Trapped by Scandal (3 page)

A sudden unearthly scream shattered the moment of silence in the parlor. Alec jumped up, his face ashen. “Dear God, it's Marie Claire.” He started for the door, but his sister came after him, laying a hand on his arm.

“No, Alec, don't go upstairs. You'll get in the way, my dear.” Her own face was as pale as her brother's, but her voice was resolute. “Let those who know how to help get on with their business. You can't do anything for Marie Claire,
and if she sees how distressed you are, it will only make things worse for her. You know how she frets over you.”

Alec resisted his sister's restraining hand for a moment and then let his own hand fall from the doorknob. “I suppose you're right. But I can't bear it, Hero, to hear her in such agony.”

“I know.” She looked at him with compassion. It was always harder to bear someone else's pain than one's own. “I'll go up and see if the doctor has any further news.” She left her brother and hurried back upstairs. Another scream assailed her ears as she reached the landing, and she shivered, telling herself that it was all perfectly natural, that women had suffered like this since the world began and would continue to do so until it ended. But the pragmatic acceptance of reality didn't help much as she softly opened the door to the Marquess's bedchamber and slipped inside.

Nan turned from the bed at the sound of the door. She came over to Hero. “I daresay Lord Alec is in a right state,” she commented. “Everything is normal. She's a strong lady, for all that she's such a delicate mite. It'll all be over afore dawn. You go down and tell his lordship that.”

Hero glanced anxiously over to the bed. “What does Dr. Barrett say?”

Nan sniffed. “What does he know? Birthing is women's business. And I tell you, Lady Hero, the baby'll be born before the night is out. You can trust me for that.”

Hero smiled. She would trust Nan for anything. She certainly knew who she'd want at her bedside. She nodded and let herself out of the chamber, going back downstairs to report to her brother.

It was a long night, but just as the sky began to lighten and the first sounds of the dawn chorus came from the square, the door to the parlor opened to admit Dr. Barrett, looking as impeccable and unruffled as if he had not been up at his patient's bedside throughout the night. “My lord, I am happy to announce that you are the proud father of a baby girl,” he pronounced with appropriate solemnity. “If you would care to go up, her ladyship and the child are ready to receive you.”

Alec sprang from his chair like a jack-in-a-box and sprinted from the room, leaving the doctor standing expectantly in the doorway.

“You must be in need of refreshment, Dr. Barrett.” Hero stepped into the breach, controlling her own impatience to worship at her new niece's crib. “Her ladyship is really doing well?” She poured him a large glass of cognac.

“A little tired but very well otherwise. My thanks, Lady Hero.” He took the glass with an appreciative nod.

Hero poured a small measure for herself to join him in a toast to the new arrival and then escorted the doctor to the front door and saw him out into the cool early morning. Jackson appeared in the hall as she stepped back inside.

“I understand his lordship is to be congratulated, my lady.”

“Yes, and her ladyship,” Hero reminded him, wondering why it was always the man who was congratulated on the birth of a child, as if the poor woman who had labored to provide his offspring had had nothing to do with it. “A baby girl,” she added. “I am going up to see them now.”

She hurried upstairs to the bedchamber, where Nan still reigned supreme at the bedside. Marie Claire lay propped on pillows, her baby daughter wrapped tightly in a lacy shawl, lying on her breast. Alec sat on the bed beside them, gazing in misty-eyed wonder at his wife and child.

“Just a few minutes, now, Lady Hero,” Nan instructed, straightening the coverlet. “Mother and baby need to rest. And so do you, Lord Alec. Worn to a frazzle, you are.”

“What are you going to call her?” Hero asked, lightly touching her niece's tiny dimpled fist. “She's so delicate and new, like a rosebud.”

“Actually, she's to be called Fleur,” Alec said proudly. “Fleur Elizabeth Louise . . . after Marie Claire's mother.”

“How perfect.” Hero leaned over to kiss her sister-in-law and then hugged her brother fiercely. “May I hold the Lady Fleur Fanshawe for a moment?”

