Surrender to a Stranger (55 page)

A carriage was waiting for them outside. Jacqueline climbed in first, followed by François-Louis and Nicolas. She moved as far away from both of them as the constraints of the vehicle would allow.

“You did well, Citizen,” commented Nicolas as the carriage lurched into motion, purposely not using François-Louis’s title. He reached deep into his coat and pulled out a swollen leather purse, which he tossed heavily at him. “Here is part of your payment,” he told him. “The rest has been set up for you in an account in your name in London, as we agreed. You are free to return to England. If you stay here, I cannot guarantee your safety. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied François-Louis with a nod. He slowly closed his hand around the purse.

“How much did you sell me for?” demanded Jacqueline bitterly.

François-Louis looked at her uneasily.

“Come now, Citizen, tell her what she is worth,” taunted Nicolas. “After all, she has a right to know.”

François-Louis swallowed. “Eight thousand pounds.”

Jacqueline stared at him in disbelief. “Eight thousand pounds?” she repeated, certain she could not have heard right. A man with the lavish spending habits of the Marquis de Biret would go through eight thousand pounds within the year—two years at the very most.

“Rather cheap, I thought,” commented Nicolas pleasantly.

“Your negotiating skills must be very poor,” commented Jacqueline, her voice dripping acid. “I would think you could have held out for a great deal more.”

François-Louis said nothing.

“And to think this was the man you chose over me,” taunted Nicolas with heavy sarcasm. “What a pity.”

“What is a pity is that I did not make certain you were dead when I left you bleeding on the floor of the Château de Lambert,” spat Jacqueline.

“That was rather fortunate for me,” agreed Nicolas, idly stroking his scar. “What was unfortunate was this mark you so carelessly left me with. I have yet to repay you for that.” He looked at her meaningfully.

Jacqueline glared at him, unwilling to betray any of her fear. “Lay a hand on me and I will tear open the other cheek,” she promised vehemently.

The back of his hand smashed viciously against her jaw, causing her to utter a cry of pain and knocking her back against the soft padding of the carriage seat.

“Jesus Christ, Bourdon, is that necessary?” demanded François-Louis, his blue eyes round with shock.

Nicolas rapped on the ceiling of the carriage. The vehicle came to a stop, and Nicolas threw the door open.

“Get out,” he ordered, glaring at François-Louis.

François-Louis looked at him in surprise. “But I thought—”

“My business with you is finished,” interrupted Nicolas. “You are of no further use to me. Now get out.”

The marquis cast a look of apprehension at Jacqueline, as if he was suddenly worried about what Nicolas might do to her once he was gone. “Look here, Bourdon, you must give me your word as a gentleman that you will not—”

“I don’t have to give you anything,” sneered Nicolas, “especially where Mademoiselle de Lambert is concerned. You sold her to me, remember?”

“I agreed to bring her back to you,” conceded François-Louis, “but not so that you could—”

“What I do with her now is none of your concern,” interjected Nicolas. “What you should be concerned about is getting out of France before somebody decides to arrest you and throw you back in prison. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

François-Louis looked worriedly at Jacqueline. “Jacqueline, I swear to you, I never wanted it to end like this,” he said apologetically.

Jacqueline looked at him in disgust. “I hate you.”

He lowered his eyes. “I don’t blame you.” He climbed out of the carriage and the door banged shut.

The carriage lurched into motion once more.

“Where are we going?” demanded Jacqueline after a while. “Back to Paris?”

“Not just yet,” replied Nicolas. “You will be staying in the local prison for a time.”

“Why?” she asked. “I would have thought you would want to take me back as quickly as possible so you can parade me before all your corrupt accomplices on the so-called Committee of Public Safety.”

“You will be seeing them soon enough,” Nicolas assured her. “But you are only part of the package. I intend to present you and your friend the Black Prince together, and then I intend to watch you both be executed together.”

A wave of unease crashed over her, making her feel dizzy. “You will never catch him, Nicolas,” she assured him, feigning more conviction than she felt. “You might as well tell the driver to make speed for Paris now.”

“Oh really?” returned Nicolas. “I disagree. I think he will come after you, and when he does, I intend to see to it that he is arrested and taken to Paris for execution.”

