Traitor in Her Arms Page 23

  “No?” She blinked, all innocence. “Why not? Surely no one you know will soon sneeze into the basket.”

  He reached across the table and grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into the soft flesh. “I should kill you for what you did.”

  “Go ahead and try, but one word from me, and these men and women will tear you to shreds and parade your remaining pieces all around the city.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Are you afraid for her?”

  Ramsey clenched his jaw.

  “Release me, or I won’t help you.”

  Slowly, he lifted his fingers from her arm.

  “That’s a good boy.” She patted his arm.

  Ramsey felt rage whirling inside him, panic too, but he shoved it all down and said calmly, “What do you want?” He knew there would be a trade. She wouldn’t help him—help Gabrielle—if he didn’t give her something.

  “You know what I want already.”

  “I don’t know who he is. I need more time.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, no. That is not the correct answer. I suppose I shall have to help you with this as well. I don’t know why Madame asked you to locate our friend. You seem woefully inept.” She walked her fingers up his arm. “But I shall help you.” She tickled him under the chin, and he bore her touch, bore it all for Gabrielle. If she hadn’t been sitting in La Force, days, perhaps hours from death, he would have reached over and snapped this woman’s neck. And God damn the consequences.

  “How can you help me?”

  “Say please.”

  When Gabrielle was safe, he would kill this woman. He would kill her slowly, make her suffer. “Please.”

  “I have it on good authority that our friend is back in London. Your orders—and make no mistake, they are orders—are to return to that miserable city and seek him there. You already know his inner circle.” She held up two fingers. “Ffoulkes and Dewhurst. Let them be your guide.”

  “I’m not leaving for London,” Ramsey said. He wasn’t about to leave Gabrielle at the mercy of these bloodthirsty barbarians.

  “Then why ever did you send the men who might have helped you expose our friend home to London?”

  “I had nothing—“

  She held up a hand. “Stop. Lie to me again and I’ll make sure your Gabrielle goes to the guillotine tomorrow.”

  Ramsey lifted the roll again, but his stomach roiled at the thought of eating another bite. “I’ll go to London, but I’m taking her with me.”

  “That’s impossible. She’s imprisoned in La Force.” She was toying with his hair now, and her fingers brushed the skin of his neck. His flesh crawled.

  “That’s your doing.”

  “Au contraire, citoyen. I warned you. Now you see that disobedience has consequences.” She tugged his hair, and he caught her hand. But instead of crushing it as he wanted to, he held it as a lover might.

  “And if I obey?”

  “Then you shall be rewarded. Your Gabrielle goes before the revolutionary tribunal in the morning. Yes, I see that surprises you, but we are efficient in Paris when sufficiently motivated.”

  He did not have to wonder what had motivated the tribunal.

  “If you are gone by morning, I will make sure she is given a fair trial.”

  Ramsey laughed. “There’s no such thing in Paris these days.”

  She shrugged. “Some are fairer than others.”

  “I want you to get her out, and I want her on the packet to London with me.” He squeezed her hand.

  She shook her head. “Impossible, even for me. I cannot undo what I’ve done. Nor do I want to.”

  When his hand would have tightened, she pulled hers away. “I can buy her time, and that is all. Perhaps with enough time, she might be rescued.”

  “By whom? You want me to betray the one who could rescue her.”

  “Choices, choices.” She stood. “Be out of Paris by evening or I promise you, all will not go well at the tribunal in the morning.” With a swish of her red-and-white-striped skirts, she walked away, disappearing into the crowds at the Palais-Royal, leaving him more despondent than before.

  —

  Gabrielle had never been fond of needlepoint. She found it dull and pointless. But after a half day in La Force, she realized its appeal. Needlepoint gave her something to do with her hands, something to occupy her mind. She could count stitches, and this kept her sane when her thoughts threatened to overwhelm her.

