The Star of Versailles Page 6

  “What’s this? What on earth—?” Madame Bonnay asked, tone steady and disapproving.

  “It’s me.” Gaudet lifted his head and the woman gasped in shock. “André?”

  “Shame on you.” She drew her head back and spat on Gaudet. “Be on your way, traitor.”

  If that was as good as they were going to get, William was happy to grab it with both hands, calling his thanks to the woman as he pulled the spittle-flecked Gaudet along with him. They were halfway down the stairs when he heard her voice again.

  “Marie!” Madame Bonnay called, her voice raised in alarm. “Run and get the master from his club!”

  “Damn it, man, move!” By sheer determination, he got them to the bottom of the stairs, William praying the door was unlocked.

  “Through the kitchen,” Gaudet told him weakly, “The lanes are a warren…”

  Reassured that he was not rescuing a man completely deficient in sense, William changed course, the journey through the kitchen taken as quickly as he could pull Gaudet along. There was the sound of footsteps from the stairs but he didn’t even glance back, letting out an exclamation of relief when the cool air of the night hit them at last.

  When the thunder of wheels sounded at the end of the long, narrow lane from which there seemed no easy escape, William froze, Gaudet a dead weight in his arms. He stepped back into the shadows as a simple carriage clattered to a halt and the door was flung open.

  From within the familiar, brusque tones of the spymaster Tessier sought in vain called out, “Get in, quickly!”

  William didn’t need telling twice. He dragged Gaudet toward the carriage, piling him through the door before climbing in after.

  “Tomorrow,” Dee said firmly, his mouth a tight line, blue eyes flashing with annoyance as he addressed William, “you and I will discuss this.”

  With that he turned his attention to the playwright, shaking his head.

  ‘Discuss.’ William was, he knew without a doubt, in a certain degree of bother—just what amount that was he would have to wait to find out. It was, however, a better position to be in than the one of a few moments previous, and William allowed himself the briefest of moments to gather himself, turning his gaze to the window.

  He watched a group of men hurrying toward the house, pistols drawn, no doubt roused by Marie’s cries for help. Gaudet, meanwhile, huddled in a tight ball in the corner of the squabs, shaking his head furiously at Dee’s assurances of his safety.

  “You’re safe,” William found himself telling the broken man suddenly, Gaudet’s terror grating on his already jarred nerves. “Don’t you understand that?”

  “Safe?” He spat the word as though it were poison and Dee, frowning, retrieved a folded page from his own coat and held it before Gaudet’s eyes.

  “From your sister,” Dee said as though addressing a child. “You are with friends and on your way to shelter.”

  Then, William decided with no small amount of relief, I can wash my hands of you.

  “Morel,” Dee said as the coach drew to a halt. “This is your safe-house tonight, Gaudet and I will go on. Await my contact.”

  “I am, as always, at your service,” William couldn’t help the dry edge to his tone. With a final glance at Gaudet, he gladly exited the carriage, looking from left to right before making his way to the door, the Frenchman’s face in his mind as he did so.

  Chapter Seven

  The rain, which had been nothing but a light mist when Bastien had arrived to collect William just after dawn, had grown heavier during the last hour as they walked mile after mile along a narrow, muddy track toward Butte aux Cailles. With the weather worsening so too did the conversation dwindle and now they traveled in silence, Bastien almost prancing through the mud in bare feet, shoes thrust into his tattered pockets.

  In the last seventy-two hours, William had been transformed from a well-dressed hero of the Revolution into something slightly less grand. Yet even concealed beneath the clothes of an innocent citizen, he could not escape the fear that every sound in the night was Vincent Tessier, seeking out the traitors in his midst.

