Revolution in Time (Out of Time #10) (25 page)

“What goes on,” Phillips said, relishing in his moment, “is history in the making, my dear Mr. Paine.”

He looked from Paine to Elizabeth. “But who should I kill first?”

“You would not shoot a lady.”

“Oh, I would. And I will.”

Simon clenched his hands into fists. He could rush him now. Protect Elizabeth. Phillips would get off one shot, but whether it struck him or not, he would kill Phillips even if it took his dying breath.

Phillips seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Separate.”

He waved the muzzle of his gun for emphasis. “You, over there, Cross.”

“No.”

“I will just shoot her now then.” He pulled back the hammer.

“Wait.” Simon took a step forward and Phillips one back.
 

“You know you will never get out of here alive,” Simon said.
 

Phillips shrugged. “It was always a possibility. Or maybe I’ll come back from the dead.” He smiled at Elizabeth and then focused back on Simon. “Move away.”

Simon didn’t budge. Phillips took the second gun from his pocket. “Now.”

Simon looked down at Elizabeth. What could he do? How could he save her? There had to be a way. He could buy time, perhaps, shift his attention away from Elizabeth. Something.

“It will be all right,” Elizabeth said.
 

She sounded so calm it frightened him.
 

He started to say something, to touch her, but she shook her head. “Do as he says. Please?”

With little choice now, Simon took a few steps away from her. Then a few more. If he could divide Phillips attention, maybe he or Paine would have a chance to deflect the shot.

Phillips looked pleased that his puppets had danced for him.

“You won’t get away with this, you know,” Simon said, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Phillips, waiting for a window, a moment. “We will stop you.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“Get away with what?” Paine asked.

“First,” Phillips said to him, enjoying his moment of triumph, “I’m going to take care of a loose end.”

Paine shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m going to kill their child,” Phillips said and looked smugly at Simon, whose heart lurched in his chest.

“No, you’re not,” Elizabeth said.

Phillips turned to her, and the gunshot came like an explosion. Simon cried out and took a step forward, but he froze mid-step as Phillips’ face twisted in pain and shock.

He and Simon both looked at Elizabeth and then the gun in her hand. A puff of smoke from the black powder curled up into the air in front her.

Phillips’ guns slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground, forgotten as he tried to stop the blood from leaving his chest. But it was no use. It gushed between his fingertips. Her shot had found its mark and torn its way into his heart. He fell to the ground, dead.

Simon stood frozen.

Elizabeth kept the gun trained on Phillips even as he fell.
 

