Surrender to a Stranger (39 page)

“Yes.” He turned to Laura. “Mademoiselle Laura, it is necessary that I speak to Jacqueline in French, as both of us are more at ease in that language. Since we have no wish to appear impolite, perhaps you will excuse us?”

Laura smiled prettily. “Of course,” she answered sweetly. She rose from her chair and floated across the room, leaving the scent of rose water behind her.

François-Louis waited until she was gone, and then he walked over and closed the door. “So, Jacqueline,” he said in French as he turned to face her, “it has been a long time.”

“You look well, François-Louis,” commented Jacqueline. “Obviously prison life did not overly disagree with you.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I adapted to the conditions,” he replied nonchalantly. “Also, I am the Marquis de Biret. They knew better than to throw me into a prison with the scum off the streets.” He pulled a scented lace handkerchief out from his sleeve and dabbed his forehead.

“Like the Conciergerie?” retorted Jacqueline sarcastically.

“It was most unfortunate that they took you and Antoine there,” he observed. “It must have been terrible for both of you.” He looked at her sympathetically.

“Antoine died there,” she whispered. She wanted to say it in anger, but the words were too painful to say in a harsh voice.

He stepped toward her and took her hand between his. “If I could bring him back for you, my sweet Jacqueline, I would, even if it meant I had to sacrifice my own life.” His voice was gentle and kind, and for a moment Jacqueline allowed herself to draw comfort from it. “However,” he continued, “we must honor his memory, and your father’s, and that of every member of the noblesse who has fallen victim to this blood-soaked revolution, by carrying on with our own lives. We must show those filthy peasants that we cannot be destroyed, and that we will not tolerate their stealing what is rightfully ours.”

Those filthy peasants.
That was how François-Louis dismissed most of the population of France. At one time she would have agreed with such a statement and not thought anything of it. But something bothered her now about such a sweeping denunciation of her fellow countrymen. She found herself thinking back to her argument with Armand, who told her that the peasants were people who starved as they struggled to grow food out of land that belonged to the nobility. Food that would be served on tables groaning under the weight of different dishes, served on elegant china and gleaming silver, while the men, women, and children who had plowed and planted and harvested and hauled it to market went to bed cold, dirty, and hungry. Surely there was something wrong with a system that propagated such misery?

“I will be leaving the hospitality of the Harringtons today to stay with an old friend,” continued François-Louis, interrupting her thoughts. “I only accepted Lady Harrington’s kind invitation to remain last night so I could see you. However, before I go, I am afraid I find myself in a rather embarrassing predicament, and am forced to ask a favor of you.”

“Yes?”

He released her hand and coughed slightly. “I find myself temporarily short of funds,” he began awkwardly. “Unfortunately I did not have the foresight to funnel money out of France when such activities were possible. Hence I must ask if there is any way you could lend me some money until I find a way to resolve this most distressing situation.”

“Of course,” replied Jacqueline hesitantly. “I regret it cannot be much, however, as I am also rather short of funds,” she apologized. “At the moment my sisters and I are living on the generosity of the Harringtons.” Although she had set up a fund with Sir Edward the previous year to pay for the expenses of Suzanne and Séraphine, she knew Sir Edward had been most reluctant to draw upon it. The amount was small, and was all the equity she and the girls had.

“I shall be most grateful for whatever assistance you can offer,” stated François-Louis politely.

“Let Sir Edward know what your banking arrangements are, and I will ask him to transfer five hundred pounds into your account.”

“Five hundred pounds?” repeated François-Louis, as if he had not heard correctly.

Jacqueline felt herself torn between embarrassment and irritation. She knew that with François-Louis’s customary lavish style, five hundred pounds was nothing. “It is all I can afford,” she informed him tautly. She was sure the outfit he wore had cost more than that and wondered how he had managed to pay for it.

“I appreciate your generosity,” he returned stiffly. He made a great show of tucking his handkerchief back into his sleeve. “There is one more matter I think we should discuss before I go.”

She regarded him curiously. “What is that?”

“The matter of our betrothal.” He stepped over to look out the window. “I wish to know your feelings on the subject. It goes without saying that our circumstances have changed considerably since your father and I first worked out the terms of our betrothal.” He coughed slightly. “Other than my title, I have far less to offer you here than I did in France. My financial future is, shall we say, somewhat uncertain. Since you are also without funds, I would understand if you told me that you wished to marry some English noble who could comfortably provide for you and your sisters.” He turned to face her. “In short, I would like you to know that I will not hold you to our betrothal if you do not wish it.”

