Elizabeth Boyle (35 page)

Giles arrived in the library to find that the duchess’s interview included the entire family. She’d even asked Lord Dryden to sit next to her and consult as he saw fit.

Emma walked to the middle of the room and began her confession.

“Sophia met me at a coaching station two years ago. I was penniless, without a home, without any legitimate references.”

“Did you ever have references?” the duchess asked.

“No.”

Lady Dearsley started to protest, but the duchess’s cane ended any interruptions. “Who are you, then?”

“A lady—at least I was until my mother threw me out. Lady Sophia and I have a lot in common. However, her indiscretions got her sent here to England. Mine landed me in the gutter.” Emma’s head rose a little higher. “None of that mattered to your niece.”

Giles shook his head. “What do you mean by this?” He turned to the three sisters. “Why was Sophia sent to England?”

They sat stone-faced, until finally Lady Larkhall spoke up. “It wasn’t to protect her from the changes in France, as we told everyone. Sophia was a headstrong girl. At fifteen her unrestrained behavior resulted in a disastrous alliance with a rather unsuitable young man. He promised marriage, then ran away. The affair ruined her chances of making an advantageous marriage …”

Lady Larkhall turned to her sisters. “He deserves to know everything.” She glanced back at Giles. “There was a child.”

The admission stunned Giles. “A child? What happened?”

“It died at birth,” Emma answered, her gaze downcast, her hands folded in front of her. “Like I said, Sophia and I have much in common. She felt she could never live up to your expectations of a worthy bride.”

Not worthy?
He couldn’t disagree more. But he had one more question. “Did my father know this when you proposed this betrothal?”

The duchess nodded her head. “We told him everything. I think that was why he liked Sophia so much. She hadn’t allowed her disgrace to ruin her. Your father didn’t tolerate self-pity.”

Giles searched his own heart. Did it matter that years ago his bride had fallen in love and followed her heart? He had to admit it was the part of her that he cared for most—her reckless and headstrong devotion to those she loved.

His fingers toyed with the ring in his pocket, which he’d found on the nightstand when he was dressing. In his mind he retraced the inscribed words.

Nothing is difficult to one who loves.

It seemed his father had known this and chosen wisely.

“It all makes sense now,” he said to no one in particular. He looked up at Lady Larkhall. “Thank you. Thank you for helping me understand.”

The lady’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“Well, now that we have all this out in the open,” Lady Dearsley said with a harrumph and a grumble, “shall we continue? None of this explains why Sophia has gone missing or where she has been spending her time.”

Emma shuffled her feet. “Sophia has been—”

“Sophia has been parading around London as the Brazen Angel,” Giles admitted very matter-of-factly.

All three aunts sat open-mouthed.

He smiled at them. “Now it’s my turn to drop a cannon-ball on this little party.”

“My salts, my medicine. Where is Hannah?” Lady Dearsley called out, her hand flittering in the air. “My heavens, you lout, what kind of nonsense is this?”

Emma picked up the story from there, leaving out nothing and including, it seemed, every detail.

Besides, the sharp-eyed duchess demanded instant clarification of anything that seemed at the surface vague.

Giles had to give Emma her due: She told the story with her head held high, bestowing credit to Sophia for the girl’s triumphs and taking full blame for their shared failures.

A more loyal friend one couldn’t ask for. And it was evident she was just as worried about Sophia’s disappearance as everyone else in the room.

The duchess then allowed the entire family to add their own version of events to her
ad hoc
hearing, so, as she said, the truth could be muddled out.

Oliver had been sent for, but the stable boy returned with a message that he could not be found, nor could Lady Sophia’s carriage.

The duchess turned to Giles. “You see, this process is adding some valuable information to your search. So please quit fidgeting and listen carefully.”

Even Julien took the floor to tell the story of his rescue. He finished his tale with a royal bow worthy of a presentation at Court.

“Lucien,” the duchess said. “Why didn’t you inform me that your sister planned to return to Paris?”

Sophia’s brother shook his head. “She promised to wait for me before attempting another rescue.”

Out of a corner, Lily stepped forward.