“No one is going to kill my baby.”

~~~

“Are you all right?” Simon asked, again, once they were safely back in their hotel room.

Elizabeth nodded, but she honestly wasn’t sure. She’d been in a hazy state of shock since the incident at the wharf. Simon explained to Paine that the man was a personal and political enemy, something Paine himself would become all too familiar with later in life and even in death. They’d convinced him that this was something they were better off not reporting to the authorities.
 

His natural mistrust of anyone in power came in handy, and he took very little convincing. They’d hidden Phillips’ body and then come back to the inn. They got Paine settled in his new room, although Elizabeth didn’t really remember that part. All she could see was Phillips’ face—contorted in pain and surprise. And then the blood.
 

Simon pulled a chair next to where she sat on the small sofa and took her hands.

“You did the only thing you could.”

It took Elizabeth a moment to understand what he meant. She shook her head. “I killed a man.”

The words felt strange and heavy in her mouth.
 

Simon nodded and waited patiently for her to sort through her emotions.

She looked down at their joined hands. “I’m not sorry,” she said finally and then looked up into his eyes, fearing recrimination. “I took someone’s life, and I should feel sick, but I don’t.”

The overwhelming feeling of anger and fear at almost losing her child boiled up inside her again.
 

“I’m glad he’s dead.”

Simon squeezed her hand in silent support.

Her thoughts finally coalesced into something coherent, and then she felt sick.

“He was in the way of what I needed, what I wanted. And I killed him. Am as I as bad as they are?”

Simon tugged on her hands. “No.”

She was ashamed; she could barely look him in the eyes.

He knelt in front of her and lifted her chin gently. “No,” he repeated, as strongly as before. “You didn’t murder him in cold blood. You did what you did out of self-defense. You did it to save Charlotte. To save all of us.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the same thing at all.”

She let out a shaky breath and nodded.

Simon touched her cheek tenderly. “You are nothing like them.” His own voice grew rough. “You are bloody amazing.”

Elizabeth laughed through coming tears. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and sniffled.

“You know, you have a handkerchief.” He looked toward her bosom.

She laughed again and pulled it out. “I keep forgetting.”
 

She wiped her face and felt almost herself again. “Do you think it’s over now?”
 

He nodded, but she could see the worry still in his eyes.
 

He moved to sit next to her. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “All we can do now is wait.”

Their mission might be almost over, but it would all be for nothing if the others didn’t succeed.

She settled her head on his chest. “Do you think they’re all right?”
 

“They have to be.”

D
ECEMBER
6, 1777 - P
ASSY
, France

The sound of raised voices followed by a slamming door woke Travers up. He pulled on his robe and padded toward the door to his room. He paused to listen, but the voices were gone. Maybe it was a dream? His sleep had been filled with strange and disturbing images. Probably a temporal wash, he thought as he walked back to bed. It was early; the sun was barely rising.
 

His feet were cold against the wooden floor, and he hurried toward the beautiful Aubusson rug. As he did, he heard another door close, but this one wasn’t down the hall. It was downstairs and loud enough to awaken the entire house.

Out of the window, he saw a woman crossing the lawn, a long cape floating out behind her. She turned—Quincy.
 

She was soon joined by her husband, in a state of half-undress. He grabbed onto her arms and yanked her back around. He shook her, and she tried to escape his grasp. It was all very dramatic. Too dramatic.
 

Despite that, Travers instinctively wanted to go down to help her, but he stopped himself. This was not a woman in danger. This was a theatrical play put on for his—for everyone’s—benefit.

The two argued loudly. He caught snatches of their conversation and it was clear they were fighting about Franklin.

Finally, her husband stormed back inside. She glanced up at the windows, clearly hoping to see if their play had a large enough audience. Travers was sure it did. They’d been loud enough that anyone in their wing would have awakened.

She pulled the hood of her cloak up and slowly walked back inside.

“And scene,” Travers said as he turned away from the window and wondered what the second act would hold.

He did not have to wait long.

Midday found both Victor and him, along with Franklin, at a local café the doctor liked to frequent. Franklin was in the middle of a story about inventing swim fins for his hands as a boy in Boston when Lord Dubois came tumbling into the room.

“Franklin!” he roared.

Silence fell and Franklin smiled. “I am old, to be sure, but not deaf yet.”

Dubois was half-drunk and half-crazed, or so it seemed.
 

“You are a villain, sir,” he said as he bumped his way through the tables to the one where Franklin sat.

“To some, no doubt.”

Dubois thumped his chest. “To me, sir. I thought you were here to seduce the king, not my wife.”

That was the sort of indelicate talk that could get around. Victor stood.
 

“I think you should leave, sir.”

Dubois focused his eyes, as best he could on Victor. “I shall not. This man is not who you think he is. He is not a virtuous man.”

Franklin laughed. “I have never claimed such a title.”

“Nor could you with your bastard son.”

Victor moved to grab Dubois and bodily remove him from the room.

The omnipresent spark in Franklin’s eyes died as he stood and held up his hand to stop him.

“Do not speak of him.”

Travers knew some of the history of Franklin and his only surviving son, William. He’d grown to prominence in politics, like his father, becoming the Governor of New Jersey. There was just one problem. He was loyal to England, a betrayal that had destroyed their relationship and haunted Franklin.

“No?” Dubois said, turning around to address the room as a whole. “Is he an embarrassment to you? A man who supports the very king you seek to destroy.”

Franklin’s temper started to flare, and he struggled to control it. “I, sir, do not wish to destroy, but to build. To build a—”

“He’s in prison, isn’t he? For betraying you?” Dubois pressed on.
 

“I had nothing to do with that.”

Dubois turned to the patrons of the café. “Is this the sort of man you want to support? A man who deceives? Who steals another man’s wife? A man whose own son despises him?”

“Get out!” Franklin bellowed as he stood.

“I’ll go,” Dubois said. “But we are not finished, Doctor. I will not rest until the truth of you is known to every man, woman, and child in France.”

Franklin sat down, visibly trying to stay calm. “Then I would say you should get started; there are a great many of them.”

Uneasy laughter followed his remark.

Dubois stood there for a moment, defiant, then he stumbled his way out. The room began to buzz with gossip.

Victor and Travers exchanged worried glances. Quincy was clever. She couldn’t murder Franklin, but she could murder his reputation. And judging from the looks Franklin was receiving now, she was off to a good start.