She was silent for a moment. He was offering her a way out, releasing her from an agreement she was not at all sure she wanted to honor. On the one hand, he was her father’s choice. The esteemed Marquis de Biret, a man of honor, character, and wealth, whose noble lineage went back over three centuries. In France he had been an immensely desirable match. Beyond his wealth and his pedigree, women had always found François-Louis handsome, charming, and an amusing companion. Certainly Jacqueline used to think so. If she had to marry, he would have made an excellent choice, even now. He was titled. He was from her world. He spoke her language. He had known her father and brother, and spent time at the Château de Lambert. He understood completely what she had lost. And when things finally returned to normal in France, he would undoubtedly want to move back.

But marriage and her future were not at the forefront of her mind just now. All she could think about was returning immediately to France to help Armand. If by some miracle she was successful at that, she would stay to kill Nicolas. Beyond that she would not think. But since she could not inform François-Louis of her plans, how could she possibly break off their betrothal without causing him insult? It would simply look like she did not want him because he did not have any money. Such a gesture would be callous and humiliating. He deserved better than that.

“François-Louis, there is no need to make such a decision now,” she pointed out reasonably. “We have both been thrust into a new country, and we need time to adjust. There is no great urgency to this matter. If it is acceptable to you, I think we should discuss it again sometime in the future.”

He gave her a little bow, the picture of elegant formality. “As you wish, Jacqueline,” he declared solemnly. “We shall speak of this again at a later date.”

He stepped toward her, rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, and lowered his head to press a kiss against her lips. The kiss surprised her, not because it was not his right to give her one, but because it was so restrained, so formal, so utterly proper. So utterly unlike the kisses Armand gave her, which caused restless heat to blaze through her entire being like a streak of lightning. Was it always like this? she wondered as she stared up into his pale blue eyes, acutely aware of the sickly-sweet scent of his cologne.

“I will be leaving for my friend’s home this afternoon,” he informed her. “But I shall call upon you once a week, to see that you are faring well. I will also leave my address with Sir Edward, so if you need to contact me you will know how to do so.”

I will be gone within a day or two, she thought to herself. I may never see you again, François-Louis. “Thank you,” she murmured softly.

He bowed and began to move toward the door.

“François-Louis,” she called out, suddenly not quite ready to let him go. Perhaps he could tell her something else about Armand. Perhaps he could assure her that he was not dead. Perhaps he would help her.

He turned and looked at her questioningly. “Yes?”

She stared at him, a frothy vision of apple and butter silk and snowy-white curls. Here was the man she had once thought she would marry. He was the reason she had sent Armand to France. The man who had abandoned him, leaving him injured and bleeding on the ground so he could escape. “Nothing,” she stammered.

He regarded her curiously, then bowed again and left the room.

She turned to stare out the window, feeling only a small amount of grief that yet another part of the life that had been so comfortable and familiar had come to a sudden end.

Icy-cold sea air blasted against the ashen skin of her face as Jacqueline leaned over the rail of
The Angélique
and fervently prayed for death. The seasickness would eventually pass, she knew, but that seemed like small consolation as her body gave another violent heave and a terrible retching sound tore from her throat. There was nothing left in her stomach to bring up, she was certain of it, but her body continued to heave and so she remained where she was. She stared bleakly at the hull of the ship as it rose and then crashed against the frigid, black seawater, trying to focus on the movement. Somehow that was more comforting than sitting in Armand’s cabin watching the room lurch up and down.

She pressed her forehead against the freezing cold wood of the railing and drew a shaky breath. The air was salty but clean, and she felt a little better. She had forgotten how terrible seasickness was. Not that it would have made any difference in her decision to make this journey. Armand was in France; to get to him she had to cross the channel. It was that simple. Other than the seasickness, the most difficult part of it so far had been getting Sidney Langdon to see just how simple it was.

After François-Louis left, Jacqueline penned a note to Armand’s sister, Madeleine, asking her to come for a visit. When she arrived later that afternoon, Jacqueline informed her that she had new information about Armand’s capture and needed to see Monsieur Langdon immediately. Under the pretext of going out for a drive, the two women went to his home, where Jacqueline announced that she was going to France to find Armand, and if Sidney and Armand’s men wanted to help, they could take her as far as Calais. At first he refused, informing her that he was not about to take responsibility for her death, and that if she knew something about Armand then she should just tell him and let the crew of
The Angélique
take it from there. Jacqueline assured him as politely as possible that she was going to France whether Sidney took her there or not, and that she would not reveal one detail of Armand’s capture until she had been set ashore in Calais.

The ensuing argument had been long and loud, but Jacqueline remained adamant and in the end Sidney had relented. It was obvious that his loyalty to Armand and his desire to see him rescued outweighed the responsibility he felt for Jacqueline’s safety. Within twenty-four hours the crew had been assembled, the ship made ready, and Jacqueline had stolen out of the Harrington home and was on her way to Dover with Sidney, having left behind a brief note in which she explained to Sir Edward and Lady Harrington that there was something she simply had to do and she trusted them to care for Suzanne and Séraphine until her return.