  She didn’t know how the men kept themselves sane. Some played cards or chess, but most stood idly, hands in pockets. She would have been screaming, “They will kill us!” and tearing at her hair. Instead, she was eternally grateful to the duc’s daughter—she had been the young man’s sister, not his wife—for offering to share her needles, thread, and a scrap of linen.

  She heard the sound of one of the guard’s boots approaching but didn’t look up. This she considered progress. She had jumped whenever she heard anyone approaching for the first two hours she was here. It was quiet in the cell—remarkably quiet for a cell housing twenty-three people—and one could hear almost everything. The prisoners did not talk much among themselves, but she had heard one or two low conversations. Gabrielle had been surprised to learn that the prisoners were free to walk about the prison during the day. The cells were not locked. But there were rumors of an impending massacre in the prison of Saint Pélegie and all the prisoners in Paris were nervous, not wanting to be caught in the courtyard by an angry mob. Gabrielle could have told them that their cell would not have saved them from a determined mob, but her companions did not need her dire pronouncements.

  “Visitor for Viscountess McCullough,” the guard said.

  Gabrielle stabbed herself with the needle. In pain, she jumped up. She did not know why she stood. There was no need to rise to attention, but she had been so surprised to hear her name.

  And then she saw him, and she sank back down again.

  She hated herself. She hated that even now—even after all that he’d done—when she looked at him her heart clenched and her belly fluttered. She remembered the feel of his arm about her waist at the gate into Paris, the way his eyes held hers and kept her strong and determined when the mob at the gates had been screaming for the marquis’s blood, the feel of his mouth on hers in the quarries…

  “Gabrielle!” he rushed forward, pressing against the bars of the large cell directly across from her.

  Gabrielle’s eyes stung with tears, and she focused on the needle in her hand. She would not look at him, would not acknowledge him.

  “Gabrielle!” he called again, his deep voice echoing through the cavernous prison.

  She was aware the eyes of the other prisoners were on her. Visitors were infrequent, and the fact that she had a visitor and did not want to see him elicited any number of whispered questions around her.

  Gabrielle stabbed her needle into the material again.

  “Gabrielle, if you’ll just speak to me—“

  Her head snapped up. “Then you’ll explain why you betrayed me? Why your name was on the arrest warrant?”

  She heard several gasps.

  “I don’t want to hear your lies anymore, citoyen.” She’d wanted to call him Lord Sedgwick, to betray him as he had her, but she couldn’t do it.

  The duc’s sister rose from the table and cleared her throat. “My lady, perhaps you would rather speak to your visitor in our private chambers?” She gestured to a corner of the cell where a screen had been erected to give privacy while the prisoners attended to bodily functions.

  “I thank you, my lady, but I have nothing to say to him.”

  “Bien sûr. Perhaps you might tell him that privately?”

  Gabrielle nodded. She was acting like a child, squabbling in public. She set her needlepoint on the table and rose. Inclining her head at Ramsey, she indicated the corner of the cell. Ramsey followed, and when she stepped behind the screen, he was on the other side of the bars. The illusion of privac
y was so real that it took her a moment to remember she was not alone, and she was not free.

  She was losing track of time, of days and nights, hours and minutes. Each time she woke up or looked about her and saw the prison, a wave of panic and nausea hit her so hard she all but doubled over. She felt it again now.

  She would die. She would die like those poor souls she’d seen in the Place de la Révolution. Perhaps her head would be paraded around like many of the unfortunate victims of the guillotine.

  “Gabrielle?” Ramsey’s voice was low. “Are you unwell?”

  She straightened, glaring at him. “I’m as well as can be expected.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Go ahead then. Give me your lies, tell me you had nothing to do with my arrest.”

  His green eyes seemed to harden like emeralds, but behind the hardness she saw the flicker of pain. “I won’t tell you lies any longer. I did have a part in your arrest, but I swear to you I played my part unwittingly. I tried to protect you.”

  “A fine job you did.” She gestured to the prison.

  “I’ll get you out.”

  She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “How? It was all but impossible before, but now that the comtesse has escaped, the guards are taking greater measures with security. I’ll never escape, and tomorrow I’ll be sentenced to death.”

