Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10) (21 page)

Simon instructed William to drive to the end of the block then turn around and park across the street. Their stakeout began.

They sat waiting for nearly an hour before Elizabeth got restless. In her clothes, sitting wasn’t the most comfortable position. “I need to stretch my legs.”

Simon helped her down and they walked to the end of the block. Fleet Street was alive with people. Newspaper hawkers cried out, selling the latest news, and a one-eyed man offered mackerel wrapped in yesterday’s edition. A chimney sweep yelled something down from a roof and an actual milkmaid rattled her pails on her yoke as she moved along the street selling milk door to door.

“Any milk here? Fresh cheese and cream!”

They passed by a flower cart and Elizabeth stopped to admire the flowers, letting Simon go on a few steps ahead to watch for Paine. There was a lot of both foot and street traffic, and they had to keep a sharp eye out or they’d miss him.
 

The bells from a nearby church rang out the hour.

“How much?” she asked about a small bouquet of posies.

“Thruppence, milady.”

Elizabeth was about to turn to Simon to ask for a coin when she bumped into someone.
 

“I’m sorry, I—” she said, but the rest of her apology was lost as she found herself face to face with Phillips.
 

His reddish hair was longer than it was in the photograph Travers had supplied in the dossier and tied in a ponytail, but that face, pockmarked and uneven, she’d know it anywhere.

He was about to apologize himself when he recognized her. His expression shifted from surprise to shock. Elizabeth knew what he was thinking. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be anywhere.

“You?”
 

Elizabeth called out for Simon, but her voice was drowned out by the cacophony of sound.

Phillips turned and saw Simon then he turned back to Elizabeth. She felt a surge of panic and tried to move past him, but Phillips grabbed her by the arms. His grip was so tight it hurt. She struggled against him and called for Simon, but it was too late.

With an unforgettably triumphant expression, Phillips threw her into the street. Elizabeth stumbled and fell to her hands and knees.

