1939912059 (R) (25 page)

What it would always be despite what the revolution sought to destroy. “Gérard. My father was guillotined a few months ago, which makes me the Duke of Andelot. Seventh generation now.”

Her brows shot up. “A duke? I never thought I would be sitting next to a duke in prison. At a supper table, yes, but not in prison.”

That was actually funny. But he still didn’t have it in him to laugh.

“My papa is a marquess,” she added. “A British one. My name is Lady Madelaine. I will be sixteen in ten months.”

A British aristocratic girl of fifteen sitting in a French prison awaiting death for throwing a rock. France had lost the last of its fucking mind. He eyed those around him, ensuring there were no men who might take an interest in her. “Keep to yourself and stay close to other women. I will ensure the moment I leave this holding cell that I get into contact with your parents. Hopefully, we will be able to get you out by tonight. All right?”

A breath escaped her. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

He tapped at her forehead. “Next time, keep those rocks to yourself.”

“You French are so easily agitated.”

“What gave it away? The guillotine or the men holding the rope?”

She set her chin on her knees and scooted closer. “Are you married?”

He puffed out a breath. Even at fifteen, they only had one agenda. “No.”

She paused. “Are you looking to marry?”

He gave her a pointed look. “Damn right I am. I have an incredible girl waiting for me.” Or he hoped she was waiting. The very thought of Thérèse not waiting after everything he had been through would only— “There may even be a babe. I have no idea. These
défenseurs officieux
refuse to tell me anything. No letters or visitors or a spit of information for months. Even now, I have no idea how much longer before I get out.” Savages.

The hope of tomorrow was what had kept him from the hell of today.

She paused again. “Is she pretty?”

Bright azure eyes he missed beyond breath flashed in his mind. He swallowed. “Yes. Very.”

Shouts of riled, faceless people beyond the prison walls echoed through the barred slits above his head and into the small stone chamber. He glanced up toward the narrow slits that revealed a bright blue sky.

He groaned and swiped at his unevenly shorn hair. It was taking foreveeeeer.

Even worse, he couldn’t remember the last time food had touched his lips. It had been two or three days. He was beginning to feel his limbs wanting to float away from his body as a result of it. He wanted a massive roast smothered in gravy with the bone still wedged into it and he wanted…brandy. Especially brandy. He wanted it so much. So. Much.

But what he wanted even more than food and brandy or anything else was…
Thérèse.
She and only she and that laughter and that wit and those bright, playful eyes could strip away all of this festering, festering darkness that clung to his mind and his soul like oozing tar.

Bringing trembling hands to his lips, he folded them and attempted to believe God was still somewhere listening, even though within his heart he sensed He wasn’t. How could He be? He was far too busy listening to countless screams throughout all of France.

Gérard could still smell the acrid stench of thick smoke clinging to his disheveled hair and clothing. Smoke that had leached into the prison from surrounding fires. Everything smelled of burnt dreams and fallen walls, but above all else, it reeked of senseless murder.

Aside from the strewn bodies and decapitated heads spiked across the city like ornaments meant to honor the coming of the devil, his father and his king had long joined them. He hadn’t grieved for his father at all. But for his king and his godfather he had shed countless tears. He hadn’t even had the chance to thank the man for gifting him with papers that ultimately saved his own life.

After all that he had seen, Gérard would never consider himself French again. British was what he was and would always be, like his mother. British, like his aunt who still lived in London. British.

Eyeing the narrow wooden door that remained closed, he leaned further back against the stone wall as the sobs of children and women echoed around them.

A loud clink of a key being turned in the rusty lock broke through the din, eerily echoing in the small space.

Everyone scrambled to their feet, waiting.

Including Gérard and his new British friend.

The door banged open.

An older gentleman dressed entirely in black with the Republic’s tri-colored sash draped over his coat, strode into the room followed by three soldiers.

“I am
Citoyen
Durand,” he announced.

The man announced it every time he entered as if they were all idiots incapable of remembering a name.

Durand eyed them all and then pointed at Gérard. “You.
Citoyen Andelot
. Come with me.”