Jacqueline forced a shallow laugh, terrified by the prospect Nicolas was describing. “He won’t come after me,” she scoffed lightly. “He only saves those who can afford to pay him a handsome reward. Since I no longer have any money, he will have no interest in rescuing me. You had best focus your attention elsewhere if you hope to catch him.”

“From what I understand, Armand St. James has no great need for money,” he countered easily.

Jacqueline stared at him in blank surprise.

Nicolas smiled. “I decided it would be beneficial to better understand the man who has been plaguing France for almost two years,” he informed her. “De Biret was only too willing to give me his name as we began our negotiations. But to capture your enemy, it is not enough to simply know who he is. One must understand what motivates him. A little investigating revealed him to be the grandson of the former Marquis des Valentes, whose daughter, Adrienne, ran away to marry an English commoner named Robert St. James. Further investigation showed that Madame St. James returned to France in 1792, with her daughter-in-law, Lucette, also a French citizen by birth and the daughter of a silk merchant imprisoned at the time because of his counterrevolutionary sympathies, and her granddaughter, Angélique. The two women were clearly aristo émigrés, and they made no secret of their royalist sympathies, which was enough to convince a jury they should all be executed for treason.”

“Of what crime was the child guilty?” demanded Jacqueline, feeling sicker with every passing moment. “She was an English citizen, and far too young to be considered a threat to your precious French Republic.”

Nicolas shrugged his shoulders. “She was guilty by her association with her mother and grandmother,” he replied easily. “At any rate, contrary to what you would have me believe, it would appear this Black Prince of yours does not do his rescuing for money. It seems to me his reasons for saving nobles facing execution are far more personal.”

“Maybe so,” allowed Jacqueline indifferently, as if this was all news to her. “Nevertheless, you are grasping at straws if you think he will come after me. First of all, he knows nothing of my trip here. I have barely seen the man since we returned to England some weeks ago. And since our last meeting was far less than amicable, I have no reason to believe he will find out about my disappearance anytime soon, much less decide to risk his life to come after me. You might just as well send me on to Paris and be done with it,” she suggested practically. The idea that she was being used as bait to lure Armand into another trap was too horrible to bear.

“You seem unusually anxious to be executed,” observed Nicolas dryly. “Could it be you are in love with this man, and are sacrificing yourself in a noble bid to protect him from being captured?”

She gave him what she hoped was a scathing look of insult. “Really, Nicolas, permit me to remind you that I am the daughter of Charles-Alexandre, the Duc de Lambert, and formerly betrothed to the Marquis de Biret. Do you honestly believe I could fall in love with a commoner?” She forced a haughty laugh, as though the mere idea was too ridiculous to be taken seriously.

Nicolas stared at her intently. “You risked your life to rescue him once before, Jacqueline,” he pointed out.

She sent him a withering look. “That was a matter of honor, something I do not expect a man like you to understand,” she snapped frostily. “I felt responsible for his arrest, since I had unwittingly played a part in it. Monsieur St. James, on the other hand, has played no part in my return to France and, since I do not have the means to reward him, will have no interest whatsoever in trying to help me. You are wasting your time.”

He steepled his fingers together as he sank back against his seat and smiled. “We shall see, Jacqueline,” he replied calmly. “We shall see.”

“She has been arrested.”

Armand felt a sickening rush of black, icy fear surge through him, but he was careful to remain composed in front of his men.
He said arrested, not executed.
“When?” he demanded curtly.

“Yesterday,” reported John. “As soon as she got here.”

Stay calm, he told himself furiously. Get the facts. “How?”

“An inspector from Paris arrested her in a tavern,” replied Andrew, another of Armand’s crew who spoke fluent French and had been sent ashore to investigate. “Apparently she and the marquis were there trying to hire a coach.”

The bastard was waiting for her and she just walked into him, unsuspecting as a lamb. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He shoved his anger aside, struggling to keep focused. “And the marquis?” he demanded evenly.

“He was taken out of the tavern with her, and they got into the same carriage, but he is not being held where she is. No one seems to know what happened to him,” replied John.

“No doubt the spineless cur is on his way back to England,” offered Sidney furiously.

