To Tempt a Rebel Read online

  “I am not eager to become a traitor.” He whispered the last word, aware of the danger he faced using such terms in public.

  “A traitor to whom?” Allié asked, lifting his chin so Tristan might see the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were blue, quite intelligent, and very perceptive. “To your country or your superior? I think you must choose your allegiance.”

  “There was a time they were one and the same.”

  “And that time is no more. Robespierre”—he lowered his voice—“orders the deaths of hundreds on suspicion alone. If any dares to oppose him, that man finds himself on the scaffold. Look at the Girondists.”

  The Girondists had been rivals of the more radical wing of the Jacobins to which Robespierre belonged. When they fell from favor, twenty-two of them had been condemned. The execution of over two dozen men took only a little over a half an hour.

  “Who is next on Robespierre’s list? Dare any man stand in his way? Even the king was not so much a tyrant.”

  This was true, although Tristan hated the late king and the ancien régime for its excesses and sins. But the new government should not have been about personal vendetta, even if Tristan’s support had sprouted from a very personal desire for revenge. Robespierre spoke of equality even while he sought more and more power and destroyed anyone who stood in his way.

  “You are loyal, and that is a trait to be admired,” Allié said, lowering his head so his eyes were no longer visible. “But loyalty becomes an evil when it overlooks murder and oppression. Give me the papers”—he held out a gloved hand—“and declare yourself on the side of liberty, equality, and fraternity.”

  Tristan reached into his pocket, sliding his hand over the letters he had copied. They were not enough to condemn Robespierre, but they were the beginning of a stockpile of ammunition his opponents would need in order to depose him.

  Robespierre, who had been like a brother to him, who had dined with him, with whom he had worked side by side, with whom he had discussed grand plans for the country and the new republic. It sickened Tristan to betray his friend thus. And then his gaze strayed to the windows of the café. Not far away, in the Place de la Révolution innocents died under the blade of the National Razor. Further away, men like Jean-Baptiste Carrier executed hundreds daily in Normandy, using creative methods, each crueler than the last.

  The man who condoned such actions was not the man Tristan had known. He might wear his face and speak with his voice, but his words were those of a stranger. This stranger did not seek justice but power, and Tristan could not stand by and allow the abuses to continue.

  Tristan swallowed the bile in his throat, withdrew the papers, and slid them under the table into Allié’s waiting hand.

  “You have done a great service to your country,” Allié said, rising and tossing several coins on the table to pay for the coffee he had not drunk. “A great service.”

  Tristan watched him go. “Then why do I feel as though I’ve just signed the papers for my own execution?” he muttered.

  Two

  “We have him now,” Sir Andrew Ffoulkes said, slapping a stack of papers on the table where Alex sat cleaning her pistol.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s unwise to startle a woman holding a loaded weapon?”

  Ffoulkes glanced at the pistol. “My nanny drilled it into me daily, but your pistol isn’t loaded.”

  “This one is.” She pointed to the one she’d finished cleaning and set aside.

  “In any case, you heard me come in.” He took a seat opposite her in the cozy attic room above the house she’d rented on a narrow street off the Boulevard du Temple.

  The new safe house was close to the theater, which made it convenient for work. It was also near the lodgings of other actors, which made it inconvenient. She’d taken it anyway because the attic was large enough to accommodate half a dozen and the house was built in such a way so that the uppermost room was not visible from the street below. The National Guard had a penchant for searching private residences, usually in order to loot weapons and food, but they often stumbled upon fugitives and former nobles in hiding as well.

  Before Alex had moved in, with Lord Edward Hastings acting as her lover, several agents of the Scarlet Pimpernel had made structural changes to the house so that secret panels opened in the walls allowing access to the attic from an internal stairwell. They’d also created an exit from the cellar to the alley behind the house. Washing was always conveniently hung out to dry here, providing cover so the members of the League might leave without being easily spotted.

  Then they’d furnished the attic with a small stove for warmth, three narrow beds, a dresser, a washstand and basin, a table and chairs, and an escritoire with a very wobbly leg Honoria complained about whenever the table and chairs were full and she was forced to use it to make forged documents. Alex rather liked the attic space and spent more time here than she needed, considering she had access to the entire house at any time. The room was small and dark, but comfortable.

  Except for the fetters hanging on the wall.

  But she preferred not to look at those or consider their purpose. This was the fifth safe house Alex had lived in over the past year, and she was rather weary of moving. She was rather weary of Paris, but the Pimpernel needed her for this mission. She could not let him or the little king down.

  At present, only she and Ffoulkes occupied the attic space. Dewhurst had gone out with Hastings and Honoria and her marquis were resting—or so they’d said—in the bedroom below. The other members of the League had moved to another safe house. Alex did not know where it was, and she did not want to know.

  A week or so ago, she had passed Sir Edward Mackenzie on the street, but they had not even glanced at each other.

  She had heard Sir Andrew Ffoulkes come in. He’d used the lever that rang a bell in the attic when one of their own entered through the cellar door. She hadn’t known it was he, but she was glad to see Ffoulkes rather than Dewhurst or Hastings. Ffoulkes had been with the Pimpernel.

