Elizabeth Boyle (36 page)

Balsac, she noticed, didn’t receive such preferential treatment. Instead, they herded him into a cart and tied his hands to the railing.

“Why the favor?” she asked Robespierre as her captor nudged her toward the carriage door.

“Because I asked for it,” Louis Antoine Saint-Just answered, leaning out from the carriage.

Sophia sat silently in her seat. Across from her, Saint-Just looked relaxed, almost jubilant in her capture. In his lap lay a pistol. Outside, a guard rode on the step, clinging to the side of the carriage and preventing any attempt at escape. Robespierre followed in his own carriage.

“It’s amazing, is it not?” Saint-Just commented. “How you deceived so many people. The heroine of the Revolution turns out to be the daughter of the infamous Royalist, Comte d’Artiers. Impressive.” He reached across and took her hand in his. Smiling, he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

Snatching her hand away, she wiped any trace of his touch on her skirts. “Not so difficult when you have an audience of fools to perform for.”

“Except one. Me. You never thought to encounter an old lover, did you? How did you think to deceive a man who knows you better than anyone?”

She tipped her head and studied him. “You never said a word.”

“Why should I? It was too amusing to watch. Besides, I know you—and what you’ll risk. So I bided my time and enjoyed your company again.” He looked over her costume. “Once we’ve removed that paint and wax, I look forward to seeing if the promise you held at fifteen has come true.”

“You think I would . . .” She reeled back in her seat. “You’ve been lapping at your master’s feet too long, Louis. The filth has infected your mind if you think I’d ever return to your bed.”

He laughed. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost that outspoken tongue of yours. I hope you haven’t forgotten the other things I taught you to do with it.”

Sophia seethed in silence. How had she ever thought she loved this man? He’d been visiting her family’s estate for the summer, and they’d stolen away every chance they could. He’d made her promise to tell no one of their affair, and she hadn’t, believing in his promise to take her to Paris with him in the fall. Then he’d abruptly left after her parents discovered the truth of their relationship.

Talk of a possible marriage dissolved when Louis denied ever having touched Sophia and claimed to have seen her with a gardener’s son.

Sent to a convent for her confinement, Sophia spent her time writing note after note to her lover, begging him to save her and their unborn child. Through the agonizing trials of labor at the hands of an inexperienced midwife, she’d thought she would perish along with her child, born still and blue.

Of Louis Antoine Saint-Just, she’d heard nothing over the years, until she’d returned to Paris as La Devinette.

He’d risen to a position of power as Robespierre’s right-hand assistant. And he’d been pleasant and attentive whenever their paths crossed in the tight circle of Paris’s ruling party.

“Sweet Sophia, what happened to you? I tried for a year to find you, but your family shut me out, refused to give me any idea of where they’d sent you.” He brushed back his jet-black hair so the gold ring in his ear twinkled at her. His concerned smile dazzled.

It was his handsome, dangerous manners that had attracted her as an innocent girl. Older and wary, she said nothing to his lies.

“You don’t believe me,” he told her. “Perhaps in the days to come I will have the opportunity to make up this bitterness that passes between us. Because of my position and power, I’ve secured but one chance for you. I’ve convinced the Committee not to have you publicly tried or executed. You’re still a heroine in the eyes of the people. If you denounce your family and turn in your accomplices, you’ll survive. At least for as long as I can continue to convince them you are worth keeping.”

His words sent chills over her skin. The carriage rolled to a stop and the guard opened the door. “And what would you receive in return for all this?” she asked him.

“You as my mistress. And if you agree I will see that your parents are kept alive, as long as you continue to please me.” He leaned back and sighed. “We have much time to make up for.” He studied her, his arms crossed over his chest. “Look outside, Sophia. See where you are—La Force is not known as one of Paris’s most hospitable prisons. One word from you and I will order the carriage to return to my house, with you at my side. Say the word and your life will be spared.”

She shook her head, unwilling to consider either notion.