“No doubt,” agreed Armand. At the moment he did not give a damn where De Biret was. “Where is Mademoiselle de Lambert being held?”

John leaned forward on the table in Armand’s cabin and unrolled a rough map he had drawn. “There is a small prison, here, near the edge of the town,” he began, pointing with his finger. “It is only a single story, and probably holds two or three cells at the most.”

Armand studied the small box drawn on the map. “What’s it made of?”

“Stone,” replied Andrew. “The walls are over a foot thick.”

“Any windows?”

“One,” answered John, “but it’s small and heavily barred. Not even the boy could fit through it,” he added, casting a glance at Philippe.

“I could try,” offered Philippe, anxious to be of help.

Armand shook his head. “What about guards?”

“That’s the real problem,” stated Andrew. “The place looks like it’s ready for battle. We counted more than a dozen soldiers posted around the building and surrounding area.”

Sidney frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he stated. “Why would they need so many men to watch over her? She’s only one unarmed aristocrat.”

“Why is she there at all?” added Philippe. “If he wants her executed so much, why didn’t he take her back to Paris right away?”

“Why indeed?” mused Armand. He looked at John. “Any word on when they will be moving her to Paris?”

“Some say immediately. Others say she is to be held in Calais indefinitely. No one really seems to know.”

Armand leaned back in his chair. He had hoped to arrange an ambush of her coach while they were on a deserted stretch of road. That would have been fast, quiet, and efficient. Breaking her out of a heavily guarded prison in a small town where she was the focus of everyone’s attention was going to be much more difficult. He clenched his jaw in frustration. Obviously that was what Nicolas was counting on.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” muttered Sidney. “It’s as if he’s waiting for something, like he knows you are going to show up in some disguise to try to save her, and when you do, no matter who you are, he’ll be ready for you.”

“Another trap?” asked Philippe.

Armand began to drum his fingers idly on the surface of the table. “It certainly looks that way,” he replied.

Philippe looked at him curiously. “What are we going to do?”

Silence reigned for a moment as his men waited for him to answer. Armand continued to drum thoughtfully on the table, carefully weighing his options.

Suddenly he smiled.

Cold, gray light filtered through the tiny window across from Jacqueline’s cell, indicating the day was finally coming to an end. She sat on her bed and calmly stared at the light, taking comfort from it, for it heralded the beginning of nightfall. This evening would be her third caged in this barren, frigid cell.

It would also be her last.

She knew what she was about to do was a terrible sin, but in a world where nothing made sense anymore, she hoped that God would somehow find it possible to forgive her. The only thing she knew for certain was that she could not allow Nicolas to use her as the bait with which he would snare the Black Prince. Her own death was inevitable, but Armand’s was not. If, when he finally learned of her disappearance, he decided to come after her, he would have no way of knowing he was walking into a trap. Perhaps he would be wary and cautious, but regardless of how careful he tried to be, Nicolas had the upper hand as long as he held her prisoner. She could not go to her death knowing she had caused the death of Armand, and with him the deaths of all the innocent people whose lives might otherwise have been saved had he lived.

It was not such a terrible thing to die, she reflected. After all, she could take comfort in the fact that Suzanne and Séraphine were safe, and Philippe was in a new world in which he would never know hunger and where he could make his own future. She hoped Armand would take care of him when she was gone, for she knew Sir Edward and Lady Harrington would not. She realized she should have written some kind of note expressing her last wishes, but she had left in such a hurry she had not thought to do so. Anyway, the children were safe, and that was enough. She could join her father and Antoine in peace.

Her hand idly traced the narrow contours of the dagger hidden in her petticoat. Before she was placed in this cell the guard thoroughly searched her cloak and bag, and smiled with satisfaction when he discovered the pistol she had hidden deep within an inner pocket of her cape. Feeling smug with his find, the fool did not think to examine her further. Before leaving for Dover, she had stitched a small pocket into her underskirt and placed a six-inch dagger inside it. She took comfort from the solid feel of it beneath her clothes. Over the past two days she had spent many hours imagining how it would feel to plunge that pointed shaft deep into Nicolas’s heart.

Tonight she would find out.

She smiled.