  Dee’s appearance in the city left William with no doubt that things had progressed, that his rogue decision to free Gaudet had led to trouble. He had been on a mission to watch and gather information, to learn more about the unknown traitor who had informed on Philippe’s people, allowing the counter-revolutionaries to be systematically smashed by Tessier. Instead he had surrendered his cover, saved a man who might know nothing at all and caused the spymaster himself to appear in the heart of the action, an unthinkable development. Dee was a name on dispatches, a polite meeting in the club of a European capital. He was sober and polite and, to any passing gossip, nothing but an upper-class gent touring Europe. Now he was in Paris and William was on his way for an audience.

  “Gaudet’s better than he was already, thanks to Ma,” Bastien told him. “Asked after you this morning… Says he’s going to put you in a play.”

  “If he tries that,” William said, “I’ll send him to the block myself!”

  “He don’t make no sense most of the time,” Bastien admitted. “But he’ll get there.”

  It swiftly became apparent that their destination was a large stone farmhouse on the horizon. William gathered himself for the calling to account, let alone the inevitable trip back to England. Where he would go then he didn’t know, the world being a lonely place for someone with no friends to call their own.

  “Here you are, then,” Bastien told him when they reached the courtyard where chickens watched from their coops, safe from the battering rain. “Good luck!”

  He was going to need it, of that William was certain. Bidding the boy farewell, he strode purposefully across the yard to the farmhouse and the rotting wooden door. He raised his hand once, let it fall, and lifted it again before finally knocking, counting the seconds and listening for sounds inside.

  As he readied his hand to knock again, the door opened just an inch and a tiny, frail old woman appeared in the gloom beyond. She blinked at the visitor through a single milky eye and rasped, “Yes?”

  “Good morning,” he bowed low. “Have you any melons today?”

  “Finest in the north,” she confirmed. She stepped back and opened the door wide, ushering him into the house.

  William had to twist sideways to fit between his hostess and the wooden crates piled at either side of the hallway, yet it was the smell that took his breath away, something between a pig sty and a stable. As he took a moment to acclimatize, the woman walked slowly away, gesturing her guest to follow with a crook of her weathered fingertips.

  “Melons…” The woman’s sniff of a voice seemed even older and more decrepit than its owner.

  William slicked the rain from his hair as they moved through the house. Closed doors flanked them on either side and the only light was that which escaped down the narrow staircase they passed yet still he followed the shuffling, stooped woman. Her clothes were stained with dirt and soil that might have been as old as she was and as they walked she muttered to herself at a furious pace. Here and there she paused to correct the position of the myriad dust-shrouded trinkets and baubles that decorated every surface.

  When they came to a halt at a latched door, William noticed that the woman’s finger was gray and hardened with age, the skin calloused like that of a farmer might be. She eased her fingertips beneath the latch and lifted it, nodding William through. He was surprised to find himself at the foot of a narrow staircase that seemed to have no natural position within the house. The old woman retreated and let the latch fell before she called, “He’s upstairs, in a devil of a mood…”

  William drew in a deep breath of the suddenly fresh and cool air—the gloom of the house was replaced by natural light. Any respite was short-lived, though, a shadow falling over him as a silhouette appeared at the head of the stairs.

  William recognized Dee’s Dublin burr telling him, “I have come by some marvelous tea. Come and try i
t.”

  “Is that before or after you tell me off?” William regarded the man calmly, lifting one hand to shield his eyes.

  “I never tell anyone off,” he replied as William reached the landing, Dee’s somber face brightening with the barest hint of welcome. “Just ask my daughter.”

  Two minutes later, the men were sitting in armchairs that had seen better days, a plate of bread and cheese and the much-vaunted tea on the table beside them. Dee’s latest surroundings were a far cry from his usual meeting places, clubs and offices where he seemed to be permanently behind one oak desk or another. There the walls were decorated by oil paintings depicting bewigged kings and peers, yet here in this rambling, decaying farmhouse, he had lost none of his gravity. Dee picked up a sheaf of papers from the small pocked table and leafed through them, humming as he did so.