He reached over and stroked her bare arm. “It won’t be quite like our summer together, for I imagine you may well be the teacher now, and I, your most willing student. That is, given your reputation and what I hear of your exploits in London. But you always were a hot and willing bitch when it came to men.”

Sophia considered her reply carefully.

She spit in his face.

G
iles stood in the gallery of the Paris courtroom, watching the Public Prosecutor, Antoine Fouquier-Tinville, dispense his brand of swift Revolutionary justice. The thin-lipped man offered little emotion with his sweeping summations and far-reaching conclusions. Yet with each accusation, with each vague fact, the jury nodded in ardent affirmation.

Today’s docket of defendants moved through the courtroom quickly, as if the prosecutor felt the crowd’s restless anticipation for the one defendant whose case had filled the hall with spectators.

La Devinette.

Giles’s search for Sophia ended even as he passed through the city’s gates. The entire city buzzed with the news of La Devinette’s arrest.

Some claimed she spied for the English, others the Austrians. The only point the gossips agreed on was that she would be executed within a day or two.

Packed into the courtroom with the other “lucky” citizens who’d won the daily lottery for seats, he waged a war within himself as he discarded one plan after another as to how to rescue her.

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before, spending most of the night in the Sow’s Ear hoping to find Oliver.

When the man didn’t show up he’d sought a different course of action, but the name of the prison where they’d locked her away couldn’t be bought for any amount of money.

With no idea if Oliver faced the same fate as his mistress or if he remained free, Giles searched the crowd for the man’s wide shoulders and peppered hair.

The hapless defendant at the bench listened to the jury’s unanimous verdict—guilty. The downcast man left to the accompanying cheers and jeers of the hostile crowd, the noisy din blocking out the announcement of the next case.

That was, until the door behind the prosecutor’s table opened. An uncharacteristic hush fell over the chamber.

An older man and woman stumbled into the room, pushed by their grinning guard. The man, dignified in both his height and bearing, meticulously helped the lady regain her footing, then sent a withering stare at the insolent lout.

The guard, smaller in stature, sheepishly backed away from his captive. The nobleman acknowledged his small victory with a wry smile.

Suddenly, the pair was joined by a third defendant, a small woman in a plain white gown. For a brief second Giles felt he had her all to himself, recalling the rich color of her hair, the stubborn tip of her chin, until the crowd’s recognition sent them clamoring to their feet, cutting off his view.

Their heroine, their victorious symbol of Revolution, whom they’d memorialized in song and effigy, had arrived. Instead of the adoring plaudits, the courtroom filled with venom.

Whistles, catcalls, and insults hurtled toward her.

“Aristo bitch!”

“Whore!”

“Traitor!”

“Let the razor shave her neck!”

Vehement and angry, the crowd decided her verdict before the prosecutor uttered a word. And from the smile on Fouquier-Tinville’s face, Giles knew this was the type of case the man loved, his narrow gaze bearing down on his next victim like a bird of prey.

The crowd’s hatred for her tore at Giles as much as his love for her grew.

Amidst the terrible onslaught, Sophia stood proudly defiant.

In that moment he knew why he loved her so much. Reckless and brave, she acknowledged her detractors with a bright smile. Her hair, loose and unbound, hung in long curls down her back and over her shoulder. Her face, scrubbed of makeup or paint, held a quaint blush of innocence against her fair porcelain skin.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen her like this. Stripped of every layer, her armor of makeup relinquished. How was it he could know every inch of her body, every curve, the way she moved against him, and yet never see her face so untouched, so pure?

The idea made him want to laugh. For all her accusations of his being superficial, he had truly fallen in love with her in each of her varied guises. Now for the first time—and perhaps the last—he saw the real woman he loved.

It was like regaining his sight after years of blindness.

“We have before us, citizens, the woman once known as La Devinette. Today I put before you the heinous solution behind her riddle. Her crimes. All of them, treason against the Republic.” Fouquier-Tinville, warming to his duties, politely bid Sophia to join the other couple at the defendants’ bench.

Jeers and cries for revenge drowned out the pronouncement of the other defendants’ names and crimes.