  “Whom do you have?” she asked now, laying her pistol down and peering at the stack of folded papers.

  “Chevalier.”

  She raised a brow.

  “The Pimpernel met with him today, and he gave us these letters copied from Robespierre’s personal correspondence. I glanced at them and they’re quite damning. And so you see, Tristan Chevalier is not the pinnacle of loyalty you thought him to be.”

  “Did the Pimpernel tell you that or is that a conclusion you have come to on your own?”

  Ffoulkes tapped the papers. “He gave us these papers to be used against Robespierre.”

  She shook her head. “He gave those papers to a man he thinks is a patriot like himself because he wants to stop the reign of terror his superior has unleashed on France. Had he known that man was the Pimpernel or a royalist sympathizer, he would have sent him to the guillotine without a second thought.”

  “Even if it compromised him in the process?”

  “Yes!” Chevalier was absolutely one for sacrifice. She had known that about him the first time she had seen him.

  “I think not.”

  She rose and paced the attic. “Because you haven’t looked him in the eye. I have, and I promise you, Chevalier is the wrong man. He will not help us. He will die first.”

  “The Pimpernel does not agree.”

  She rounded on Ffoulkes. “Did you tell him I wished to speak to him?”

  Ffoulkes leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs. “Yes, and he thinks that is unwise at the moment. He asks you to trust his judgment and proceed with the plan.”

  She glanced toward the corner of the attic and the fetters that hung there. “And if I refuse?” She gazed directly at Ffoulkes.

  Ffoulkes shrugged as though they’d had this conversation a dozen times before, which they had. “Then we send Honoria.”

  Alex stood at the table and placed her palms flat. “The result will be the same. He will not betray his
country or his principles. You know I am no coward.”

  “No one would ever accuse you of lacking courage, Alex. You’ve done more for our cause than—”

  Alex cut him off. She didn’t need platitudes and compliments. “Then you know my objection does not stem from fear.”

  “Then what is it?” Ffoulkes stood, his endless patience finally breaking. “Right here we have all we need to blackmail him.” He pointed to the papers. “Everything we have worked toward for weeks is in place. We won’t have another opportunity like this.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know.” She threw up her hands. “I have a bad feeling.”

  Ffoulkes cursed under his breath. Even though he knew she was no lady, he still always afforded her the courtesies he would have given to a lady. “A bad feeling. The entire country has a bad feeling, most especially the condemned sitting in their cells, waiting for the tumbrels to take them to the guillotine in the morning.”

  “Listen, Andrew, have I ever opposed a mission before?”

  “Yes! You oppose every single one!”

  She gave him a flat look. “I play devil’s advocate until we have the details fine-tuned. I am not playing devil’s advocate this time. This time I am stating, for the record, that this mission is doomed.”

  “So noted.” Ffoulkes pretended to make a check on the documents before him. “Now, let’s discuss the plan for the festivities tomorrow afternoon.”

  Alex sat, leaned her chin on her hand, and tried not to think of this as her last night of freedom.

  The next morning she arrived at the theater early, only to discover that in light of the cancellation of Julius Caesar, her presence was not required. The managers were discussing which of the plays approved by the Committee of Public Safety they might present instead, which really meant those plays that hadn’t already been performed all over the city a hundred times.

  “I have no great love for Shakespeare, but I do have a fondness for bread.” Élodie, one of the other actresses in the company, followed Alex back into the street. “They may debate the play for days and in the meantime, we starve.”

  It was true. If the actors were not performing, the theater was not taking in money, and no one was paid. With winter coming, everyone was keenly aware of the shortage of flour for bread and wood for fires.

  “Deville and the others will figure out something,” Alex said, trying to sound reassuring, though she had no great expectations and not a little guilt at her role in the current crisis. The theater had been floundering for some time now, and if it wasn’t for the financial support of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Alex herself would be hungry.

  “That is easy for you to say.” Élodie sniffed. “You have a man to look after you. I have only creditors, and if I cannot pay them with coin, they demand payment through other means.” She plucked at her wilted tricolor cockade, the symbol of the patriots. “I thought this revolution would help the poor. Instead, I find it has impoverished me!”

  “Shh!” Alex grabbed Élodie’s arm and dragged her aside. “You take your life in your hands to criticize the government so openly.”

  “So then I should wither away quietly and without protest?” Élodie put a hand to her forehead.

  Alex suppressed a smile at the other actress’s dramatics. “Will you go to the festival today?”

  “What are we celebrating? The beet root or is it the cricket?”

  It might have been either of those. The republican government had created its own calendar and religion. Instead of honoring saints on each day, plants, animals, and minerals were honored. Today was a festival that made no sense to anyone but those who had organized it.

  “There will be food and drink. Come for that alone.”

  “I will go if you go,” Élodie said, twining her arm with Alex’s. “Walk with me?”

  Alex had not meant to attach herself to Élodie for the walk to the festival, but she would not resist such a pairing. The more she was seen in the company of those who had nothing to hide, the better. “Yes. I will come to your house at two.”