  “Your role, your express purpose,” he said finally, steepling his fingers beneath his chin, “was to gather information on the comings and goings of Tessier’s household. What on earth possessed you to give up your cover and perform a prison break?”

  “Tessier was going to have Gaudet killed,” William told Dee smoothly. “His sister has the Star and he is the best chance of finding his sister. There was no time to send word or ask for instructions.”

  “I set you to infiltrate Tessier’s household for three reasons.” Dee leaned forward, holding up three fingers. “First, your French is as fluent as a native. Second, you actually managed to kill Morel, a man many have targeted, and third…” He paused, folding down two fingers and obviously trying to find the right words to go on. When he did, William could tell he wasn’t quite satisfied. “Third, I thought you had a cool head.”

  “I respectfully disagree.” William bowed his head, the playwright’s pleading face in his mind again. “I did what was necessary.”

  “Gaudet will mend, given time.” Dee took a sip from his teacup. “Since you have already formed something of a relationship with him, I would like you to guide him to the coast, so that we might return him to England. Along the way, I expect you shall be able to tease his sister’s whereabouts from him…”

  “Me?” William couldn’t help the disbelief in his tone, unable to keep the shock from his voice or face. “I have no more of a relationship with the man than you do!”

  “I have a few tasks for you to complete at the border—deliveries, paper drops and the like.” Dee picked up the papers again as though William hadn’t spoken. “Three weeks today, I expect to see you at Charron’s cabinet shop ready to accompany our playwright to his ship.”

  “Do I have any say in this?” He felt Gaudet’s fingers clasped around his again, the inconsequential weight of the playwright leaning on his shoulder.

  “No.” Dee furrowed his brow. “Young Bastien tells me that the locket Gaudet retrieved from the house contains a cryptic message, but I have a sense that our playwright will not share it. Build your relationship, become friends. Monsieur Gaudet and his sister will be reunited and can go wherever the fancy takes them and we…”

  Dee paused to take a sip from his cup, shrugging carelessly when he finished the thought. “Well, we will relieve her of the responsibility of the Prince of Wales’ diamond and be on our way, richer, happier and with a perfectly delighted house of Hanover at our beck and call.”

  It sounded, William reflected, almost too good to be true. Then there was the part where he would have to actually spend time with Gaudet. He opened his mouth to protest, closed it again, and settled instead for a quick pace around the room, finally telling Dee, “If that is what you think is for the best.”

  “He seems a quiet fellow at the moment,” Dee stated. “Of course, he may suddenly spark into life, he does have a reputation…”

  “Apparently,” William recalled Bastien’s words, “he wants to put me in a play.”

  “Well, everyone loves a hero,” Dee replied dryly, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “Even the French.”

  William peered at Dee, strongly suspecting that the other man might be having a joke at his expense. “Then he can put one of those in his play instead.”

  “He is given to fancies, flamboyance. Don’t indulge him. You must pass unnoticed.”

  “As always”—William gave a dry smile of his own—“you make it sound so easy.”

  “It is a simple escort, what could possibly go wrong?” Dee added, his smile sanguine. “Though make up will stand out in the villages—discourage the rouge.”

  “Where is he going to get rouge from?” William shrugged. “That will be the least of our worries.”

  “And no heroics?”

  “I will do my utmost”—he turned to regard Dee over his shoulder—“to refrain.”

  “Then I will see you at some point between here and the coast.” Dee smiled, rising to his feet. “It will be, I am sure, a pleasure.”

  Chapter Eight

  Although the world had hardly expanded since Gaudet had left the Rue Saint-Honoré, there was no denying that his surroundings had improved. He had little recollection of the carriage journey through Paris, nor did he know where his new residence was, but it was enough to know that the beds were soft and the food plentiful, no more locked doors and scraps of moldy bread. Better still was the dirty window that offered views over the rooftops of Paris where the sun and moon shone in their turn, even the rain a welcome sight when it beat on the pane.