She crossed the courtroom with the posture and deportment befitting a debut at Versailles. The grace of her movements was lost on the rabble before her. Joining the two other defendants in front of the Tribunal, she looked toward the galleries as if she sensed Giles’s gaze upon her.

For a moment her eyes looked wistful, full of regrets.

The hint of emotion, so real and honest, hit him hard. Never before had she asked anything of him, and now when she needed him most, needed his strength, he could only stand by in frustrated defeat.

He remembered her lesson on the Rue St. Honoré as the crowd butchered the old man before their eyes.

She’d sat by and watched in impotent silence.

Now he understood the bitter gall she’d swallowed. To preserve her life she’d remained quiet, and now he must do the same if he was to save her.

The head of the Tribunal banged his gavel on the table, calling for order in the mayhem of anarchy.

“Please, citizens,” Fouquier-Tinville advised the crowd. “This is a courtroom. We must respect the sanctity of justice in our new society. Be seated and silent.”

The crowd muttered their displeasure at having to behave, but they righted their overturned benches and settled in for the afternoon’s entertainment.

The prosecutor continued by reading the remaining charges against Sophia.

Guards stood ready at every door. The room was filled with loyal Revolutionaries, every one burning with hatred at her apparent betrayal to their cause.

Giles racked his wits to find a way to save her. He could wait outside, then follow the cart that would return her to prison. From there he could bribe a guard or find a way to rescue her. But what if they ordered her sent to the guillotine immediately, as was often the case?

There would be nothing he could do to stop it. He buried his face in his hands, blocking out the horrid image of seeing her die.

He needed more time—even just a few hours—to set a plan, any plan, into action.

Another man pushed his way onto the bench, interrupting Giles’s thoughts. “A pretty little head on that one. Almost a shame to cut it off. Wouldn’t you say, citizen?”

Giles froze. The voice, so familiar, so long lost, called him out of his reverie. His head twisted, and he looked into the eyes of his childhood friend, Webb Dryden.

Thin, with a haunted look about his hollow eyes, the young man smiled.

Too well-trained to acknowledge this miraculous resurrection with the outburst and handshakes it deserved, Giles shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant gesture. “What’s another head if it belongs to an aristocrat?’’

Webb nodded in agreement. “It must be real inconvenient for the likes of her staying at La Force.”

So the younger agent knew where they were holding her. He’d have to put Webb in for a promotion—that is, after his father got done demoting him for “dying” in the line of duty.

Giles looked at Sophia, wondering how she’d survived the foul conditions in Paris’s worst prison. Considering her great deception, fooling even the members of the National Committee, her imprisonment in La Force made sense. Communication with prisoners inside the walls of the two adjoining buildings, Petite-Force and Grande-Force, was impossible. Built with thick, impenetrable walls, high façades, and surrounded by the worst hovels of poverty in Paris, a stay at La Force made even the guillotine look hopeful.

“And such a bargain today,” his friend continued. “Not just La Devinette, but the foul couple who spawned her, the Comte d’Artiers and his
sow
of a wife.”

Stunned by the realization that the couple with Sophia were her parents, he almost missed Webb’s clue. Now he saw what had intrigued him before about the couple. In her father he recognized the strong resemblance between the d’Artiers men—the Comte, Lucien, and Julien—the bearing, the stance, the hawklike features. Sophia had obviously inherited her mother’s Ramsey blue eyes and vivid coloring.

“A sow, you say,” Giles replied. “No, you’re wrong. I think she has the
ears
of a donkey.”

Webb glanced back down at the defendants’ bench. “My mistake. I see what you mean now. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, but I would say in a couple of hours I will be seeing much better.” He leaned closer and whispered. “Stay with her, my friend. She needs your strength.”

With a thousand questions still unanswered, Giles watched Webb get up and push his way out of the crowd.

For the next few hours Giles listened as the witnesses trotted out and gave their coached testimony. Finally, after Webb’s former landlady gave her damning evidence that Sophia was prone to keeping odd hours with strangers and never paid her rent, Fouquier-Tinville asked the jury if they had heard enough.