Storm Winds (52 page)

Juliette had a fleeting memory of that sweet, sunny little boy she had known at Versailles. “You have a plan?”

“Not yet.” Nana looked down at the fans spread on the table. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Nana looked up. “It doesn’t matter. The waiting is over. We can start to formulate a scheme now.”

“And now you’re not being honest with me. Isn’t two million livres surety for my loyalty?”

Nana hesitated. “Perhaps.”

Juliette’s folded hands tightened. “I
need
to help her. I thought the money would be enough but it’s not. I don’t want to look back and regret I didn’t do all I could.”

“I’ll discuss it.”

Juliette grimaced. “You can at least permit me to take over the painting of these fans. You have no talent for it.”

Nana grinned. “And no inclination. I’d be glad to be rid of the task. Perhaps we can come to an agreement. I’ll send the materials to the Place Royale tomorrow.”

“I’ll purchase my own. These materials are as atrocious as your daubs.”

Nana chuckled. “You may not find fan-making as easy as you think. Come to me if you have trouble. And don’t make them too elaborate or I’ll have to charge more than a few francs for them.”

“It would do no harm to have a few fine fans to sell to your wealthier clients.” Juliette found herself smiling as she looked at the other woman. Nana Sarpelier’s frankness and warmth were as engaging as she remembered. “But I promise not to make them too beautiful. You’ll contact me?”

Nana nodded. “If you can help in another way, we’ll let you know.”

Juliette hesitated. “Jean Marc will not know of this. You understand? He’s not to be implicated in any way. If there’s any danger of my being discovered, you must find me another place to live. He must be safe.”

“He didn’t impress me as a man who could be easily deceived.”

Juliette’s hands nervously clutched at the opening of her cloak. “He must be kept safe,” she repeated.

“I like her. She’s bold,” Nana said. “And I think she means what she says. She could be useful.”

“Yes.” William gazed thoughtfully out the window at the twisting street below.

“She could paint the fans and also act as courier.” Nana had said all that was needed. She waited for his decision.

“Use her.” William turned and blew out the candle on the table. “We’ll use everyone we can. I want the queen and her son out of there by fall.”

“I know you’re upset,” Nana said quietly. “We did all we could to save the king, William.”

“It’s not your fault. He didn’t give you enough help.” William came toward the bed. “I find that curious.”

“Monsieur has only limited means.”

“Does he?” William lay down beside her and drew her into his arms. “It won’t happen again. This time we have to be certain.”

“We will be.” Nana’s hand moved down his body and then stilled. “You don’t want me?”

He held her closer. “Perhaps later.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She nestled nearer to him. “I like this too. During the day I forget how lonely the night can be. I don’t like the night.”

He kissed her gently. “Then go to sleep and it will soon be over.”

Silence fell between them and presently they both slept.

“You took the money to the café last night?” Jean Marc’s words were measured. “I told you I’d escort you there tonight.”

“I wanted to give them the livres right away and you had to go to see Monsieur Bardot yesterday.” Juliette bit into her croissant. “So I decided to go by myself.”

“With two million livres. In case you’re unaware of the fact, Paris is teeming with thieves who’d like nothing better than to slit your throat for
ten
livres.”

“All went well.” Juliette sipped her hot chocolate. “I need to go out today to purchase paint and canvas and it’s becoming troublesome hiring a carriage every time. Now that we don’t have Dupree to worry about, will you purchase a carriage and hire a coachman?”

“You’re changing the subject. Are you trying to distract me?” Jean Marc asked.

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve already told Robert to hire whatever help we need for the house.”

A faint smile touched Jean Marc’s lips. “You’ll not be scrubbing any more floors?”

“I’ll be too busy.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Now I must go upstairs and get the letter I wrote to Catherine last night. I want you to send a messenger with it today.”

“I sent a message to Vasaro the day we arrived to tell her we’d arrived safely,” Jean Marc said.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“We don’t seem to be communicating in any fashion these days. It can’t last, Juliette.”

“Yes, it can.” She tried to keep the desperation from her voice. “It must.” The late-morning sunshine streaming into the breakfast salon gilded the night-black of Jean Marc’s hair with indigo highlights and revealed the beautiful shape of his lips. She wanted to keep staring at him, but then, she always wanted to do that these days. It was as if, since she’d forbidden herself his touch, she couldn’t get enough of looking at him. She forced her gaze away from him and started for the door.
“I’ll go get my letter. Even though there’s no urgency now, I’d still like it sent today.”

He caught her wrist as she passed his chair. “I’ll purchase a carriage for you today.” He lifted her wrist to his mouth and his tongue caressed the sensitive blue-veined flesh.

Juliette inhaled sharply. The tingling in her wrist was spreading through her arm, her entire body. “Let me go, Jean Marc.”

“Why? You like it.” His teeth pressed against her wrist, nibbling delicately. “I like it. Do you know why I haven’t touched you since we left the Ile du Lion?”

“Because I told you—”

“Because I decided to show you how hungry we’d both be if we were deprived of each other,” Jean Marc said thickly. “In truth, I didn’t expect the hunger to be so sharp. You said you liked the way I pleasured you on the island. Come upstairs and I’ll show you a much more interesting—”

“No!” She wrenched her hand away and stepped back. “I won’t do—”

“Monsieur Etchelet would like to see you, Monsieur Andreas.” Robert stood in the doorway, carefully avoiding looking at Juliette’s flushed face. “I’ve shown him to the Gold Salon.” He hurriedly left the chamber.