Someone screamed. She turned and looked up just in time to see a team of horses and a heavy wagon nearly on top of her.

~~~

Simon heard someone scream and turned back. He saw it all play out in front of him like a nightmare come to life.

Elizabeth lay in the street, a huge wagon and team of horses about to crush her. His heart lodged in his throat; he called out to her. He ran toward her, but he would be too late.

Time stretched and pulled and dragged even as it raced past him. She was going to be killed. He felt sick. He couldn’t reach her in time.

Somehow, the driver managed to stop the wagon, but the horses were above her. They whickered and tossed their heads, rearing up, jumping against the harness, hooves poised to trample her.

Just as they came down, she rolled out of the way. Inches between life and death. Someone yanked her out of their path and back up onto the sidewalk.

“Are you all right?” a man asked.

Simon offered a quick thanks to the man who saved her and took hold of her. Her eyes were still wide with fright, and her breath came as quickly as his did.
 

“Elizabeth?”

He looked her up and down for injuries. Her dress and hands were filthy, but he didn’t see any blood.

“Phillips,” she said between gasping breaths. “It was Phillips.”

She turned then, and Simon followed her stare, unable to process what she’d said until he saw the man for himself. He stood calmly amongst the curious crowd. His only emotion disappointment that he’d failed.
 

His eyes shifted to Simon, cold as steel.
 

They’d tried to kill her. Again.
 

Simon looked back at Elizabeth, the color coming back to her face. “Are you—”

She nodded and said breathlessly, “Go.”

Simon hesitated, but she said it again. He saw William coming through the crowd.
 

“Take care of her,” he said and then set off after Phillips.

He ran down the street and caught sight of him not far ahead. Driven by rage, Simon closed in on him. Phillips darted across traffic and, heedless of the danger, Simon followed.
 

Phillips was nearly blocked in by a sedan chair, but he shoved it aside and sent it, and the men carrying it, toppling to the ground. Simon leapt over one of them and kept on.
 

Philips ran ahead and then suddenly rounded a corner. Simon did the same nearly losing his footing. Just down the street, he saw Phillips disappear into a building. Simon reached the same doorway. It was some sort of boarding house with a connected stall on the first floor. He ran inside and heard Phillips’ footfalls going up the stairs. He gave chase, taking the stairs two at a time.
 

“Phillips!” he roared.
 

He was going to squeeze the life out of him.

Simon ran up two flights of stairs before he heard a door slam at the end of a hall. He ran toward it and shoved it open. A woman gasped. The baby in her arms cried.
 

“Where?” he demanded.

She pointed toward the window.
 

Simon ran over to it and leaned out. Phillips dropped from the windowsill and landed hard on the wooden awning of the shop below. Several boards broke beneath his weight and one leg plunged through them. He yanked and pulled at it, finally freeing himself.

Simon knew if he followed he might meet the same fate.
 

Phillips limped into the street.

Simon ran back into the hall, down the stairs and out into the street. Carts and horses rode past, but Phillips was nowhere to be seen.
 

Simon stood there cursing him, cursing the whole damned business. His chest heaved from the effort. He looked up and saw the hole in the roof where Phillips had landed. The shopkeeper yelled at anyone who would listen.

Simon grabbed him by the arm. “Where did he go?”

“What about my roof?”

Simon tightened his grip and shook him. “Where?”

“I don’t know,” the man snapped, and Simon shoved him away. He walked to the edge of the sidewalk, looked up and down the busy street, but Phillips was gone.

“Dammit.” He’d been so close. So close to putting an end to this.

He scanned the street once more and then started back.
 

He got to the corner of Fleet Street near where he’d left Elizabeth, but the wagon that nearly killed her and the gaping crowd were gone.
 

And so was Elizabeth.

Every drop of blood in his body ran cold.
 

No.

He ran to the spot where he’d left her, his heart beating so loudly he could barely hear himself think. She was gone. How could she be gone? Not again. Not again.

“Elizabeth!”

He heard a whistle down the street and turned to see who it was through the crowd. William stood near the carriage and waved him over.
 

Simon ran to him. “Where is she?”

William nodded toward the inside the carriage. Sitting there was Elizabeth—alive and safe.

Simon stared at her for a moment as the world started again. It took him a moment to gather himself, to get his heart to beat again.

“She’s all right, sir,” William said. “A little bruised is all.”

Simon climbed into the carriage. He knelt in front of her. She looked at him with worry.
 

“I thought you were—” he said and couldn’t finish.

“I’m all right. Phillips?”

Simon shook his head and took hold of her hands. He squeezed his eyes shut as he held on for dear life.

“It’s all right,” she reassured him.
 

He managed a nod.

But it wasn’t all right. And as long as that man and the rest of them were alive, he wasn’t sure anything ever would be again.

D
ECEMBER
5, 1777 - P
ASSY
, France

Peter Travers adjusted his coat, hoping he’d made the right choice with the blue. Did Franklin like blue?

