Surrender to a Stranger (10 page)

She thought for a moment. She had absolutely nothing. All of her father’s assets had been confiscated. She had been careful enough to hide what remained of the family’s jewels and silver in the château, knowing full well that if the National Guard ever did decide to pay her and Antoine a visit, they would help themselves to whatever they wanted. The jewels were well hidden, but to make a trip out to the château to recover them was impossible. There would undoubtedly be guards there waiting to arrest her the moment she set foot on the grounds.

“Well?” he prodded.

“I have nothing to pay you with at the moment,” admitted Jacqueline, “but when we get to England I can draw on the fund I set up with Sir Edward to pay for the care of my sisters. Providing your fee is not unreasonable, I should be able to pay you on our arrival.”

His expression shifted from amusement to disbelief. “Come now, Mademoiselle, surely you can do better than that. Do you actually think that I will risk my life to murder a man I have absolutely nothing against, on the understanding that should I survive the incident, and not be captured, and somehow make it safely back to England with you in tow, that then I will accept payment based on what is left in a children’s fund you have established with Sir Edward?” Much to her irritation, he actually began to laugh.

“Well, why not?” she demanded heatedly. “My word is good. If I say you will be paid, you will be paid.”

“Oh certainly,” he agreed as he attempted a serious look. “Providing we both survive and make it back to England.” He shook his head. “I am afraid, Mademoiselle, that in my line of business I find it necessary to demand payment in advance.”

Jacqueline looked at him with disgust. “That is most unreasonable of you. What if you do not succeed in your mission?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Then I am dead.” Once again he turned toward the door. “I will be back in about an hour. Make sure you are ready to leave.”

She straightened her spine. “I am not going with you,” she told him firmly.

He turned around and looked at her incredulously. “I beg your pardon?”

She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him, enjoying the cool sense of purpose that was fast growing within her. “I said I am not going with you,” she repeated. “I have no desire to abandon my country and flee to England. Not until I have avenged the deaths of my father and brother. Nicolas Bourdon was responsible for their arrests, and I am going to make him pay with his life.”

He appeared unimpressed by her bravado. “Mademoiselle, you cannot possibly succeed,” he told her flatly. “Already we have stayed here too long for it to be safe, and by yourself you have absolutely nowhere you can go.” Evidently thinking the matter settled, he moved once again toward the door.

His casual dismissal infuriated her. Did he really think she could be swayed that easily? “I have friends I can stay with, and a few loyal servants who would be willing to help me until I develop a plan,” she informed him heatedly.

He turned abruptly and pinned her with his gaze, his patience clearly at an end. “Do you realize that at this moment at least four detachments of the National Guard have been sent out looking for you?” he demanded. “They have already torn apart your beloved château, and right now they are fanning out to question and arrest any remaining relatives, friends, or servants they think might have conspired with you in your escape. For you to go near one of them is to condemn them to certain death. Is that what you want?” he demanded harshly.

She hesitated for a moment. She had to admit she had not actually thought about anyone else’s safety. Once Nicolas was killed, she did not care what happened to her. But to put a relative or servant at risk because of her need for vengeance was not justifiable. She realized she would have to manage on her own. “Then I won’t go to anyone I know,” she conceded. “I will simply stay at hotels like this one.” How she would pay for them she had absolutely no idea.

“A fine plan,” he remarked dryly. “Except that a poster is being circulated with a detailed description of you, offering what to most people is a remarkable reward. What innkeeper, tradesman, or street vendor do you think is going to pass up the opportunity to do his patriotic duty by turning you in while collecting a little money at the same time?”

Jacqueline clenched her fists in exasperation. “Well, what do you expect me to do?” she demanded furiously. “Simply forget about what Nicolas has done to me and my family and run away to England while he and men like him continue to butcher innocent people and destroy my country?” The idea was impossible.