Marie Claire lifted the bundle from her breast, and Hero took the baby, gazing with wonder at the infant's perfection. She had no experience of babies or children; her own parents had had no siblings, so there were no cousins in the family. In fact, when she thought about it, she and Alec had basically grown up with only each other for company. It was a wonder they weren't more eccentric than they were, she reflected with a slightly cynical smile. And no wonder they were both drawn to people and worlds that were far beyond the run-of-the-mill company and experiences of their peers.

Dangerous men like William Ducasse, Viscount St. Aubery, and the equally dangerous world they occupied.

THREE

La Force Prison, Paris, 1794, thirteen months earlier

M
erde.
” The expletive emerged from a grimy bundle of clothes tossed onto the filthy, straw-covered floor of the prison cell. A large gray rat scuttled in alarm out of the straw as the barred gate clanged shut. The figure lay stunned for a few seconds before uncurling itself and jumping to its feet, turning to hurl a stream of vigorous street insults into the shadowy corridor beyond the bars.

The cell's other occupant stood, arms folded, leaning against the corner of the far wall, his casual stance belied by the alert set of his shoulders as he regarded the new arrival from a pair of shrewdly inquiring tawny eyes, eyebrows quirked as he listened to the fluent stream of invective. When the new arrival paused for breath, he observed into the moment's quiet, “I shouldn't draw too much attention to yourself, if I were you. You're lucky they didn't realize what you are; otherwise, you'd be on your back in the yard with a stream of guards half a mile long waiting their turn.”

Slowly, the figure turned from the bars to regard the speaker warily. “How can you tell?”

“You should bind your breasts,” he said, looking at her more closely. As far as he could tell, beneath the grime streaking her face and the obligatory red cap pulled low over her forehead, she seemed quite young, athough unmistakably feminine. The swell of her breasts beneath her filthy shirt was obvious to his eye; he couldn't imagine how it had escaped the guards. But they'd probably been too drunk to notice, at least for the moment.

“I did bind them,” the girl declared, vivid green eyes glaring at him in the gloom. She plucked at her coarse linen shirt with a grimace of disgust. “But the mob's on a rampage, and I needed something to bind the wounds of a man they'd left bleeding in an alley.”

He nodded his comprehension. “It's madness out there, I grant you. However, I doubt you'll find it more peaceful in here.”

She gave an involuntary shudder as a scream pierced the rustling silence. “Who are you?”

He stepped slightly away from the wall. “Guillaume at your service, mademoiselle.” He swept her an elaborate bow. “But I do also answer to William,” he added in English.

A little frown creased her brow. “Is it that obvious?” she asked in the same language.

“Only to a trained ear. My compliments, mademoiselle, on your mastery of the language.” He bowed again. A lock of dark chestnut hair flopped onto his forehead, and he brushed it aside with the back of his hand.

Despite the dire circumstances of her present predicament, the girl laughed. The bow was such a ludicrous gesture from a man in the rough garments of a French laborer. His red cap and his homespun ankle-length britches, like her own, identified him as a sansculottes, a peasant who couldn't afford the silk knee britches of the gentry. He could be any one of the revolutionary peasants rampaging through the streets beyond the prison, mad for blood, someone's blood, anyone's blood. But clearly, all was not as it seemed with Monsieur Guillaume, who answered to William.

She returned his greeting with a mock bow of her own. “My thanks, sir. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Now, mademoiselle, you have the advantage of me,” he stated, his dark eyebrows lifting higher. “With whom do I have the honor of sharing my humble accommodations?”

“Hermione,” she said flatly.

He laughed outright. “Hermione? I have to say, that's not a name that fits a ragged street urchin with a tongue to shame a sailor.”

She grimaced. “No, it isn't, is it? I'm usually just called Hero.”

“Less of a mouthful,” he agreed, thinking to himself that it was probably an appropriate enough name for a girl who ran around the streets of terror-ridden Paris bandaging up mob victims. “So, Hero,” he continued, “let us turn our attention to leaving our present accommodations.”

