Velvet (35 page)

“I understand.” Gabrielle sat back in the swaying carriage, the lights from passing vehicles flickering
across the window. Was she about to risk her own life for Nathaniel? She would have done so for Guillaume without thought. But she’d felt differently about Guillaume. He’d been the one great love of her life. There wasn’t room in one life for two such overwhelming loves. What she had with Nathaniel was passion. It wasn’t love.

“I have to do it,” she heard herself say as if her mind and her voice operated separately from each other.

Talleyrand merely nodded.

Gabrielle took five minutes in rue d’Anjou to fling off her evening gown and change into her britches. She thrust her pistol into her pocket, wrapped a cloak around her, tucking her hair beneath the hood, and ran back to the carriage, still waiting at the door.

“The flower market, Gaston. As fast as you can.”

“D’ accord, comtesse.”
The driver touched the peak of his cap and cracked his whip.

She sat on the edge of the seat as the vehicle swung around corners, the team of horses obeying the urgent encouragement of the driver’s whip.

She wouldn’t allow herself to think of anything but the immediate plan. She had to get there ahead of Fouché’s men. That was all she needed to consider. Nathaniel would have an escape route, just as Guillaume had always had. So long as he had enough warning, he would escape the trap.

The carriage came to a halt in the eerily deserted square that in the daylight was a riot of color and a bubble of noise as the flower sellers jostled and competed for customers. Gabrieile’s feet echoed on the cobbles as she jumped down, looking round at the silent
buildings flanking the square, the central pump, the wooden struts that supported the canvas awnings, it was a stage set waiting for the drama to commence. It had been raining earlier, and puddles glistened in the faint moonlight and the ground was slippery underfoot.

She ran through the narrow streets at the side of the vast edifice of Notre Dame, its crenelated spires reaching above the pitched roofs, arrowing into the rain-washed sky. She crossed the bridge to Île St. Louis and plunged into the darkness of its central cobbled street, so narrow that the night sky was a mere dark sliver between the opposing roofs.

She splashed in puddles heedless of the debris that clung to her boots and the hem of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the corner of rue Budé ahead.

Suddenly she heard the tramp of booted feet behind her. She dived into a doorway, pressing back into the shadows as she looked up the street. A group of lanterns was advancing. Her heart jumped into her throat. There were six men, all holding lanterns on poles, all bearing staves, all clad in the distinctive black cloak and black cocked hat of Fouché’s police.

They were heading toward rue Budé.

Gabrielle dived into rue le Regrattier, her mind racing, her heart thundering in her chest as she ran toward the river. She would have to approach the house from the Quai d’Orléans. Less direct, but she had the advantage of speed and she knew they were there. Fouché’s men didn’t know they were running a race.

Her pistol was in her hand now as she ran faster than she believed possible, her breath sobbing in her throat. A huddled figure in a doorway yelled something after her, but she ignored him. A dog set up a frantic barking from a backyard and a woman’s voice screamed abuse. The dog howled as something struck the ground with a violent clatter.

Gabrielle kept running. Two men lurched out of a tavern, too inebriated to do more than blink bemusedly
as the lithe figure sped past them. Then one of them lumbered forward in pursuit but quickly gave it up as Gabrielle disappeared around the corner of rue Budé.

She didn’t pause in her headlong dash along the street, her head down, as if she could reduce her visibility to anyone approaching. But there was no sign of a lantern, no sound of booted feet.

Where had they gone? Panic flooded her. Surely they weren’t already in the house. The street ahead was empty. Could they already be inside? No, it was impossible. They’d have needed wings to overtake her, and besides, she would have heard the noise. Fouché’s men had no reason to go quietly about their business.

She reached number thirteen and hammered on the door with her clenched fist, gazing frantically over her shoulder, down the street, expecting at any minute to see the sinister group of lanterns wavering toward her.

But Fouché’s men, seeing no need to hurry on their errand, had made a small deviation into a tavern, where they were slaking their thirst in blithe ignorance of their quarry’s imminent escape.

Shutters flew open above the door, and Monsieur Farmier’s head, nightcap askew, stuck out. A stream of obscenities accompanied his demand to know who was raising the dead at this hour.

“Ouvrez la porte!”
Gabrielle spat out in an impassioned whisper, her white face glimmering in the darkness. She had no way of identifying herself, but her urgency must have communicated itself and the baker withdrew from the window, the shutters banging closed. She heard feet lumbering down the staircase, then the bolts screeched as they were pulled back.

“Merci. You have someone staying here, where—”

“Gabrielle!” Nathaniel was springing down the stairs, pistol in hand, before she could finish her sentence.

“Fouché’s men,” she gasped.

“Where?”

“Behind me … a few minutes, I think, but they disappeared.”

Nathaniel wasted no further time on questions. He grabbed her and pulled her behind him, upstairs, and into the garret, where he began throwing his possessions into the portmanteau. Jake sat up sleepily.

“Gabby?”

“Hush!” Nathaniel swung round on him, his voice barely a whisper but ringing with ferocious authority. “You are to say nothing, not one word, not one sound until I give you permission. Is that understood?”

Jake nodded, gazing in scared silence.

“That goes for you too,” Nathaniel instructed Gabrielle. He pressed the wall, and the slab of stone slid back. “Take Jake and get in there.”

“But you—”

“Do as I say!”

Gabrielle picked Jake up from the bed, grabbed the blanket, and went through the wall. The slab closed behind her.

Alone, Nathaniel moved with economical efficiency around the tiny space, removing every sign of habitation, shaking out the pillow on the cot, straightening the coarse sheet on the straw mattress. He poured the water from the ewer out of the window, wiped the surface of the dresser with his kerchief, and cast one last look around before grabbing the candle and his portmanteau and pressing open the slab again.