  “Do not be silly! Your house is on the way. I will fetch you.” And with a quick kiss on both her cheeks, Élodie was gone. Alex watched her go, dreading the hours before her, hours she would spend making herself into a woman Tristan Chevalier could not resist.

  TRISTAN STOOD BESIDE Robespierre, watching the parade of children wearing feathers and gobbling and clucking like turkeys. The procession might have been intended to honor the majestic bird, but Tristan was having a difficult time keeping a straight face. Citoyen Orme, another of Robespierre’s secretaries, leaned over. “Perhaps we should have held a festival in honor of celery. That might be less amusing.”

  Tristan coughed to hide his laugh, but Robespierre turned to cast him a warning look anyway. Tristan schooled his features, and Robespierre turned back to the parade. The revolutionary leader was dressed, as always, impeccably. His wig had been carefully powdered and his green spectacles perched on his nose. His silk coat and matching waistcoat fit him like a second skin and made quite a contrast among the threadbare clothing of the provincials, patched and faded hemp or wool.

  When the procession had ended, Robespierre stepped forward to give his speech. Tristan had heard it before, as Robespierre had practiced it most of the night. Even if he hadn’t heard it, he could have summed it up. Robespierre would wax poetic on the ideals of the new republic and the evils of the ancien régime. He would quote Rousseau and speak for too long, making the people shuffle with impatience as hunger tightened their bellies.

  Instead of listening now, Tristan allowed his gaze to sweep over the crowds. Several hundred had come to partake in the festivities. The drizzle and chill had probably kept many indoors. Just as many, desperate and close to starving, had come for the food and drink. Now they listened with undisguised eagerness as Robespierre spoke, for after the speeches came the feast.

  Tristan directed his gaze back to Robespierre, but as he did so, a flash of scarlet caught his gaze. He returned his gaze to the crowd, focusing on the group to the left of the dais. There stood a woman in a bright scarlet cloak, the voluminous hood like a frame around her lovely face.

  He realized with a start that he knew her. The English actress. Her pale and lovely face was just visible inside the warmth of the hood. At her side stood one of the other actresses from the People’s Theater. That woman’s gaze was riveted on Robespierre, but Citoyenne Martin watched him. Tristan inclined his head slightly, then turned his attention to Robespierre. The statesman was halfway through his speech, the portion where he waxed eloquently on the greatness of the new republic.

  Scanning the crowds, Tristan could not see that any of the poor lived any better than they had before. For perhaps the thousandth time, he asked himself if the country hadn’t simply traded one tyrant for another.

  He glanced at the side of the dais again and was disappointed when he could not find the scarlet cloak. Had she already departed? Her friend still stood, listening to Robespierre’s speech and cheering at the appropriate moments. Where had Citoyenne Martin gone?

  More importantly, why did he care?

  He did not care, he told himself a quarter hour later as he descended the dais in Robespierre’s wake. The republican leaders were not expected to fight over the free food in the streets. Instead, they were directed to an old building, its once white stone gray from age and dirt. Inside, tables had been laid with food. The display was not lavish, but it was more than the crowds outside would receive.

  Tristan took a glass and filled it with wine, unable to eat after thinking of the cold and hungry children in their turkey feathers. When he turned back to the room, the actress stood before him.

  “Citoyenne Martin.” He all but choked on his wine as the sip he’d taken caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected her to be here and looked about to see if anyone else found her presence here unusual.

  “Citoyen Chevalier.”
She smiled and pushed the hood of her cape off her head. Beneath it her cropped golden hair appeared tousled as though she had just climbed out of bed. She had a small face with a pointed chin and nose, and her fine features accented her green eyes, making them look wide and beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty shade of pink that looked too natural to be rouge.

  She offered a gloved hand, and he took it without thinking.

  “You are just the man I had hoped to see.” She gave him a graceful curtsy.

  “Why is that?” Immediately Tristan regretted the words. At one time he had known how to flirt with women. Now he suspected everything anyone said of having a double meaning.

  She smiled prettily, showing a dimple. “Because you are quite the most handsome man I know, that is why.” She crooked her arm in his.

  “You flatter me, citoyenne.”

  “I never flatter,” she said, her eyes suddenly serious. “I do find you inordinately handsome. Such a pity.” She looked left, then right. “Is there any wine?”

  Tristan felt as though his head was spinning. Speaking with her was like tracking a bee that flitted from flower to flower gathering nectar. “I will fetch some wine for you.”

  Despite her pronouncements on the topic of flattery, he fully expected to find her fluttering her lashes at another man when he returned. Instead, he found her with her hands folded before her, waiting quite patiently—and quite alone—for his return.

  “Thank you,” she said when he handed her the wine. She sipped it and nodded. “Oh, this is very good.”

  He inclined his head. “Robespierre refuses to drink bad wine.”

  “But you have not refilled your glass, citoyen.” She nodded at his empty hand.

  “I must return to work after the festivities.”

  She gave him a look of mock seriousness. “Surely you can indulge in one toast with me.”

  “I had better not.”

  She shrugged delicately.

  “Citoyenne Martin, if you don’t mind my asking, are you a guest of one of the members of the Convention?”