“Yes,” he replied evenly. “I expect you to leave this hatred and bloodshed behind. I expect you to come with me and make a new life for yourself and your sisters. Surely they do not deserve to have another family member sacrificed to the cause of the revolution, however noble or just you may think your mission is. What they need is someone they know and love to help them deal with the pain they have already suffered.”

Jacqueline did not like to be reminded of her sisters. The thought of them clouded her anger, and made it hard for her to focus on the task at hand. “My sisters will be just fine without me,” she assured him. “Sir Edward and his wife were good friends of my father and mother in their youth. I am secure in the knowledge that they are capable and devoted guardians.”

“Indeed they are,” he readily agreed. “But do you believe that is all Suzanne and Séraphine deserve? Good guardians who speak broken French and have no real understanding of the world your sisters have lost, or the trauma they have been through?”

“They are young,” countered Jacqueline quickly. “They will learn English and they will forget the past.” The thought of it filled her with a mixture of relief and pain.

He regarded her curiously. “Mademoiselle, are you aware that Séraphine has not spoken a single word for some three months?”

She looked at him, appalled. It had been just over three months since she wrote to them of the death of their father. “No,” she whispered. “I did not know that.”

“After she received the news of her father’s death, she cried in her room for three days,” he continued in a low voice. “No one could get her to come out. Trays were brought to her, but she would not eat. Suzanne and Lady Harrington spent hour after hour trying to reason with her. Finally they got her to leave the room. But despite everyone’s efforts, Séraphine simply will not speak.”

“I did not know,” repeated Jacqueline weakly. “No one wrote to tell me.” The anger and pain within her grew heavier, intensified by the knowledge that her sisters were suffering far more than she realized. She had sent them away so they would be safe. But sending them away could not protect them from the agony of having their father murdered. She had not been able to stop his execution, just as she had not been able to protect Antoine.

“Your duty now is to your sisters,” Citizen Julien was saying authoritatively. “So put aside your thirst for vengeance and focus on getting safely to England. That is where you are needed, Mademoiselle.”

She nodded absently and sat in the small wooden chair. Citizen Julien went to the door.

“I will be back as quickly as I can. Do not leave the room for any reason, and be prepared to depart as soon as I return.”

She nodded again and continued to stare vacantly into space. The door of the room slammed shut and the key scraped in the lock. She listened to his slow, shuffling steps as they receded down the hall.

She sat staring at nothing for a long time. Her father and brother were dead. Her sisters were irreparably traumatized. Her family’s home and assets were gone. Her entire world had been shattered, and nothing would ever make it right again.

The need for vengeance was great.

He moved along slowly but steadily, not daring to go any faster than would be acceptable for a man of his apparent years. He was tempted simply to hire a carriage to take him to his destination, but such a move would undoubtedly attract attention. As the revolution became more and more paranoid almost everyone learned to walk. To show that you had the money to pay for a carriage was foolish indeed, for it immediately marked you as someone with money to squander, unless of course you were an official of the revolutionary government. And so even those who could still afford the convenience of a coach opted instead to buy a sensible pair of sturdy, low-heeled shoes and joined their fellow citizens on their feet.

People looked at him as he shuffled by, but only with passing interest. He was just another old, bent man walking in the streets of Paris. There was nothing unusual about him. Still, he would not be able to wear this disguise much longer. Already the story of the old man who helped an aristo escape from the Conciergerie disguised as a boy was filtering through the streets, thanks to a report released from the prison early that morning. A reward was being offered for any information leading to their arrest. He wondered how many young boys and old men would be denounced and dragged into the prison for questioning. He tried not to think about it.

He continued to make his way through the twisting, narrow streets, methodically going over his plan again, evaluating the risks, looking for holes where something could happen. The possibilities were endless. Usually the mental exercise of analyzing the countless ways his plans could go wrong and what action he would take when it did kept his mind sharp and alert. Today it simply annoyed him, making him impatient to complete his task and get back to Mademoiselle de Lambert. After demonstrating her apparent lack of concern for her own well-being this morning, he did not like having her out of his sight. Although he was quite certain he had convinced her to abandon her suicidal quest for revenge, she was obviously suffering from intense feelings of anger and pain, and such a combination could be dangerous for both of them.