Oh yes, Nicolas had to die. That was part of the bargain she had made with herself. Nicolas would come to her cell, thinking to find her a helpless victim. And when they were alone, she would pretend to accept his disgusting advances. But when his guard was down, and he was congratulating himself on how cleverly he had reduced the untouchable Jacqueline Marie Louise de Lambert to a defenseless, desperate prisoner begging him for mercy, she would draw out her dagger and drive it deeply into him, through fabric and skin and muscle and bone, piercing his lungs and heart and whatever other organs she might be fortunate enough to reach, until the blood spilled from him in a heavy flow and his eyes grew wide with shock and horror. And then, when he lay utterly dead upon the filthy cold floor, she would take the knife from his back, wipe it clean against his shirt, and use it to slash her wrists to ribbons.

She would not give this evil Republic the satisfaction of murdering her in a public forum. She would cheat them of their desire to make an example of her. She would not die a victim, but a victor. She could only pray that God would understand.

She calmly rose from the bed and went to the table where the guard had left a pitcher of water. She poured some into her hands and splashed it against her face, taking pleasure in the sharp, stinging cold it brought to her skin. She patted herself dry with the rough wool of her cloak. Then she pulled the pins from her hair and took her time running her comb through the honey-colored strands, quite accustomed by now to its shoulder length. She did not have a mirror, but she was able to sweep the pale mass up into a reasonable arrangement and fasten it in place with pins. Then she rinsed her teeth with water and carefully smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her gown. She wanted to look her best when Nicolas arrived.

“Guard!” she called, looking out the grille of her cell door.

An unshaven soldier in an ill-fitting, filthy uniform appeared after a moment. “What is it?” he demanded irritably.

“I wish to speak with Inspector Bourdon,” Jacqueline told him. “Can you send for him?”

“What do you want to see him for?”

“I have some information I think he will find of great interest,” replied Jacqueline evasively. “It is urgent that I speak with him at once.”

The guard looked at her curiously. “What’s so urgent?”

Jacqueline shook her head. “This information is only for Inspector Bourdon.”

The guard scowled. “You better not be wasting his time.” He turned and disappeared into the next room.

Jacqueline smiled with satisfaction. She reached down among the layers of her underskirt and pulled out her knife. She reverently caressed the icy blade of steel before carefully placing it underneath her pillow. Then she seated herself upon the bed and prepared to wait.

The window across from her cell had become a sheet of black by the time she heard a key scraping in the lock. She rose from the bed and stood in the darkness, struggling to appear relaxed as the door slowly swung open.

Nicolas narrowed his eyes, trying to make out her form in the shadows. “Bring a candle in here at once,” he snapped.

The guard hastily returned with a two-tiered candelabra, which he placed upon the table. The smoking yellow flames cast an eerie glow over the tiny cell.

“Will there be anything else, Inspector?” the guard asked.

“Go and wait outside,” ordered Nicolas abruptly as he threw his hat onto the table. His dark eyes locked onto Jacqueline, burning with intensity. “The citizeness and I have important business to discuss.”

The guard retreated into the next room. Jacqueline listened as the front door opened and then banged shut.

Good.

“And so, my sweet Jacqueline, we are finally alone again,” stated Nicolas, his voice low and menacing as his eyes raked over her.

“I wondered why you have not come to see me,” returned Jacqueline softly.

He looked at her warily, wondering at her mood. “My duties to the Republic come before even you, Jacqueline. In anticipation of your friend’s arrival, every soldier and citizen here has been instructed to bring anyone suspicious directly to me. Unfortunately, scores of men and women have been detained for questioning, which has taken all of my time these past two days.”

Jacqueline managed an amused laugh. “You are wasting your time, Nicolas,” she assured him. “I have already told you, he will not come for me.”

“I think you are wrong, Jacqueline,” he stated with deadly certainty. He slowly began to remove his gloves. “He will come, and when he does, I will be ready for him.”

No Nicolas, you will not be ready for him. You will be dead.
She smiled.

Nicolas threw his gloves to the table and looked at her curiously. “You seem in unusually good spirits, considering your situation.”

She shrugged her shoulders, a mannerism adopted from Philippe. “I know my days are limited, and I have decided there is nothing else to do but try to enjoy them.”