  Apart from a vague impression of the window and the sense that he had been well cared for by someone, Gaudet’s recent past was blighted by shadows. If the feeling of the whip lashing his flesh was as fresh in his mind though so, too, was the gratitude he still felt for the unknown man who had saved his life. There were moments he could recall, the feeling of assured fingers washing and binding his wounds, the taste of excellent claret and the welcome warmth of a fire on his freezing skin. It was something of a blur until now, focusing on the dying sunlight that cast a pall of shadows across the room.

  Gaudet shifted beneath the covers and let out a small gasp of pain as the wounds on his back twinged, but the sensation was nothing like he remembered, those tiny blazes all but extinguished now.

  And somehow, I’m still alive.

  Another movement shifted the blanket. He reached up and drew it down to his waist. His gaze raked across his naked body, taking in the deep black bruises that seemed to cover almost every inch of skin. Dark red scabs had formed over the wounds where Tessier had cast down the crop or whipped Gaudet with the iron manacles. He closed his eyes at the memory of it, a deep shiver running though his bones as he pulled the blanket up once more.

  Gaudet studied his arms, where the rope burns were beginning to fade and even the patches where Tessier had held the candle flame to him were paler than they had been. The agony had passed, but there was a dull, thudding ache throughout his body and he stretched gingerly, feeling as though he had been trampled by a whole herd of horses.

  After a few minutes, Gaudet turned his head to look out into the bedroom, focusing on the pale walls and a low ceiling held in place by stout, dark beams. A fire burned brightly in the grate before which was set a low chair, and through the dim light he saw a woman sitting there, her face turned away to the needlework she held in her lap.

  “Claudine?”

  She started at the sound of his voice, dropping the thread she held and rising to her feet. He felt a sharp stab of disappointment at the realization that this wasn’t his lost sister but a stranger, her hand clasped to her heart in a gesture of shock.

  “Monsieur, you startled me!” A smile spread across the woman’s face and he was struck by her unexpected beauty, a welcome sight after the nightmares of the past who knew how many days. “I’m not your Claudine, I’m afraid—I’m Sylvie Dupire.”

  “Sylvie,” Gaudet repeated in a whisper. “Hello.”

  “Brandy.” Sylvie said the word as a fact, not a question.

  He closed his eyes again, opening them when she returned to the bed and handed him a
glass. With some difficulty, he managed to raise himself to his elbow and took a sip, savoring the taste as it warmed him.

  “I’ve looked after you this past week,” she told him, refilling the glass he held and offering another bright smile. “And you’ve slept or babbled through just about all of it.”

  “This is still Paris?”

  “The Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine,” Sylvie confirmed. “Thierry says you’re to stay here as long as you need.”

  “And Morel?” His voice was more urgent than he had expected, heart beating faster as he fixed her with his gaze. “Mademoiselle Dupire, is Morel here, too?”

  “It’s Sylvie.” She shook her head and took back the glass to sip from it herself. “He took himself off that same night—disappeared like a proper spy.”

  Gaudet nodded but barely heard her words and instead returned his head to the pillow, glad of the sensation of comfort after what felt like so long in pain.

  “Give us another tot of that,” Sylvie said pointlessly after she’d taken another drink. “You hungry, Monsieur Gaudet?”

  “Perhaps a little,” he admitted and Sylvie rewarded him with a beaming smile that lit her entire face.

  She brushed her glossy black hair back behind her ears and held his hand in her own for a moment, the gesture immediately reassuring. “Call me Gaudet, please.”

  “Not Alexandre?”

  “Gaudet,” he corrected with a smile. “To my friends.”

  “Gaudet it is.” Sylvie squeezed his hand. “You look as though you’ve been to Hell and back.”

  Something like that.

  He said nothing in response but shifted slightly, oddly embarrassed to be here in bed, a beautiful woman kneeling at his side with a glass of brandy in her pale hand.

  I wish I had something witty I could give you, some charming little nothing.