Giles hadn’t noticed the young girl until this moment. She looked as petulant and unhappy as she had in France.

“Sophia did not go back to save our parents,” the girl announced. “She went back to save her lover.”

The room stilled until all Giles heard was the pounding of his heart.

Lily stomped her foot. “She stole him from me. He was mine first. I took care of him, and I would have continued to do so if she hadn’t made me leave him. She wants him for herself, and I’ll never forgive her.” The girl burst into tears and started to run from the room.

Lord Dryden, seated near the entrance, rose from his chair and caught her. “Who, child? Who has Lady Sophia gone back to?”

“He’s mine, I tell you,” she insisted. “I’ll love him all my life.”

“I know you will,” he continued in a fatherly tone. “But you need to tell us this man’s name.”

“Webb.”

Giles watched Lord Dryden let go of the girl, the color draining from his face. Stepping forward, he spun Lily around. “Who did you say?”

“Webb. His name is Webb.”

“He’s alive?”

“Yes,” the girl answered almost indignantly, as if everyone in the room had gone daft. “Of course he’s alive. At least, he was when she made me leave him in Paris.”

Dryden stared at the girl and then at Giles. “He’s not dead.”

Instead of relief, Giles felt a wrenching anger. Sophia had known Webb was alive and let him believe his friend was dead.

“Why?” he asked Emma. “Why wasn’t I told?”

“Webb insisted. Agents were being betrayed. He knew he was next. If it looked as if he’d died, then he could uncover whoever had infiltrated your network.” Emma looked to Lord Dryden. “I’m sorry for the pain this caused you, but your son said to tell you that he did it to protect the others, and he thought you would understand.”

Lady Dearsley got to her feet and tottered over to Giles. “I know this is all your fault. Somewhere in all this it is your fault. Why didn’t you stop her?”

But Giles wasn’t listening. He dodged past the lady and headed toward the door.

“Just where do you think you are going?” Lady Dearsley demanded.

“To fetch my runaway bride.”

“Well, it’s about time you did something right,” she replied.

“My lord! My lord,” the young stable boy called out as Giles mounted his horse.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Oliver, he asked me to give you this ‘iffin you were to go tearing out of here.” The boy held up a scrap of paper.

Giles leaned over and snatched up the note. “Thanks.”

Opening the paper, he read the three words and offered a small prayer of thanks that Sophia had more than one wise and loyal friend.

Tucking it into his pocket, he gave the horse its head and went tearing out of the yard.

The note contained the three words he needed to find them.

The Sow’s Ear.

Sophia’s dangerous and rough journey to Paris ended a week after her reluctant flight from Giles’s arms. Since the death of the Queen the city had undergone a startling change—her murder had unleashed the horrors Sophia had predicted. Suspicions ran high, and not even the oldest allies could be trusted. Still, Sophia had to find her family, and she knew the one man who could locate them—for a price.

During the day she and Oliver had joined the crowds choking the squares around the executions. Scanning the tumbrils’ unfortunate passengers, Sophia feared that each passing cart would contain her parents. She couldn’t even be certain they still lived—but something told her they couldn’t have died, and that something or someone wanted them alive.

One thing was certain: Every day the parade of victims grew longer and longer.

She cursed herself for not having saved them earlier.

Knowing that Robespierre’s spies may have located her usual apartments, she and Oliver took rooms not far from the Sow’s Ear. A festive air held the small neighborhood in thrall. It was as if the noisy rabble felt the world’s gaze upon them and rejoiced in their newfound recognition.

“Can we trust him?” Oliver asked as they slipped from the lodgings and headed to their meeting with Balsac at the Sow’s Ear.

A dangerous silence filled the darkened streets as they worked their way through the shadows.

Sophia glanced up at him. “We have no choice. Webb is nowhere to be found. That leaves only Balsac.” She didn’t like the wary look on Oliver’s face or his constant nagging that they needed to wait for Webb.

At least he hadn’t dared to make the same statements about Giles.

She could only hope Giles had become so angered by her disappearance that he stayed behind in Bath. If he still cared for her—which she doubted after this latest betrayal—she prayed Emma had convinced him to travel to her aunt’s home in York.