He frowned, obviously not convinced. “You expect me to believe that?”

Jacqueline sighed and shook her head. “Poor Nicolas,” she cooed sympathetically. “Always working. Always suspicious.”

He began to undo the buttons on his coat. “Either being locked in this cell has addled your brain, or you think you have discovered some way of escaping.” He tossed his coat onto the table. “Let me assure you, you will not escape me this time.”

She took a step toward him and casually raised her hand to brush a black strand of hair off his face, a gesture so openly intimate he could not control his expression of surprise.

“Perhaps,” she whispered softly, “this time I do not wish to escape.”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Jacqueline laughed inwardly, empowered by her newfound ability to confound him. She moved her hand to his cheek and lightly traced her finger over the scar she had inflicted on him, fighting to control her revulsion. He is going to die, she reminded herself as she looked up into his eyes, dark and cruel and yet obviously fascinated.

Nicolas grabbed her hand and wrenched it away, squeezing her wrist so painfully she was forced to cry out.

“What game is this you are playing, Jacqueline?” he snarled. He jerked her into him and wrapped his other arm around her, imprisoning her in his grasp.

“No game, Nicolas,” she protested, fighting to control her fear.

“Why then this sudden show of familiarity? Do you think I am fool enough to believe you want me?”

“I don’t give a damn what you believe.” She wrenched her hand free from his grasp and clamped it around the back of his neck. Then she pulled his head down and planted her lips firmly against his, pressing herself against his body as she did so. She felt him hesitate, as if he was unsure what trick she played upon him. She moaned softly, trying to make it seem as if she was enjoying it, struggling with the revulsion spreading through her body.

Suddenly Nicolas tightened his arms around her and began to return her kiss, forcefully, greedily, roughly running his hands over her to demonstrate that he was the one who was in control. Jacqueline pretended to respond as she took a step back toward the bed. He followed her, not relinquishing his grip, hurting her with his touch, which was demanding and brutal. She whimpered with pain as he squeezed her breast, and Nicolas let out a low growl of animalistic pleasure. In that moment Jacqueline realized that this was how he experienced fulfillment; not in the giving and sharing of gentle, exquisite pleasure as Armand did, but in the savage domination of a woman who was not enjoying his touch. A rush of nausea and fear raced up her spine. Soon it will be over, she reminded herself. She tried to move closer to the bed, but instead of following her he grabbed her shoulders, twisted her about, and roughly shoved her against the wall. His hand probed the neckline of her gown and wrenched down in one vicious motion, ripping open the fabric and exposing her breasts to the cold air.

Jacqueline gasped and tried to raise her hands to cover herself, realizing she was losing control of the situation. “Nicolas, I—”

“Shut up!” he spat as he grabbed her breast and began to squeeze. “Did you think I would be gentle and dignified when I finally had you?” he demanded sarcastically. He lowered his head so his lips hovered over hers as his other hand began to wrench up her skirts. “I am no gentleman, Jacqueline, or have you forgotten? That was why you rejected me in the first place, remember?” He ground his mouth against hers, pinning her to the wall with his body while his hand fumbled at the front of his trousers.

Jacqueline whimpered and struggled to break free from his hold, but he was far too powerful for her. A wave of terror churned violently within her as she felt his hand probing between her thighs. She had made a ghastly mistake, and now she was about to pay for it. Her mind reeling with fury and despair, she twisted her face away, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth to scream.

“Once again I see I have come at an inopportune moment.”

Nicolas froze, as if he could not quite believe he had heard the voice.

Her heart pounding violently, Jacqueline opened her eyes.

Armand was casually leaning against the doorway of her cell, with an armed guard standing behind him. His expression seemed mild, as if the little scene he was witnessing was no more than he had expected. He was not wearing a disguise, but was simply dressed in a dark jacket, white shirt, and breeches, over which he wore an enormous black coat. He looked at her calmly, with only the slight tightness of his jaw giving any indication of the staggering fury that was boiling wildly within him. Then he fixed his gaze on Nicolas.

“I really think you should let her go, Bourdon.”

Nicolas snorted with contempt and moved away from her.