Elizabeth Boyle (12 page)

Emma shifted in her seat. “ ‘Tis a weakness and a curse.”

“What is?”

“Being in love with a man.”

Sophia sat back, stunned. “I’m not in love with him. I can’t be.” Even as she denied the possibility, she wondered if there wasn’t some kernel of truth to Emma’s assessment. . . .

Maybe she was, just a little.

What woman wouldn’t be in love with such a man? Especially when he took you in his arms, his fingers unleashing undiscovered passions as if he knew every secret inch of you.

Oh, no, she realized, this can’t be love.

“Love?” Sophia shook her head. She wouldn’t let it be. “There’s no place in my life right now for love. Not the kind you’re describing.”

“Maybe not in your life, but I’d say he’s already found a way into your heart. Besides, if everything turns out as we’ve planned, we’ll be back here in three weeks’ time. Then you can let Lady Dearsley browbeat him into seeing your betrothal agreement satisfied, and you’ll have the rest of your life to
distract
him.”

“Marry him?” Sophia hadn’t even considered that he’d take her back after her desertion. Besides, she saw how much her disappearance had affected him: He obviously couldn’t have cared less. He’d left her aunt’s house and gone looking for another woman. She wasn’t about to spend the rest of her life with such a callous lout. “I will not. Besides, I won’t marry any man who doesn’t love me.”

Emma chuckled. “Have you been listening to yourself? I don’t think he could help but care about you after tonight.”

“Which ‘me’ are you talking about? If you mean he cares for Lady Sophia, I saw no evidence of that tonight. Not three hours after I jilt him he’s quite happily consoling himself by seducing another woman,” she said, barely concealing her annoyance. “I think he was thoroughly enjoying himself, more so than if it had been me. Well, you know what I mean. Me, as in his bride, Sophia. Not me, this Brazen creature they all want.”

Emma laughed again. “You sound jealous.”

“I suppose I am,” Sophia admitted. “Jealous of myself.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Emma, what have I done? What if my aunt forces this marriage after we return? He expects a certain type of bride—that horrid, timid Lady Sophia we’ve so painstakingly created. What if we marry and I have to spend the rest of my life playing that wretchedly dull role?”

Emma laughed. “If what you’ve told me tonight is any indication, I doubt you’d last very long as Lady Sophia in his bed.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Oh, and then there’d be hell to pay.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much until I saw the price,” Emma advised. “Now, get some rest. We’ve a long trip ahead of us, and we have no idea what awaits us in Paris.”

Sophia thought about the stubborn look of resolve on his face as he’d left her in the study. She could only guess what they’d find in Paris. She hoped it wasn’t Lord Trahern.

“I
won’t pay for bad information, Balsac.” In the dank, smoky shadows of a Left Bank tavern known as the Sow’s Ear, Sophia frowned through the wax and paint of her disguise at the man across the narrow table. “If you are lying to me I will not be responsible for the outcome,” she croaked in the voice of an old crone.

Balsac’s yellow, pointed teeth poked out from behind his thin lips. “Citizeness, it is I who will not be responsible for the outcome if you continue these pointless threats. Paris is much changed since last we met. The streets no longer run with the blood of just aristocrats.’’ The man eyed her speculatively.

While Sophia knew her facade as an old woman passed the inspection of the more inebriated patrons of the Sow’s Ear, Balsac was not a man so easily fooled. The noisy boasting of the patrons, the closeness of so many unwashed bodies, combined with the permeating stench of spilled wine were part of the Sow’s Ear’s charm—and its appeal as a clandestine meeting place. Still, under Balsac’s beady-eyed inspection, she pulled her hood closer around her features. “What would the Tribunals care about one old woman?”

“If that were the case, citizeness, I would have to agree with you.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “These days neither infirmity of the aged nor the innocence of the young can protect one from Madame Guillotine. Remember: The wrong words in the right ear could mean disaster for you and your . . . companions.”

He nodded toward Oliver, who dozed in a chair near the door, apparently passed out from drink. The small man then grinned at Emma, sitting near the fireplace engaged in conversation with a fat tradesman.