~~~

Even though Franklin remained buoyant in public, in private it was clear that he was worried. The delicate negotiations he’d been courting for the last year were on the cusp of consummation or disaster. He’d weathered worse attacks, he assured them, but Victor was nervous. The woman he spoke to in the empty hall at dinner the other night would not be content to let simple innuendo do her work for her.
 

The question was: if that was not her end game, what was?

That evening, as they once again piled into carriages like New Yorkers into taxis, Victor had a sinking feeling. The letter from Vergennes was to arrive tomorrow. In it would be an invitation. That meeting would secure the treaty with the French that the Americans so desperately needed. Without their assistance, the Americans would run out of black powder, men, and money in a few short months.
 

Convincing a monarch to fund a revolution against another monarch, no matter how violent an enemy that other might have been, would be an amazing achievement. It would take little to sever the fragile bonds Franklin had worked so hard to forge. In France, appearance was nearly everything. Franklin could have dalliances, was almost expected to, but much more than that and he would not be welcome at court no matter how badly King Louis wanted to stick it to King George.

If Quincy was going to upset the apple cart, she would most likely do it tonight.

“I don’t see her,” Travers said next to him.

Victor saw Lord Dubois get into a carriage, but there was no sign of Quincy.

“Should we get out of the carriage to find her?” Travers asked.

Victor shook his head. Their carriage pulled out after Franklin’s and the others and started toward dinner.

Travers looked ready to ask another question, but they were not alone in their cab. There was no telling who was spying for whom. Victor silenced Travers with a look.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at their destination. They got out but, as Travers started toward the mansion, Victor held his arm.

He rapped on the side of the carriage. “
Attendez
.”

They watched the others go inside and then climbed back into the carriage. Victor instructed the driver to take them back to Valentinois.
 

“We needed to be seen leaving,” he told Travers, answering his unanswered question. “If Quincy has plans for tonight, she must believe she can get away with them.”

They rode along in thoughtful silence before Victor signaled for the driver to stop a short way from the mansion. He told the driver that they wanted to walk the rest of the way—needed the air—and sent him back to the party. After taking so much trouble to appear to leave, they could hardly afford to announce their return, and so they crept back along the side of the road, ducking into a field and coming upon the mansion from the rear garden.
 

They moved into a small copse of trees near Franklin’s chateau. Somewhere above, an owl hooted in the moonlight.

Victor crouched down.

“What are we doing?” Travers whispered as he joined him.

Victor nodded his head toward the second story of Franklin’s chateau. A figure, dressed in black, scampered up an ivy-covered trellis alongside the lower balcony. Then, she leaped from it and landed with catlike grace on the lip of the upper balcony just outside Franklin’s bedroom. She flipped herself over the balustrade and opened the door.