Citoyen
? No. He was not putting up with any of that given he was on his way out. Gérard pointed back at the man. “I am not
Citoyen.
I am
Monseigneur de Andelot.
Allow me to repeat that, piss-taker. I am
Monseigneur de Andelot
.”

Durand lowered his chin. “Are you wishing to stay in prison,
citoyen
? I would be more than happy to re-introduce you to the rack you were tied to barely a week ago.”

Uh…no. Fortunately, he was on his way out and still had money. His lawyer had assured him the Republic was not interested in taking the estate. Yet. Which meant he had a lot of gold to bury and a list of people to get out of France. If they were still alive, that is.

Quickly turning to the girl beside him, he grabbed her face with both hands and forced her to look up at him. “If your parents do not come for you, my lady, I will,” he rasped. “Keep to yourself and trust no one. Do you understand?”

She half-nodded against his hands.

He tweaked her freckled nose. “Be brave. Get those roaches.”

She put up a hand.

Turning, he brushed off his trousers, knowing he would never have to sit on a floor ever again, and setting his shoulders, walked toward the open door.

He walked. No more of him being dragged. He was walking like a duke and a man.

The soldiers pointed their bayonets straight at his head.

So much for duke or man. Knowing the protocol, he grudgingly set his hands on his head and followed Monsieur Durand out into the dank stone corridor, the slap of Gérard’s bare feet echoing. His pulse roared wondering if Thérèse would be waiting for him.

It was the one thing that kept him breathing through the shackles that held him and the studded whips that had gouged his back. Her. The hope of them.

A narrow door was unlocked, and with his hands still on his head, he was let out to a brightly lit brick courtyard outside the prison leading to a set of massive gates where countless soldiers directed a long line of carts with countless prisoners who had yet to be admitted.

He squinted against the bright, shimmering sunlight and dragged in a slow, deep breath of air that did not fester with the smell of feces or urine. He wanted to remember this moment.
Freedom
. And this time, when out in the world, he’d make damn sure his back wasn’t facing the wrong people.

Durand held out a folded parchment. “Carry this with you at all times whilst in public. It will ensure you are not arrested until called upon by
Citoyen
Robespierre himself. You are not allowed to leave Paris or you will be arrested and found guilty of being an enemy of the Republic whose penalty is death without trial. You may remove your hands from your head and are free to leave.”

Gérard lowered his hands and snatched the parchment. Robespierre could kiss his arse. He wagged the parchment at the man. “Tell Robespierre a full decanter of brandy laced with arsenic will be waiting for him over at my house. Have him come by any time. Any. Time.”

Durand narrowed his gaze and gestured toward a black lacquered coach. “That be yours. Now off with you! Before I put you back in and have them lash off whatever is left of your skin.” The man glared and swung away, yelling out to surrounding soldiers to open the gates.

Adjusting his frayed and well-stained linen shirt, Gérard eyed the coach that had an emblazoned letter of S with a sword going through it. He squinted at it but was unable to make a correlation.
S
? Who the hell was S?

He quickly made his way toward the coach as a pock-marked man in sailor clothing opened the door and unfolded the steps, revealing the black buckled shoes of a man wearing red, clocked stockings and black knee breeches.

His pulse roared, knowing it was not his lawyer or anyone he knew, based on the color of those stockings alone. Where the hell was Thérèse? Had she sent someone else to fetch him?

Crushing the parchment in his hand, he jogged toward it, and skipping over the unfolded stairs and onto the landing, he sat on the upholstered seat opposite the man, ready for whatever the hell this moment brought.

The door slammed shut.

It took Gérard a few astounded half-breaths to realize that the dark-eyed man with the side-curl periwig sitting across from him was none other than the man who had originally unraveled his entire life:
Citoyen de Sade
.

The blood from his head drained and for a moment the world swayed.