Gabrielle and Jake were standing against the wall, Jake wrapped in the blanket, Gabrielle’s arms around him.

Neither of them said anything as Nathaniel opened up the far wall and gestured ahead of him. They had reached the third house along when the sounds of hammering came faintly from number thirteen. Gabrielle jumped, glancing anxiously at Nathaniel, but his expression was impassive as he pushed her ahead of him.

In the last room Nathaniel reached up and removed two rafters from the steeply pitched roof.

“Up you go, Jake,” he said softly, lifting the child and thrusting him into the darkness. Jake whimpered.

“Now you, quickly, and keep him quiet.” Nathaniel lifted her by the waist and hoisted her up so that she could grasp the edge of the opening. “Use my shoulders.”

She scrambled her feet onto his shoulders and pitched herself forward into the dusty crawl space, then leaned down to take the portmanteau and candle from Nathaniel, and then the two dislodged rafters.

Nathaniel swung himself up and through the opening with the agility of an acrobat and deftly replaced the rafters. The space was barely big enough for the three of them. It was inky dark and what air there was was thick with dust.

Jake sneezed and whimpered again. Nathaniel pulled him into his body, turning the child’s face into his chest, muffling all sounds.

They seemed to be entombed in silence, and Gabrielle felt the old nightmare terrors nudging at her mind. Once before she’d lain hidden in a roof from a rampaging mob. The musty smell of the rafters, the prickle of dust, was in her nostrils as it had been on that day. This roof pressed down on her as the other one had. In a minute she would fall … or she would cry out—

Suddenly she felt Nathaniel’s hand on hers in the darkness. It was a connection that grounded her in the present and she pulled herself back from the abyss with a shudder of horror. His grip tightened, and she knew as clearly as if he’d spoken that he understood what had happened and how close she’d been to losing herself in the nightmare again. She squeezed his hand in gratitude and found that despite perching on the pinnacle of hideous tension, she could now listen intently and without panic for the sounds of pursuit.

They could hear banging from the street, and Gabrielle guessed that Fouché’s men were waking the inhabitants of every house, prepared to search the entire street when they found number thirteen empty of spies.

They didn’t know, then, about the secret doors connecting the attics of the houses. It was a not-uncommon device in these medieval streets where through the ages the persecuted had fled the oppressor. But Fouché’s policemen were not known for the subtlety of their thought process or their knowledge of history, only for their ability to wrest information or commit murder without a qualm.

The banging finally came at the door of the last house on the street. It was almost a relief after the terror of anticipation. Gabrielle bit her lip hard, tasting blood, forcing herself to concentrate on the pain and not on the sounds in the house—the banging and scraping and shouting.

Nathaniel stroked Jake’s head, holding him tightly against him, his other hand gripping Gabrielle’s firmly. He was, as always at such moments, perfectly calm, reserving his strength and the power of fear-engendered adrenaline for when it would be needed. There was nothing more he could do at the moment except wait and impart what strength and reassurance he could to his companions.

Then the sounds were immediately below them. The door was kicked open, boots scrunched on the wooden floor.

Was there a smudge of plaster dust on the floor from when he’d removed the rafters?

The thought flitted across Nathaniel’s brain and he felt his heart begin to speed in preparation for action. They would be looking only for him. If they made any move toward the rafters, he would jump down on them, leaving Gabrielle and Jake still hidden. Gabrielle would
have the sense to stay put—for Jake’s sake if not her own.

But she was in the gravest danger. She must know that. She’d betrayed her own masters to save an enemy spy. He hadn’t expected her to betray him on this mission, not when Jake was with him, but he certainly hadn’t expected her to risk her own life to protect him either.

Someone flung back the shutters over the tiny window with a resounding clatter and the sound of splintering wood. A woman’s wail of protest at this wanton destruction was answered with a string of obscenities. Fouché’s men were clearly very put out. Rue Budé had yielded only terrified slum dwellers.

The Farmiers, like most of their kind, were expert at producing a cringing idiocy in the face of violent authority. Once it was clear their lodger and the child had fled, leaving no trace, they had nothing to gain by volunteering information and everything to lose. Ignorance and cupidity were understood by the policemen, who came from their own social ranks and saw nothing out of the ordinary in a man turning a blind eye to the goings-on in his house in exchange for generous payment.

Finally, having vented their frustration by wreaking terror and destruction up and down the street, Fouché’s men went on their way to drown their failure in a cask of
via ordinaire
in the tavern.

Jake was trembling against Nathaniel as the sounds of booted feet receded on the stairs. Gabrielle became aware of an agonizing pain in her shoulders where the muscles were knotted in a violent cramp. She tried to ease it, wanting to scream with the pain, and instead bit hard on her lip again. Nathaniel drew several long, slow breaths and relaxed his hold on Jake so the child could move his head out of the muffling confines of his father’s chest.

They remained huddled in silence for an eternity until Nathaniel deemed it safe to move. He put his mouth against Gabrielle’s ear, barely whispering his instructions.

“I’m going down. You’re both to stay here.”

She nodded. The prospect of being alone in the dark crawl space while Nathaniel exposed himself to whatever uncertainties there were outside filled her with dismay, but she was no stranger to dismay in dangerous situations.

Nathaniel removed the rafters again and swung down into the silent room. He replaced them before crossing to the window, where the shattered shutter swung desolately back and forth. He peered down into the courtyard. It was deserted, the house once again dark and silent.

He crossed to the door, opened it gingerly, and stepped onto the landing, listening. There was total silence.

Returning to the room, he dropped the heavy wooden bar over the door, locking them in, before removing the rafters again.