Despite the assurance of her friends’ presence, there seemed a danger to this evening that Sophia had never felt before—something swirling in the smoky air, whispering over the din of the crowd, a voice urging caution.

She pushed aside the nagging premonition and gave a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders regarding Balsac’s easy identification of her companions.

How could Balsac have so easily identified us in this crush? she thought.

Around them, the popular though dangerous tavern continued to fill with late-night customers, most already well into their cups, singing Revolutionary songs with great bravado.

Dressed in the rags of an old beggar woman, Sophia doubted anyone would look twice at her. Emma’s theatrical artistry with white lead, yellowing agents, and wax hid any hint of fair skin and rosy lips.

Now it seemed Balsac had the advantage. At least for the time being.

“Turn me in. Is that what you’re hinting? Why would you do that?” She looked around the room and then directly at Balsac. “Especially when there is so much gold at stake,
mais oui
?”

The man’s thin lips narrowed. “Gold has a way of clouding the memory like too much wine. Too much gold and I can’t remember where I’ve been or who I’ve seen.” He turned and smiled in Emma’s direction.

It seemed to Sophia that everyone in Paris shared Balsac’s affliction. With the Terror reaching out to every level of Paris society, strangers were now regarded with suspicion and concern. Even at the lodgings where she, Emma, and Oliver had taken shelter on a number of occasions, the landlord had refused to house them. They found shelter at another boardinghouse Sophia was familiar with, but only after they’d offered the landlady twice her normally overpriced bill and paid three months’ rent—in advance.

“Shall we conclude our business, if only to refresh your thirst?” she prompted, drawing his attention away from Emma by dropping a small black pouch on the table. It clanked down on the wooden planks with the solid assurance of good English gold. “What of the message you promised, Balsac? Our agreement was for you to provide proof that the information you carry is indeed true.”

“Proof you shall have, citizeness. But first the gold. Show me my gold.”

Sophia’s hand shot out protectively, covering the pouch.

“In a place like this?” She shook her head. “Are you a fool? Most of these people haven’t seen good currency in years. Their pockets and mattresses are stuffed with counterfeit
assignats
,” she pointed out, referring to the inflated paper money issued by the National Committee in an attempt to stave off economic collapse. “Do you think your friends here will let you keep your treasure trove if you share the sight of it? Show me the proof, then you can count your coins in private.”

Grumbling, Balsac dug in his pockets. After a protracted search he drew out a wadded piece of green and white brocade. Unwrapping the worn fabric, his nimble thief’s fingers revealed the proof Sophia demanded.

Hidden inside the ragged scrap lay a gold signet ring. Sophia drew a deep breath at the sight of the deep rich color of the band. She reached for it, her fingers trembling with wonder and disbelief.

How long had she waited for this, her first sign that all their efforts were going to pay off?

But before she could touch the elusive proof she had sought for so long, Balsac caught her hand in a tight grasp, the strength of which defied his thin bones and wasted features.

“I mean only to examine it,” she said, her eyes never leaving his face. She continued to stare directly at him until he let go of her hand. “There should be an inscription inside the band.”

He nodded for her to proceed, and she picked up the long-lost ring greedily.

“You can read that gibberish, old woman? What other talents do you have hidden beneath those rags?”

“None you’ll ever see,” she said softly as she examined the insignia on the worn ring.

A swan encircled by a fleur-de-lis.

Her fingertip trailed over the familiar lines and curves. But this wasn’t enough proof that this was the ring she sought.

Holding her breath, she tipped the band and spied the Latin motto inscribed within.

Nihil amanti durum.

“Nothing is difficult to one who loves,” she whispered under her breath, the sight of the familiar words bringing chills to her skin.

Those words. How many times had she repeated them to herself through the more dangerous moments of her double life? Hearing them always made her resolve firmer and protected her when she thought all was lost.

Now everything lay within her grasp.

“And the message?” she insisted, pocketing her prize. “I was told there would be a message.”