And so here she was, so ill she barely could stand, wondering how she was going to make it down the steps to her cabin, never mind how she was going to travel to Paris and find Armand and save him. Her body heaved again and she was forced to hang over the rail and retch into the frigid salt spray of the ocean. She wanted to weep, she wanted to collapse in a pool on the deck and die, and more than anything she wanted Armand to lift her in his arms and put her to bed, telling her in no uncertain terms as he did so that she was not to die because it would be bad for business if she did.

She did not notice when Sidney walked up to her, only felt someone placing a thick woolen blanket around her shoulders, then turn her away from the railing and begin to guide her across the slippery deck to the stairs that led to the cabins below.

“You need to rest awhile,” he told her in French as he escorted her to Armand’s cabin and opened the door. “We won’t be reaching the coast for a few hours yet. I want you to change out of these wet things, and then you should lie down and try to get some sleep. I’ll call you when the coast is in sight.”

“Merci, Monsieur Langdon,”
she managed between chattering teeth as she clutched the blanket close to her.

He nodded briefly and closed the door. It was clear he was not overjoyed at having her on board.

Jacqueline stripped out of her wet clothes and hung them on a chair before the stove to dry. Although she had packed a plain linen nightgown for sleeping in, she went to Armand’s chest in the corner and searched through it until she found a soft cotton shirt, which she slid over her head. The warm shirt reached below her knees, and the sleeves completely covered her hands. Best of all, the faint, spicy scent of Armand clung to the fabric, making her feel cozy and protected. She crawled into his bed and drew her knees up to her chest, feeling weak but no longer ill. She wrapped her arms around Armand’s pillow and told herself for the thousandth time that he was alive. All she had to do was find him.

When Sidney knocked on her door several hours later, Jacqueline was already up and dressed in her plain black traveling costume. She put the last of her things in her bag and once again examined the false papers Sidney had quickly managed to secure for her from one of Armand’s contacts in London. During her trip to Paris she would be Citizeness Pauline Duport, a recent widow from Blois, whose husband had been a cabinetmaker by trade. If anyone was to ask, her husband had died from an infected leg caused by a deep gash when a heavy plank of wood had fallen on him. She was now on her way to Paris to live with her aunt, who ran a small fabric shop and needed someone to help her. It was a simple enough story, which she hoped would satisfy any curious traveling companions who might be sharing the coach she would be taking to Paris. It also enabled her to wear a plain black bonnet with a sheer veil, which would offer her privacy and prevent anyone from getting too close a look at her. Although she doubted that Paris was still actively searching for the escaped Citizeness Jacqueline Doucette, formerly Mademoiselle Jacqueline de Lambert, convicted criminal and traitor to the Republic of France, she knew that a young woman traveling alone often attracted unwanted attention from men who fancied themselves as desirable and wanted to see what might come of it.

She went up to the deck to watch as the coast of France began to appear through the early-morning darkness. Strangely enough, it looked much the same as it had when she left, nearly three months ago. The feathery pines were now heavy with snow, and there were more lights burning through the windows of the tiny, weathered houses dotted along the coastline, because it was not yet dawn and people were beginning to rise from their beds. But the land was still dark and rugged and beautiful. Jacqueline was overwhelmed by the bitter stab of relief that shot through her as she watched her homeland slowly appear. It had not been burned by the mobs or cast into the sea by an angry God. It was still there, waiting for her to return, patiently enduring the cruelty and madness that was raging upon it, languidly stretched out against the sea and saying
In one hundred years they will all be gone and I will still be here.

The Angélique
kept her distance from the shore, slipping quietly along the water, escaping notice under the velvety black shroud of the night sky. She pulled in behind a craggy point of land and stopped, a skiff was lowered into rough, cold waves, and before Jacqueline knew it Sidney was carrying her bag and leading her to the rope ladder that had been flung over the side. It was time.

“Well, Mademoiselle de Lambert, I have done as you asked. I have brought you to Calais.” He set down her bag on the deck and turned to face her. “Now it’s your turn. Where is he?”

“He has been arrested,” began Jacqueline, trying not to look down at the little bobbing skiff in which two men were tightly gripping the ladder to keep the boat from being carried away by the waves.

“I guessed as much as that,” replied Sidney impatiently. “What else do you know?”

“He was arrested trying to rescue the Marquis de Biret from the Luxembourg prison. There were members of the National Guard waiting for them on the prison grounds, and Armand was taken prisoner.”

“How do you know this?” demanded Sidney.

“The marquis managed to escape. I heard it from him.”