A block away from the tavern Sophia stopped. “Wait here,” she told Oliver. When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up her hand. “You must. If that weasel bolts with our money again, I want you out here waiting for him. If he thinks I’m alone he’ll be more cocky.”

Oliver let out a deep breath. “I don’t like this. I won’t allow it.”

“Have you a better idea?”

He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “I go in and you wait here.”

“He’ll deal only with me. I have to go in.” She reached over and squeezed his arm. “What harm can he cause an old woman?” she asked, her voice cracking with age. Pulling her ragged shawl over her shoulders, she hunched her back and bent over her cane. The makeup wasn’t as good as Emma’s work, but it would have to do.

Hobbling down the street, she made her way to the Sow’s Ear.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary when she entered.

The same sour stench of spilled cheap wine and rancid cooking from the kitchen filled the air. Near the smoky fire a group of young men sang a particularly bawdy song about a noble lady on her way to the guillotine.

She spied Balsac sitting in the far corner, his back to the wall, his ratlike gaze flitting nervously over the crowd. He nodded to her to approach his table, and she made her way slowly to the seat he offered.

Even as she sat down, Sophia felt the tension. Tamping down every sense that told her to flee the smoky room, she stared at Balsac and searched his features for any sign of treachery. But in this man, she knew, she had only to scratch the surface to find deceit.

“What have you for me, citizeness?” he asked, his hand already outstretched.

She squeezed back in her chair, just out of his greedy grasp. “Nothing—until I receive what you promised.”

He shook his head. “Not this time. Payment first. I no longer can afford the generosity that has marked our past dealings.”

Sophia nearly laughed. “Generosity? Is that what you call it? I would call it by another name.” She started to pull her knife from her pocket, but beneath the table she heard the distinct
click
of a pistol being cocked.

He’d anticipated her maneuver.

“No more of your tricks,” Balsac sneered. “This time I’m in charge.”

“No longer, citizen,” a male voice said over her shoulder. A pouch landed on the table between them. “The woman is mine. Just as I instructed.”

Sophia whirled around and started to bolt for the door. Robespierre, flanked by two of his minions, stood blocking her escape.

She turned again, this time thinking to head for the kitchens. The young men near the fireplace jumped up from their seats, cutting her off. The largest of them grabbed her by the arms, wrenching them behind her back and hauling her over to where Robespierre waited.

Pain shot through her arms as the lout yanked her arm harder.

“Unhand me!” she argued in her disguised voice. “I am an old woman. I have done nothing!”

“You are no such thing,” Robespierre said, his voice edged with impatience and triumph. His hand snaked out and wrenched her wig from her head. “Citizeness Devinette, or should I say Lady Sophia D’Artiers.”

Her hair spilled from the confines of the wig. Shaking it out of her face, she twisted at her captor’s hold. This nightmare couldn’t be happening.

“I have done nothing,” she repeated, even though she knew her words were worthless.

Near Robespierre’s elbow, Balsac grinned as he pocketed his reward. “The warrant for your arrest tells another story, citizeness,” the little informant crowed. “As a loyal son of France I was shocked to discover your duplicity.”

Robespierre looked unimpressed. He nodded to one of the other thugs. The man caught Balsac by the collar and rifled through the man’s coat until he retrieved the money pouch.

Before the man could protest, Robespierre pulled out a stark white handkerchief and held it to his nose. “Then as a loyal son of France you never should have asked to be paid for what was your duty to report in the first place. Take them both.”

Sophia struggled at first, until Balsac received a hard crack to his head when the little man tried to bite his guard in an unsuccessful bid for freedom.

She took his lesson to heart and resisted the urge to fight. She’d need her strength and wits ready for any opportunity to escape.

Outside, she stared at the ground, unwilling to turn her head in Oliver’s direction. She knew Robespierre watched her, waiting for any clue as to where her companions lay in wait.

A satisfaction he would never receive.

Oliver
, she prayed as they led her toward a large black carriage,
please stay hidden. Don’t intervene.