Most of the people he had rescued were in a state of shock, a condition that, in combination with their fear, left them eager to obey his directions. It was almost as if by his saving them, whether from prison or from imminent arrest, they were so surprised and grateful they immediately trusted him, making the challenge of secreting them out of France that much easier.

Mademoiselle de Lambert was not in a compliant state of shock, however. The news of her brother’s death had affected her deeply, and the calm, methodical way in which she told him she would not be leaving Paris so that she could murder someone revealed a woman of considerable strength and will. This was no typical, sheltered, gently bred girl who was given to tears of sorrow and fits of the vapors, although that girl might once have existed. The woman he was in the process of rescuing was filled with a terrible, bitter rage that was constantly boiling below the surface of her relatively calm exterior. That was what enabled her to lodge a dagger in a captain of the National Guard before knocking out his teeth with a chamber pot, and to smash a bottle over the head of a drunken thug easily twice her size. It was a rage of anguish, and pain, and fury at feeling helpless, and he understood it well. Unfortunately, however, it made her unpredictable, and that made her dangerous, both to herself and to him.

He quickly scanned the candlemaker’s shop from the window for other customers before entering. The proprietor was just finishing with a young woman, and Citizen Julien lowered his head and pretended to study some of the candles on the long, wooden counter as he waited for her to complete her purchase and leave.

“I believe, Citizen, that you have a special order for me?” he asked the man at the counter in a gravelly voice after the door had closed.

“Just finished it this morning,” replied Citizen Gadbois as he went to lock the door and placed a sign saying
CLOSED
in the window. “Come into the back.”

Citizen Julien slowly followed the man behind the counter and through the door that led to the workshop. The room was heavy with the smell of hot tallow. Bits of wick and hardened wax littered the floor. Citizen Gadbois stood on a stool and pulled down a wooden box that was sitting among a pile of candles on a shelf. He carried the box over to the workbench and opened it, producing two perfectly matched cheap yellow candles.

“The documents are rolled in stiff paper and encased inside,” he told Citizen Julien in a low voice. “When you are ready for them, simply cut off the ends of the candles. They should slip out easily.” He began to wrap the tapers in a sheet of paper.

Citizen Julien reached into one of the pockets of his heavy overcoat and produced a small leather purse. He dropped it onto the worktable, causing it to make a heavy clinking sound.

“In silver, as we agreed,” he told Citizen Gadbois. “You may count it if you wish.”

Citizen Gadbois quickly made sure his fee was complete before handing over the candles. “Not that I do not trust you, Citizen,” he said apologetically, “but these are difficult times for all of us.” He tucked the purse into a drawer of the worktable and locked it.

Citizen Julien nodded, not in the least offended by the man’s desire to be cautious. “Have you heard any news today, Citizen?” he asked.

Citizen Gadbois looked around nervously, as if he expected someone at any moment to burst through the door that led to his shop, or perhaps emerge from a secret panel in the walls. “There is talk of an escape from the Conciergerie last night,” he whispered. “The daughter of the former Duc de Lambert. They say she was helped by an old man. Some say he was a loyal servant, while others suspect it was the work of the Black Prince.”

“What does the National Guard think?” asked Citizen Julien calmly.

Gadbois smiled. “They prefer to think it was simply an old servant. Apparently the jailer swears it was an old man who was in the cell with her before she disappeared. He told the public prosecutor that not even his own father could have given such a convincing performance. Of course Fouquier-Tinville is trying to prove that the jailer was in on it.”

“Maybe he was,” commented Citizen Julien. He turned to leave the workshop.

“A word of caution, Citizen,” continued Gadbois. “The word is out that this particular aristo is to be found at any cost. They say she is a spy, and if she gets to England she could divulge secret military information that would enable the British to massacre thousands of loyal French citizens.”