  “You there!” a guard called to Ramsey. “Your time is up.”

  “Goodbye, Ramsey,” she said, and turned away. “I hope whatever you bartered my life for was worth it.”

  The guard approached Ramsey and pulled his shoulder back.

  “Gabrielle, don’t give up hope,” Ramsey called before he was yanked away.

  But it was too late.

  —

  “What do you want?” Alexandra Martin demanded when he knocked on her door the next day. Ramsey had spent a long night going from door to door and house to house, calling on every old friend and acquaintance he knew, looking for help. Most had fled the city or refused to open their doors to him. The few that did confirmed his worst fears: Gabrielle was as good as dead.

  “Alex, I need your help.”

  She shook her head, disgust in her eyes. “Do you know how much trouble you caused me? Do you know how many people I had to bribe to stay out of prison?”

  “I’m sorry. May I come in or do you want to speak on the street?”

  She gave a huff of revulsion and opened the door wide. He stepped inside, moving forward so she could close it behind him. The house was in disarray. Clearly, Alex was relocating.

  “You’re leaving?” he asked.

  “Should I stay here and wait for you to denounce me?”

  The barb stung, but he could not allow it to penetrate. “Where are you going? Back to London? Another safe place in Paris?”

  Alex folded her arms. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  He raised both hands. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, but I do need your help. We can’t leave Gabrielle in La Force. We have to get her out. I’ve been thinking about it, and I have a plan—“

  “It won’t work.”

  Ramsey scowled. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”

  “No. You are the one who has not heard. Gabrielle is no longer at La Force.”

  Ramsey all but stumbled back. “No.”

  “She’s already gone before the tribunal.”

  Ramsey reached for his pocket watch before he remembered he did not have it on him. If any of the peasants had seen it on him, they would have known he was wealthy and might have accused him of being an aristocrat. Ramsey didn’t need the watch, though. He’d heard the bells of Notre Dame on his way to the Boulevard du Palais and the Palais de Justice. It was barely nine in the morning.

  “The tribunal wasted no time beginning proceedings today,” Alex said, as though reading his thoughts. “The Viscountess McCullough has been sentenced to death by guillotine.”

  The world stopped for an impossibly long moment. His vision dimmed and he heard nothing but the heavy thump of his heart. His knees felt like jelly, but he forced his legs to hold firm. His world was ending, but he would not give up without a fight.

  His world. Gabrielle was his world. He could not allow her to die.

  “I see by your reaction you didn’t know.” Alex’s voice sounded far away, and Ramsey strained to focus on her, to comprehend the sounds coming from her lips.

  “They took her to the Conciergerie. No point in bringing her back to La Force.”

  Ramsey grabbed hold of Alex’s shoulders. For a petite sprite of a woman, she was surprisingly nimble. She pivoted on one foot and spun behind him. She swept his feet with her own, and he went down to his knees, the blade of her dagger pricking his throat.

  “Kill me,” Ramsey said. “It’s no less than I deserve.”

  “I’d like to kill you, traitor,” Alex hissed in his ear. “But I don’t want to clean up the mess.”

  She kicked him forward, and he would have splayed on the ground if his hands hadn’t come up in time. Hair hanging over his eyes, he looked up at Alex. “When?” he asked. “When will she go to…” But he couldn’t say it.

  “Tomorrow. She dies tomorrow.”

  “I won’t give up. I’d rather die than let her go without a fight.” He rose slowly to his feet again, determination steeling him with untested strength.

  “If you think you can rescue her, then you are already dead. Even the Pimpernel has never snatched anyone from the jaws of Madame Guillotine.”

  “Then we rescue her from the Conciergerie.”

  “We? We? I will ignore for a moment that you have included me in your daft plan, and point out that since the escape of the comtesse de Tonnerre, Robespierre has been on a tirade. If any more prisoners escape, he’s threatened to have the guards guillotined. If you go into the Conciergerie, you go alone. And you will not come out alive.”