Balsac shook his head. “
Non
, madame. I’ve shown you the ring. Without some proof of your intentions, my memory, she thirsts like a babe for her mother’s milk.”

She pushed the black pouch across the table. Balsac’s fingers swept down swiftly to snatch up his reward. But Sophia held tight to the purse strings.

“The message, Balsac. Or you will regret annoying me.” Taking out the short dagger that she always kept concealed beneath her jacket, she prodded its sharp point into his thigh.

The man let out a nervous bleat. “There’s no call for that, citizeness,” he complained. “I have risked my poor neck to come here. I have a wife, a family.”

Nonplussed, Sophia poked him again. The man had neither kith nor kin. At least none that would come to claim his body or mourn his passing. “Try my patience one more time and the point of this knife will make short work for your
wife
.”

“Now, now, citizeness. You must not upset yourself,” he fawned nervously, squirming on the point of the blade.

From his post at the door Oliver looked about to get up and come to her rescue. Sophia shook her head slightly at his anxious movements. There was no need for reinforcements just yet.

“It is these times; they make a man cautious.” Balsac withdrew his fingers from the pouch, though his avaricious gaze never left the table.

Sophia pulled her knife back a bit, but remained tense. It was always like this with Balsac. These cat-and-mouse games. He had proved in the past to be an excellent informant, but one she felt deep down could never be trusted completely.

With a last glance of longing at his coveted prize, he looked up at her, his narrowed eyes nervously flitting back and forth. “Ah, I remember the message now. It is coming back to me.”

“It had better,” she prodded with both her tone and knife.

He flinched and continued his tale quickly. “Your acquaintance said he would meet you tomorrow night. At Danton’s salon.” He paused for a moment. “For an ignorant old woman you keep an impressive circle of friends, citizeness.”

Sophia frowned at the probing slant of his comments.

When she refused to acknowledge his statement one way or the other, he finished his recitation. “Once you are there, your contact will approach you for the exchange. He said you would understand.” Balsac tapped his forehead, his gaze focusing once again on the pouch. “
Mais oui
, I remember it now. He said to warn you.”

“Warn me? Warn me of what?”

Balsac looked around the crowded room, his cautious sweep heightening Sophia’s tension.

She’d already checked the room three times besides arriving an hour before her appointed meeting with him to ensure there would be no treachery.

Her uneasiness about the evening returned, rattling her concentration.

Balsac shifted in his seat. “There is something wrong.” His rat-like nose twitched with distaste.

Someone is watching you
, a warning voice murmured in her ear.

Sophia shivered. “I’d have to agree, Balsac.” Wrenching her attention back to the man in front of her and trying to ignore the telltale ripple of anxiety running down her spine, she leaned forward. “The sooner you give me my message, the sooner you can leave.”

Balsac appeared not to be listening, his gaze locked on to something over her shoulder. His beady eyes flickered and his usual arrogant confidence withered before her eyes. He’d obviously seen someone who frightened him. Before Sophia could turn and determine what could make the man go white with fear, his broken words wrenched her attention back to the matters at hand.

“You are being followed. . . . They wanted you to know . . . that until you meet with . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Caution, citizeness, proceed with caution.”

The door to the tavern opened, allowing a fresh October breeze to blow through the stuffy room. A crowd of noisy soldiers elbowed their way in, stacking their long, wicked pikes next to the door, their red sashes and caps staining the room in crimson.

Balsac used the diversion to snatch up his payment and flee toward the kitchens.

Before she could cut him off, the newly arrived troops filled the space between them.

“Get out of my way, old hag,” one of them complained before he clouted her none too gently to the floor.

Ignoring the sting on her shoulder, she righted herself, with every intention of dashing after the fleeing Balsac. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Emma furiously shaking the fabric of her sleeve.

Sophia looked down at her own clothes and remembered how she was dressed.

What was she thinking?

In her anxious state she’d almost forgotten that most old women didn’t race through taverns like wild hellions. She glanced back at Emma, hoping her companion saw the apology in her expression. There was no need for her to risk revealing herself, for Oliver was already halfway to the kitchen in pursuit.