“How are we to do that?” She looked doubtfully over her shoulder at the barred gate behind her. She knew that
the corridor beyond opened out into the prison's main courtyard, but little enough light reached through the bars of the cell.

He glanced up at the tiny window, little more than a skylight, at the top of the high wall. A glimmer of sunlight showed. “Judging by the sun's position, I'm guessing it's close to mid-afternoon. At four o'clock, they begin the cull for Madame Guillotine's evening meal. There is always a fracas, a lot of noise and confusion as they herd people into the tumbrels. We will take advantage of the rampage to slip away. Just make damned sure you don't get forced into a cart. There'll be no saving you then.”

“Forgive me for being obtuse, but how the hell do we get out of this cell?”

“That's where you come in. I can't do it alone, which is why I'm still here,” he said with a sardonic smile. “You will stand at the bars and create mayhem, scream, rattle the bars, hurl every insult and provocation you can think of. The guardroom is just at the end of the corridor; they'll hear you soon enough. And they will certainly react. If you provoke them sufficiently, they'll open the gate to drag you out. At which point, I will step in.”

“What if there's more than one of them?” Hero asked somewhat skeptically. It seemed to her she would be taking all the risk in this scenario.

“Oh, there will be,” he stated firmly. “But no more than two or three, and I can handle that number easily.”

“What with?” she exclaimed.

“I happened upon a lucky find in my explorations.” He reached into the corner behind him and produced a
heavy wooden stave. “This was under the straw in the corner . . . quite amazing how neglectful those illiterate ruffians are. They're drunk and senseless on wine and brandy when they're not drunk on blood and power.” His voice was laced with acid loathing. “And if this is not enough, then . . .” He bent down to reach into his boot, withdrawing a wickedly sharp blade.

Hero took in the small arsenal. “I have this.” She reached up her sleeve and pulled out a very small knife. “It's quite sharp, although I've never used it as a weapon, more as a useful tool, good for cutting bandages and things like that.”

He nodded. “Indeed. But I'm sure you could inflict some modicum of damage if necessary.”

“I daresay I could,” she responded with a degree of enthusiasm that in other circumstances would have made her companion smile. “So what happens after they get here?”

“You have to make them open the gate,” he repeated. “Leave the rest to me, and as soon as you see your way clear, run as if all the devils in hell are after you. The tumult around the tumbrels in the yard should be in full swing, and the gates will be standing open. Get through them and into the street, and then lose yourself in the crowd.”

“Will you be behind me?” Hero felt a sudden twitch of alarm that this oddly reassuring stranger might disappear.

“If I can. But don't think about me, think only about yourself. Get clear, and if you don't see me, make your way to Rue St. André des Arts. Number seven. Tell them Guillaume sent you.”

She nodded slowly. She knew the street, on the left bank of the Seine quite close to the Conciergerie. It would be helpful to have a safe haven for her own mission. Since she'd arrived in Paris two days earlier, she'd been finding shelter in insalubrious hostelries, where the presence of a ruffian lad with a few sous for a bed would not draw attention. Of course, given that she knew nothing about her cell mate, this safe haven could well be a den of thieves, but in present circumstances, that seemed immaterial. It wouldn't be a prison cell, and she had nothing on her worth stealing anyway.

She approached the gate and took hold of the bars with both hands. “So when do I start?”

Guillaume moved into the shadows behind her, holding the stave loosely in one hand, his knife in the other. “Now,” he instructed softly.

Hero rattled the bars as she shouted, pouring forth a stream of abuse, interspersed with shrieks and yells that wouldn't have been out of place in Bedlam. Results were almost instantaneous. Two guards came pounding down the corridor, yelling their own abuse, cudgels raised.

“
Cretins
!
” she yelled, shaking the bars again. “
Cochons
!
” A cudgel came down, aiming for her fingers, and she whipped her hands off the bars just in time and spat at them. “
Salopards
!
” They yelled and whacked the bars with the cudgels, but they didn't unlock the gate.