  “Then give me another alternative,” Ramsey said, taking her hands in his. He half expected her to put the dagger to his throat again, but she allowed the contact this time. “Miss Martin, if it was someone you…someone you cared about, what would you do?”

  She blew out a sigh, and her eyes wouldn’t meet his. “There’s nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you. There has to be something.”

  She looked at him. “It’s mad. It’s suicide.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Damn you! You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll take any risk.”

  Alex shook her hands, pushing his away. “I knew you would say that, and I knew if you did I would have to help you.”

  Ramsey tried to grab her in an embrace, but she brandished her dagger again, warding him off. He held up both hands. “Very well. I’ll simply say thank you.”

  “Don’t say anything yet. Once you hear my plan, the last thing you’ll want to do is thank me.”

  Chapter 19

  Gabrielle stood on the swaying tumbrel, feeling the breeze tickle the nape of her neck. Her head felt oddly light, deprived as it was of her thick, heavy mane of unruly brown hair. The loose, uneven strands brushed the skin on her neck like long, pointed fingernails. Would she feel the blade of the guillotine, or would death come fast and sweet as promised?

  She clenched her hands on the cart’s rough rail and tried to think of something else—something other than blood and death and the swish the blade made when it fell in the Place Louis XV, now the laughably named Place de la Révolution. This wasn’t a revolution. This was murder. Her murder. Her stomach roiled, and she closed her eyes and tried to think of happier times.

  Mrs. Cress would love this short hairstyle. Of course, she’d bemoan the artless way in which the hair had been hacked off by the prison guard, but give Cressy a pair of shears and she’d have Gabrielle’s hair cleverly styled in mere moments. Gabrielle would miss Mrs. Cress—her brash speech and her unfailing loyalty. She’d miss Diana too. Diana had been a good friend, someone she could count on in a crisi
s. If only Diana were here now, she’d turn her famous imperious stare on these raucous revolutionaries and have Gabrielle free in a moment. She smiled, and then she sighed.

  She could admit it. She would miss Ramsey. Pathetic to even think of the lying, deceitful scoundrel. He was the reason she was standing here, being squeezed ever tighter as guards herded more and more of the condemned onto the already packed cart.

  She shouldn’t have trusted him. She shouldn’t have believed him.

  She wished he were beside her. She’d like to see him mount the scaffold, face Sanson and his assistant, who worked with that awful blood-red rose clamped between his teeth. She liked to imagine Ramsey would grovel and beg and fall to his knees as the crowd jeered. The assistant would drag him, kicking and screaming, to Madame Guillotine, tie him down, and whoosh! The blade would sing. Ramsey would be no more.

  The tumbrel jolted as the horses began a slow plod toward the Rue Royale, now the Rue Nationale. Gabrielle shook her head to clear it, feeling those loose strands of hair on her neck again. She was as bad as the peasants waiting to taunt her and the other condemned as they left the security of the prison. For now, she had bloodlust too.

  Only she was the one who would die.

  Gabrielle turned and took one last look at the Conciergerie. She’d spent a sleepless night in a large holding cell with walls and floors of cold stone. Even if she had not been shaking with fear at the knowledge her death was imminent, she would not have been able to sleep. Unlike La Force, she had not been surrounded solely by nobility. The other prisoners were mothers, daughters, bakers, seamstresses, shop girls. All had been denounced by loyal patriots. Gabrielle doubted a single prisoner had committed any real crime.

  The weeping and whispered prayers of the other women kept her awake. She had said her own prayers, made her own peace, but she hadn’t wept. She’d come to France knowing her death might be the inevitable result. Gabrielle had come to save the comtesse de Tonnerre and her daughter. If she lost her own life now, it was no one’s fault but her own.

  As the horses plodded forward, Gabrielle turned and faced forward. Along the sides of the narrow streets, men and women stood waiting for the condemned to pass. Most averted their eyes, but a few stared at them and screamed, “Liberty, equality, fraternity!”