After everything he and his mind and his body had been through, he couldn’t and wouldn’t live knowing he hadn’t been there to protect his Thérèse from this vile piece of—

Gnashing his teeth, Gérard jumped to his feet, letting the parchment flutter from his hand and rigidly snapped up a fist. “
You have three breaths to tell me where the fuck she is. Three!”

Sade angled his gold-headed cane and unsheathed its length, revealing a thin sharp blade within it. He pointed it at Gérard and gently tapped at the sleeve of his raised arm with it. “Sit. You have no quarrels with me. I come on behalf of more than Robespierre. I come on behalf of Thérèse. She is waiting to see you.”

The trembling in Gérard’s arm and fisted hand gave way to a long breath he’d been holding. Relief cascaded through him as he lowered his hand. He fell back onto the upholstered seat. She was waiting. He almost couldn’t believe it.

The carriage clattered forward, rocking him into feeling as if he might lose consciousness.

Sade swept the blade back into his cane and thudded it against the floor of the coach. “My nose is bleeding from the stench you give off. Christ. When was the last time you bathed?”

Hissing out a breath, Gérard admitted, “I have no idea. I had to damn well barter to even get chalk for my teeth, yet alone soap.” He sat up. “I need you to take this carriage straight to Nineteen Soubise. There is a young girl being imprisoned for throwing a rock at soldiers who were shooting at a dog. Her parents need to know about it. You are part of the Convention. What should her parents do? I would hardly think you bastards would want to wage a war against all of England. The girl’s father is a
marquis
.”

“You seem to think I am here to take orders,” Sade tossed back in agitation. Thumping the roof with his cane, he was quiet for a moment. Unlatching the window, he yelled out to the driver, “
Nineteen Soubise! Make haste!
” He glared at Gérard. “The only reason I am assisting you with this girl is because I am making up for sins I committed in my youth. Nothing more.” He sighed. “Whilst there are no guarantees, have the
marquis
send a lawyer straight over to Fouquier-Tinville. Given she was only rescuing a dog, Fouquier will hardly hold her. The man is forever complaining about the amount of executions that keep him from going to dinner. He will wave it through for that alone.”

These men were nothing more than maggots squirming into people’s bodies. “He complains about the amount of executions keeping him from fucking dinner?” Gérard echoed.

“Robespierre keeps us very busy. We are merely trying to keep up with the all demands.”

However long his freedom lasted, Gérard needed to settle the last of his rattled mind. “There is an elderly gentleman I once knew. I saw him dead on the street when I was coming back from deposition. He had a wife and four grandchildren and a widowed daughter. I need to know what happened to them. ”

“How about we assume they are dead? Hm? It would make life so much easier for all of us.” Sade grudgingly leaned over and was about to latch the window of the coach again, but instead, paused and nudged it back open. Wide open. “My eye sockets are burning. Your stench is worse than a cunt filled with cheese curds and chopped onion.”

Gérard gave him a withering look. “Compared to some of the other men I met, I am wearing incredibly expensive cologne.”

“Yes, and along with that
cologne
, you have a beard the size of woman’s arse.” He tsked. “Not at all attractive. Not. At. All. You most certainly will not be getting fucked tonight.”

Gérard glanced down at himself, the gnarled tendrils of coarse, black facial hair covering the wide expanse of his chest in a manner he had long stopped paying attention to or caring about. Until now. He swallowed, refusing to imagine what he looked like or what Thérèse would think or say. While he knew he would never be the same man he was before going into prison, he still had his pride. And he’d be
damned
if he’d arrive looking like a broken man.

Pointing to Sade’s cane with the blade hidden in it, Gérard wagged his fingers. “Hand it over. I need it.”

Sade’s brows went up. “Oh, now, now, there is no reason to kill yourself over the fact that she will not fuck you.”

Gérard glared. “She and I
never
fucked. We made love. There is a difference.” Leaning forward, he snatched the cane from the man’s hand and unsheathed the blade using the gold head. Tossing its bottom onto the seat, he angled the blade toward himself and grabbing his beard hard, held it out and sheared it as close to his chin as he could.

Sade smirked. “Hopefully, there are no holes in the road or I foresee this ending badly.”