“Stop fidgeting,” Victor growled as they stood on the doorstep of Franklin’s chateau.

Victor reached to ring the bell again, but the butler opened the door.

“We are here to see Dr. Franklin.”

The man bowed and let them inside. Instead of leading them to the parlor, though, he led them upstairs to Franklin’s rooms. Peter looked at Victor, but he appeared, as usual, unconcerned.

Why was Franklin taking visitors there?

“Is the doctor unwell?”

The butler didn’t answer; he merely opened the door to Franklin’s suite and let them inside.
 

“
Messieurs Renaud et Travers
!” he called out to the empty sitting room before leaving them alone in it.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment. The room was sumptuously decorated as Travers would expect for someone of Franklin’s station here. It wasn’t Versailles, but it was trying. There was a secretary desk with exquisite marquetry—detailed wood mosaic patterns. All of the furniture was magnificent. A silk brocade settee and two bergère chairs sat on one side of the room and a table trimmed with great swaths of gold leaf on the other.

“Hello?”

Bancroft appeared at the mouth of the hallway. “This way, gentlemen.”

Victor and Peter followed him, but not into the bedroom.

Franklin sat naked in the clawfoot tub, a portable writing desk covered with papers across the top. Bancroft cross the room to reach for some of the papers before they disappeared into the tub.

Silas Deane, another member of the American envoy to France, stared out of the window. “You know Lee despises me.”

Franklin responded, but kept writing as he did. “He is forever tormenting himself with some suspicion or jealousy. Do not fall prey to the same.”

“Yes, but his brothers are in Congress,” Deane said. “I fear they will recall me if I—”

Deane turned and saw that they were no longer alone.

Victor frowned. “We can come back at a better time.”

Franklin smiled, completely unbothered at greeting veritable strangers from his tub. “There is no better time than the present.”

He glanced over at Deane. “Do not worry yourself so much, my dear Silas. If I am not mistaken, our victory is close at hand and will likely outpace any ship that might come for you.”

Deane, clearly embarrassed at having said so much in front of strangers, thanked Franklin and excused himself.

Bancroft, the soul of equanimity, which Peter realized was a suitable trait for a spy, gave no indication of having heard anything at all. He took the letter Franklin had just signed and put a fresh piece of paper in its place.

“The two gentlemen from last night,” he said quietly.

“I would invite you to sit, but alas ….” He waved around the room.
 

He returned to writing as he spoke. “I wanted to thank you for helping Master Austin with his difficulties yesterday. I understand that you were quite helpful.”

“We did what we could.”

Franklin glanced up. “As do we all.”

He signed the letter he was writing and held it out to Bancroft. “Send that posthaste. I think it will be well received.”

Bancroft bowed and took his leave.

Peter waited for him to be out of earshot before he spoke. Although they had no reason to think Bancroft was working with the Council, it was possible. Either way, he was not to be trusted.

Peter cleared his throat, suddenly nervous at standing in front of one of his heroes, naked or not.

He and Victor had discussed how to proceed last night and agreed that forewarned was forearmed. While Quincy couldn’t simply assassinate Franklin—the repercussions of which could be devastating to the British cause and might even bring more world powers to bear against them—she could assassinate his character.

“Sir, we believe there is a plot against you.”

Franklin arched and eyebrow. “Just the one?”

Renaud chuckled. “It is one we are concerned with in particular.”

Franklin waved toward his writing desk, and Peter stepped forward to remove it. Renaud averted his eyes as he helped Franklin stand.
 

Franklin stepped out of the tub and put on his robe. “As you can imagine, gentlemen, I have quite a few enemies here and even some allies that I would perhaps be better off without. But I—”

His face twisted in pain as he took a step.
 

Victor helped steady him. “What is it?”

“Gout,” Peter answered.
 

Franklin nodded and winced in pain. He sat down on a small stool. His ankle was red and swollen from a fresh attack of gout.

“Fetch my medicine, would you? Bedside table.”

Peter hurried into the other room and found a tray with a glass and two bottles—one large and one small. He brought it all back to Franklin.

Franklin put a small dose of what Peter realized was laudanum into the glass and then added a few parts of something from the other bottle.
 

Franklin drank it down and put the glass back on the tray. “Thank you. Would you put it back, please? It’s wise to keep one’s medicine in the same place for ease of finding during a crisis.”

Peter replaced the tray from where he’d found it. He knew Franklin had taken laudanum later in life for his kidney stones but didn’t realize he was already on the stuff. It was a powerful, dangerous and addictive opioid.

Turning, he watched Franklin, with Victor’s help, hobble into the bedroom.
 

“Is there anything we can do?” Peter asked.

“Turn back the clock?”

If he only knew, Peter thought.

“In lieu of that, I would request the pleasure of your company for dinner this evening.” He smiled to himself. “The delightful Mrs. Dubois will be there.”