Sidney looked unconvinced. “You’re telling me that this marquis got away but Armand did not? How is that?”

“He was shot,” explained Jacqueline. “He was unable to run. The marquis was forced to go on without him.”

“How bad?” demanded Sidney, his voice taut.

“I don’t know,” admitted Jacqueline. “But I am hoping that it was not too bad, and that the wound is healing.”

He was silent a moment, obviously considering what she had told him. “He could be dead,” he said finally.

“No,” replied Jacqueline firmly. “He could not.”

He looked unconvinced. “How do you know?”

How could she explain it to him?
Because I feel him, somehow. Because if he were dead I would sense it. Because somewhere in my ravaged heart and soul there is a tiny shred of light, so small and faint as to be almost imperceptible, which was not there until Armand came into my life. Because if he lives, I know there is some justice in this world after all, and that maybe, just maybe, this life that God has given to me is still worth living. But if he is dead, then I am dead, too, an empty shell of pain and hatred and guilt that can never be healed, and does not wish to try.

“I know,” she said simply.

He studied her a moment, trying to understand. “Do you know where he is?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I will find him.” She raised her chin and stared at him with absolute, unwavering conviction, daring him to contradict her.

“I will go with you,” he announced suddenly.

“No,” stated Jacqueline emphatically. “You would be more hindrance than help. A citizeness traveling alone, a young widow going to Paris to find work, is apt to arouse a modicum of sympathy and respect, and has a good chance of being left alone. But a woman traveling with a big, burly man such as yourself can only arouse questions and suspicions. What do you do for a living? How is it that you can take time to make a trip to Paris? What is your relationship to me? What of your accent? Where are you from? Where are your traveling documents?” She shook her head. “I am much safer on my own, Monsieur Langdon. Surely you can see that.”

He looked unconvinced. “Armand wouldn’t like it,” he argued.

“Monsieur St. James will not like the fact that I am here at all, escorted or not,” she pointed out.

“That’s true enough,” admitted Sidney. He sighed. “Very well. My men will see you safely to the shore. After that you are on your own—”

“Merci,”
breathed Jacqueline.

“On the condition that you meet us in Boulogne in exactly eight days,” he finished.

“Eight days!” gasped Jacqueline.

Sidney nodded. “That gives you two days to take the coach to Paris. Four days to find Armand and get him the hell out of there. And two days to make it back to Boulogne. That should give you lots of time.”

“Eight days,” repeated Jacqueline in disbelief.

“The longer you are there, the greater your chances of being captured,” he pointed out. “And when you find him, you must act quickly to get him out of there, before those bloody bastards have a chance to send him to the guillotine.”

“But what if I cannot find him in four days?” she protested.

Sidney pinned her with his gaze. “Then you get yourself on a coach and travel to Boulogne without him. Is that clear?”

Never. She would never leave France without him. But rather than admitting that to Sidney, she regarded him seriously and nodded. “I understand.”

He looked at her with satisfaction. “Good. We will begin to send men out to watch the beach where we picked you and Armand up the first time after seven days, in case by some miracle you are early. Do you think you can find it?”

“Yes,” lied Jacqueline. She had been asleep when they approached it last time. It did not matter. If Armand was with her, he would know how to find it. If he was not, she would not be going there anyway.

“I am giving you eight days, Mademoiselle de Lambert,” Sidney reminded her firmly. “Do not be late.” He lifted her bag and tossed it down to one of the men in the skiff below.

“I won’t,” promised Jacqueline solemnly. She turned around, took a deep swallow, and slowly began to climb down the ladder.

The coach trip to Paris was long and tiring, and Jacqueline’s nerves churned her stomach into a tempest of nausea the entire time. After landing on the shore she trudged over four miles along the snowy road that led to the village of Calais, where a local fisherman told her where she could find the coach bound for Paris. She was able to secure a seat on the coach without any trouble. Thinking the coachman might find it strange that a young woman was there alone without anyone to see her off, she explained to him that a neighbor had been kind enough to drive her to Calais, but could not stay to watch her depart. The coachman shrugged his shoulders and rudely informed her that as long as she paid her fare he didn’t give a damn how or why she came to be there.

During the two days it took to reach Paris they were stopped several times by rough-looking detachments of the Revolutionary Guard and asked to produce their traveling documents. Jacqueline struggled each time to remain calm and composed, obediently showing her papers and answering their questions without the slightest hesitation. Each time she felt certain that the guard who asked the questions was suspicious of her, but after the third interrogation she realized the guards were equally suspicious of everyone. Her traveling companions all visibly relaxed once their papers had been returned and the coach began to move slowly down the road again. Evidently the paranoia of the government had managed to strike an element of fear into all the citizens of France, regardless of whether they were guilty of a crime or not.