“François.” Juliette’s gaze flew to Jean Marc’s face. “What’s he doing here? How did he know we’d returned to Paris?”

“Danton probably told him. I saw a few members of the convention when I called on Bardot yesterday.” Jean Marc rose to his feet “And I imagine he’s here to express his displeasure at the way I parted company with him.”

She frowned. “He’s a dangerous man. I’m going with you.”

“To protect me?” His brows rose. “I’m touched you’re willing to lay down your life, if not your body, in my service. But I assure you, I’d far prefer the latter.”

“Don’t jest.”

“I’m not jesting.” Jean Marc turned and strolled toward the door. “Come along if you like. I don’t think François will become violent”

François nodded at both of them with a cool smile when they entered the salon. “Welcome back to Paris. I trust you had a successful trip?”

Jean Marc nodded. “Quite successful. I regret you became too ill to accompany us. I hope the indisposition was only temporary?”

“An extremely bad head and a worse temper. However, I got over both in time.”

“I hoped you would.”

“The object you sought is safe?”

Jean Marc looked at him innocently. “What object?”

A reluctant smile touched François’s lips. “Perhaps I’m in error, but Georges Jacques and I assumed you were seeking the same object after which Marat sent Dupree.”

Jean Marc’s expression hardened. “I could have wished you’d told me Dupree had been sent to Spain.”

“Perhaps I would have told you if I hadn’t been ‘taken ill.’ You encountered Dupree?”

“Yes.”

François looked quickly at Juliette. “He recognized you?”

She nodded. “But Jean Marc killed him.”

“Good.” An expression of savage pleasure flashed across François’s face before he turned to Jean Marc with his former composure. “Georges Jacques isn’t at all pleased I failed to obtain the object for him, but he would have been even less pleased to have it fall into Marat’s hands.”

“Marat won’t have it.” Jean Marc met François’s gaze. “You can assure him of that.”

François turned away. “Then I’ll leave you. I have to visit Georges Jacques at his home this afternoon. He hasn’t been at the convention all week.”

“Danton’s not well?”

“No, he’s not well at all,” François said, troubled. “His wife died last month and he’s been—” He searched for a word. “He’s not been acting reasonably.”

Juliette had a sudden memory of the pretty woman who had taken her to Danton’s study. “How sad. She was young, Jean Marc.”

François nodded. “Very young. Her death was unexpected and happened while Georges Jacques was in Belgium. When he returned, Camille Desmoulins said he went quite mad for a time. He made them dig up her coffin so that he could kiss her good-bye.” François shook his head regretfully. “I should have been with him.”

“You weren’t in Paris?” Jean Marc regarded him curiously. “Where were you?”

François hesitated. “Vasaro.”

“You didn’t return immediately to Paris?”

“No.”

“When did you return?” Juliette asked.

“Only a week before you arrived here.”

“May I ask why?” Jean Marc inquired.

François gazed at him levelly. “No, you may not I bid you good day.” He turned on his heel and left the salon.

“Wait!” Juliette caught up with François as he reached the front door. “Then you left Catherine only a few weeks ago. Is she well?”

“Very well.”

“Why don’t you look at me? She’s not ill?”

“I told you she was well.” François reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a folded piece of paper. “I’m glad you followed me. This is for you.”

Juliette took the folded paper. “From Catherine?”

“No.” François opened the door. “Not from Catherine.”

Juliette frowned in puzzlement as she watched the door close behind him. His manner had been most peculiar when she mentioned Catherine, and she was not at all certain she believed him when he said all was well at Vasaro. She absently unfolded the paper he had handed her and glanced down at it.

She stiffened in shock. She knew that handwriting well.

The paper contained only one line of script.

François had never seen Georges Jacques so haggard, his eyes glittering feverishly in his ugly face. It was probably the worst possible time to approach Danton, but all he could do was hope that even in deep despair, Georges Jacques hadn’t lost the shrewdness that had caused him to rise to greatness. In any case, François had little choice. “I want you to arrange an appointment for me at the Temple.”

Danton slowly lifted his leonine head. “The Temple? Why?”

François hesitated and then threw the dice. “Because I want to arrange the escape of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVII.”

Danton stiffened and leaned back in his chair. “You joke.”

“No,” François said quietly. “I want the appointment, Georges Jacques. I could have lied to you and told you there was some other reason I needed to be there, but time’s growing short and I’m done with lies.”

Danton’s eyes were suddenly cold. “Then you’re a fool. A lie might have saved your life. Who bought you, François?”

“No one.”

“I
know
you. You hate aristos. You hate—”

François shook his head. “I’ve been bribing the nobility out of the prisons and smuggling them out of France for the past two years.”

Danton’s fingers tightened on the pen in his hand. “You did lie to me. You used me, you bastard.”

“As you used me. Did I ever refuse a task you set for me?”

Danton didn’t answer, his gaze on François’s face. “Why? Are you an aristocrat yourself?”

François shook his head. “My mother is Basque, my father is an English physician. My real name is William Darrell. We lived in the mountains near Bayonne before the revolution, but I persuaded my parents it was safer to go to England when I decided on this course. They live in Yorkshire now.”