too dangerous.” His grip on her arm tightened. “Whatever were you thinking to come out here alone?”

“Why, I don’t remember,” she replied lightly. “But you shouldn’t worry about me. Of all people, you should know that I can take care of myself.”

He nodded and began to guide her up the stairs.

Reluctantly, she followed Louis. She couldn’t help but feel he was leading her up the steps to her own private gallows. Before she crossed the threshold she took one last glance back into the street and found it empty.

Much to her relief, Lord Trahern’s carriage had disappeared.

That didn’t solve her own problems. How much had Saint-Just heard of their conversation? Any of it would have been too much, that was obvious.

But if he intended to turn her in he didn’t appear in any particular hurry, for once inside he released her arm.

“Rather arrogant fellows, those Americans,” he commented. “I don’t see your fascination with them.”

“A passing curiosity,” she replied with as much disdain as she could muster. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

He smiled, then bowed. “I am always at your service, citizeness.”

A servant came up and whispered into his ear, and Louis made his apologies. “
Ma cherie
, I must see to some business. Can I trust you not to threaten any more of Danton’s guests tonight?”

She laughed. “Of course, Louis. I find my fit of pique is well over. Go, take care of your business. I will try to find some amusement other than politics.”

As she watched Saint-Just join Robespierre in the library, Sophia scanned the lingering crowd of guests one last time.

Her contact. Could he still be here, or had he given up because of her misspent time with Giles?

She took a turn through the room, avoiding any groups that might lock her into conversation. Emma was nowhere in sight, probably waiting at the tavern with Oliver for the delivery.

She knotted her hands at her sides. All of this had been so easy until Lord Trahern entered her life. From the moment he’d taken her arm in the Parkers’ ballroom, everything had started to go wrong.

For six months she’d clung to her resolve, as stubbornly as Giles held to his, and it had buoyed her through her most tenuous moments. Now she found herself doubting she’d survive the next hour, let alone the demands the next twenty-four hours would exact from her.

And with everything she had to worry about, now Giles’s life was added to her shoulders.

Damn him
, she thought.
And damn my foolish heart for caring about the unyielding man.

Beyond the salon she saw Saint-Just in a heated discussion with Robespierre. The two men rarely disagreed, as the younger Saint-Just followed Robespierre’s vision and plan for France as if it were scripture.

Something about the tense scene stilled her anger at Giles. She’d seen that look on Louis’s face before, when he was to be denied something he wanted. Sophia shivered. She could well imagine what it was Saint-Just may want.

Quietly, she eased her way toward the library door. Straining to hear the conversation inside, the first words out of Louis’s mouth confirmed that her safety as La Devinette was at an end.

“I agree that we need to find this American she was with tonight. Citizen Isnard will know where he lodges. I no more believe he is a simple Colonial trader than I am the Prince of Denmark. I want him found and brought in.”

Sophia swallowed back the waves of fear breaking over her. Lord Trahern was in terrible danger, and it was all her fault. She should have been more careful, should have never gone out to meet him. If something happened to him—

“But what of Citizeness Devinette?” Robespierre chided. “Will you arrest her as well?”

Saint-Just did not answer at first.

Holding her breath, Sophia wondered if she could still her heart, the pounding in her chest threatening to drown out the man’s answer.

“It will be no easy task denouncing her to the citizenry. They love her. I’ve heard her compared to that ancient English hero, Robin Hood.”

“Do I need to remind you, citizen,” Robespierre said, the warning in his voice chilling the air around him and all who listened, “that even the most trusted servants of the Republic must come under scrutiny from time to time?”

Sophia knew exactly what type of scrutiny Robespierre planned.

Saint-Just cleared his throat. Renowned for his oratory skills, sometimes he didn’t know when to quit. “If you are implying that I am involved in Citizeness Devinette’s plots, I would have you know my loyalty is—”

Sophia turned from the doorway before she was caught eavesdropping. Her vision swam. She leaned against a pedestal to steady herself.

“Citizeness, I find this crowd quite dull, don’t you?”

The voice at her shoulder made her nearly jump out of her skin.

“Pardon?” she asked, wiping her suddenly damp brow.

A rotund man peered at her from behind his small, round glasses, his owlish eyes blinking. “I said, I find this crowd quite dull.”

The innocuous words might be nothing more than idle chatter to anyone else, but they were enough to snap her attention back to the matters at hand.

For they could come from only one person. Her contact.

“Yes, citizen. Quite dull. Perhaps you have visited the local tavern? The wine there is much more to my taste.”

When her new friend nodded in acceptance of her expected reply, she followed him toward the door.

With one last look toward the library she realized with relief this was the last time she’d endure Saint-Just’s company. Slipping unnoticed out the front door, she breathed a sign of relief to be gone from the house, whose walls had but moments ago closed in around her like a prison.

Joining her contact in the small plain carriage she’d hired, she considered how she could warn Giles of the danger he was in. He’d followed her here to Paris because he thought her responsible for Webb’s death.

Maybe it was time to set him straight as to the fate of Webb Dryden.

If only he would believe her.

Giles wasn’t surprised to see the Brazen Angel leave with another man. They stepped briskly down the steps and into an unmarked carriage. It left Danton’s house with due haste. He immediately bid his driver to follow, though at a respectable distance. Her conveyance stopped in front of a tavern, where her companion got out and went in, while the Angel remained in the carriage.

“Quite curious,” he whispered to himself, as the Angel’s carriage rolled away with her still inside. He followed for some time until it dropped her not far from the cemetery where she had escaped him the night before.

He watched as she made a great show of getting out of the carriage and going up the steps of the fashionable house. At the door she waved the driver off and the carriage rolled slowly out of sight.

After it turned the corner she retreated down the steps and into the street. For a second he saw her hastily glance over her shoulder. She hadn’t looked at his carriage but into the shadows behind him. When he looked back he realized that they were, indeed, being trailed.

“So you don’t trust Saint-Just,” Giles said quietly to himself. “Smart lady.” He instructed his driver to pull past her and slow at the next corner. As the carriage made the right turn, Giles slipped out and hid in the shadows. He already knew how she was going to elude the other man following her, but this time he would be on the other side of the fence waiting for her to pop out.

In a few minutes he spotted her coming out of the alley, a sly smile twisting on her lips.

You shouldn’t smile too much, Lady Brazen, he thought as she once again took him on a twisted tour of Paris.
Next time Saint-Just will send someone small enough to fit through that puzzle of yours
.

When she finally did stop at the doorway of a building, he ground his teeth together.

It was the same apartment building where Webb had lived.

She went inside the front door and he watched for which room she would enter. Sure enough, a few minutes later a candle flickered to life in the attic rooms.

Could she actually have taken the man’s life and then moved into his apartment? Giles unclenched his jaw.

Well, there’s one way to find out, he thought. He started down the block and slipped into the alley that ran behind the houses. Webb had picked this apartment because it offered several escape routes. Out the front, out the back, over the connected rooftops, and through a series of hidden doors in the basement to the sewers.

Of no mind to explore the Paris underground, he chose the attic entrance. He’d done this once before, on a dare by Webb. Though he wondered if in that time the landlady had done anything to improve the rotting condition of her roof.