Why weren't they unlocking the gate? There was one way to make sure they did. Hero tore at the buttons on her shirt, ripping it open to reveal her bare breasts. She stood there, challenging them, laughing at them. She
heard Guillaume draw a quick breath behind her, and then they were unlocking the gate, salivating as they came into the cell, reaching for her. She grabbed the hand of one of them and bit hard. He screamed, aimed a fist at her, then fell to his knees as the stave smashed into his skull. The second guard was momentarily stunned, and the moment was sufficient for Guillaume to bring down the stave again. Even as the guard crumpled, Hero was out and running for the yard.

The scene that met her eye as she emerged blinking into the sunshine of late afternoon was pure mayhem. Four tumbrels stood in front of the open gates, horses pawing the cobbles, restive in the midst of so much noise and movement. Men were shouting, herding groups of prisoners, hands bound behind them with rough rope, men and women alike with bared necks, hair tied back or in some cases shorn. They were prodded into the tumbrels with cudgels and pikes, some stumbling up the step into the cart. Helpless, they were hauled up by the guards, and beyond the gates the mob bayed for the blood of the aristos.

Hero could not spare a thought for today's victims of the Terror. She ducked and weaved through the throng, her head down but her eyes fixed upon the open gate. She plunged beneath a horse's head and dived headlong into the triumphant mob beyond the gate. And no one seemed to notice her. In the midst of the crowd, she was safe. She looked like one of them; she knew how to behave like one of them. She paused and for the first time dared to look behind her, to see if her cell companion had reached safety.

“This way. Don't dawdle.” An arm came out and swept
her almost off her feet, propelling her through the odiferous, exultant crowd and into the relative calm of a narrow alley. “You did well,” Guillaume commented as he finally released his hold, and they stood panting, listening to the rabble's screams coming from the street byond.

“It's amazing what fear for one's life can do,” Hero observed, wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.

“Amazing,” he agreed. “Stand still for a minute.” Deftly, he rebuttoned her shirt. “That was a risky move but courageous. However, you don't need to advertise your sex to the entire city.” Hero felt herself blush as his fingers brushed, presumably accidentally, across the swell of her breast. “Here. Wrap this around you.” He pulled off his sleeveless woolen jerkin, holding it out to her. “It'll drown you, but it'll cover a multitude of sins.”

She took the garment, thrusting her arms into the armholes. It came almost to her knees, but ill-fitting clothes on a ragged youth would draw no remark in this city. She pulled the sides together across her breasts and laced and tied the two strings that held it closed. The jerkin still held his body's warmth and gave off a slightly musky masculine scent that made her feel strange but at the same time gave her a welcome feeling of anonymity.

“So where to now?” Her voice sounded normal enough, she decided.

“Rue St. André des Arts.” He took her hand in a gesture that felt perfectly natural in this most unnatural of worlds. “But first, I think, a drop of something to revive us both. Come.” He drew her along beside him, weaving his way through the narrow cobbled alleyways, where chil
dren played in the kennels and slatternly women lounged in doorways idly watching the passing scene, until they emerged into a small square with a broken fountain in the middle. Noise and laughter spilled from the open door of a tavern on one side of the square. A pair of mangy mongrels rolled and snapped in the gutter. Wine barrels formed rudimentary tables on the cobblestones in front of the hostelry, where men lounged, tankards in hand, throwing dice with raucous shouts of triumph or irritation.

Guillaume shouldered his way through a knot of drinkers in the doorway. “Hey, Guillaume, where've you been these last two days?” one of them demanded. “You owe me three sous.”

Guillaume reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of small coins. “Here, François.” He tossed the coins onto the top of a wine barrel. “Next time you roll the dice, I'll make sure they're not loaded.”

The other man grinned and pocketed the money. “You had a run of ill luck, that's all. What can I get you and this lad? Looks like he could do with some hair on his chest.”