To Tempt a Rebel Read online

  She nodded. “Of course. So tell me, citoyen, what do you do when you are not policing theaters?”

  “Oh, a great many things.” She had not really answered his question.

  “Ah, I imagine. And have you always been a gendarme of the theater or did you have another occupation before the glorious revolution?”

  He smiled despite himself. She certainly had a way with words, and he found himself enchanted even as he fought to remain immune to her charms. “I am the son of a printer.”

  “Really?” She gazed at him, her green eyes so focused on him he felt as though he was the only man in the room. “What sort of printing? Books or pamphlets or perhaps the papers?”

  “Pamphlets and libelles for the most part, although we occasionally printed a book.”

  “And you apprenticed in the trade?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you think you will ever go back to it? I have found that once the smell of parchment and ink seeps into your senses, it becomes quite addicting.”

  Tristan had been leading her slowly about the room, but now he paused to stare at her. “Do you know something about the printing press, citoyenne?”

  “My grandfather was a printer, though he published plays.” She leaned close to him, and he caught the scent of spring—daisies and dahlias and daffodils. Her breath tickled his ear. “He particularly enjoyed printing the sonnets of Shakespeare. But as that is a sore subject between us, I won’t mention it again.” She leaned back, and Tristan had the urge to pull her close once more. Instead, he forced his legs into motion, escorting her once again.

  “Your father was not a printer?” he asked, clearing his throat of the tightness that had constricted it.

  “My father was an actor. My mother as well. I came to Paris with them to perform at the Comédie Française and when they returned to England, I stayed.”

  “Why?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but he was intrigued despite himself.

  She shrugged. “I was young and wanted independence, I suppose.”

  “You are still young,” he said. He did not think her older than five and twenty.

  “Oh, none of us are young anymore, citoyen. I think all of Paris has grown up these past few years.”

  He watched her face as she spoke, but he detected no acrimony or bitterness. He wished he could ask her, outright, if she was a supporter of the revolution—for that was surely what they spoke of. No one admitted to opposing the revolution any more, but Tristan sensed she would tell him the truth.

  And he sensed he would not like that truth, would not like her if she stopped smiling at him and spoke plainly.

  “In any case,” she continued, “my parents were part of a traveling troupe in England. I was tired of that life and wanted to be more settled.”

  “And yet you have moved lodgings several times in the past few months.”

  If she was surprised at his knowledge of something rather personal, she did not show it. She smiled. “I’m afraid I am still looking for the perfect spot.”

  And now Tristan recalled something else about her. After their brief discussion the day before, he had been interested enough to ask about her from one of the myriad of informers ever-present at the Salle des Machines. “You have a lover as well, a British gentleman with whom you reside.”

  “My, but you are well-informed.” She opened a fan and fluttered it in front of her face, though it was still cold in the room. “I might wonder at you knowing so much about me, citoyen.”

  “I make it my business to know about everyone and everything in Paris.”

  “Lord Hastings is a friend,” she said, moving the fan lazily.

  “You live with him, citoyenne. I think he is more than a friend.” How he wished the informer had been incorrect on that point, but she did not bother to deny it. Tristan felt disappointment drop over him like a heavy mantle. And then he was annoyed with himself because he should not have wanted the woman to begin with. She was a foreigner, most likely had royalist sympathies, and she was an actress, a profession known for loose women.

  “He might have been more than a friend at one time, but no longer. In these...troubled times, I felt unsafe living alone. And so Lord Hastings was gracious enough to stay with me. So, you see, we do live together, but we no longer sleep together.”

  The conversation was wholly improper, but Tristan could not seem to steer it elsewhere. “And whom do you sleep with now, citoyenne?”

  She lifted her empty wineglass. He could not even recall her sipping from it.

  She leaned close to him, pressing her small, firm breasts against his arm. “If you want my secrets, Citoyen Chevalier, you will have to indulge in a drink with me.”

  Tristan glanced around at the other members of the Convention and their secretaries. Most had a glass of wine in hand. This was a celebration, and even Robespierre would not see two glasses of wine as an indulgence.

  “Very well.” He started away, but she pulled him back.

  “You fetched the last glass. Allow me to serve you this time.”

  It was somewhat unorthodox, but Tristan was given no opportunity to argue. With a wink, she glided across the room to where the wine and a server stood. He watched as the man handed her a glass and refilled hers. Then he turned as he felt someone approach.

  “Citoyen.”

  Tristan gave a short bow. “Citoyen Robespierre. Your speech following the procession was well received.”

  Robespierre nodded. “Thank you. I thought so as well.”

  He was a small man, only a little over five feet, and extremely short-sighted. Tristan was used to his habit of squinting in order to see more clearly.

  “I had thought the crowds would be larger.” Robespierre frowned.

  “It is a cold day, citoyen,” Tristan said. And while he suspected the weather had kept some people away, a dislike for Robespierre and his policies was the more likely culprit.

  “That is a poor excuse.” Robespierre surveyed the room. “Tyranny is hiding around every corner, and it will use any and all means to gain a foothold in our newborn country.”

  “Yes, citoyen.”

  “Oh, dear.” A musical voice rang out behind him. Tristan knew without looking it was Alexandra Martin. “Have I interrupted something important?”

  Tristan gestured to the actress. “Citoyenne Martin, this is Citoyen Robespierre.”

  She dropped into a deep curtsy, easily balancing a wineglass in each hand. “It is an honor, citoyen. I apologize for interrupting.”

  “No, stay, citoyenne,” Robespierre said, when she made to depart. “It is I who should apologize. This is a festival, not a stateroom.” He bowed to both of them in turn. “We will speak more tomorrow, Citoyen Chevalier.”

  “Of course.”

  When Robespierre had moved away, the actress handed him one of her two glasses. “I had no idea you were so well acquainted with Robespierre. What lofty circles you move in, citoyen.”

  She raised her glass and drank, and he followed suit. “We are all equal now, citoyenne. There are none loftier than any other.”

  “Well said. Might I toast to equality?”

  “I can think of nothing better to drink to.”

  She toasted again, and they both drank. Then she wound her arm through his. She was warm and fragrant, but he did not want this closeness. She was too tempting. He didn’t trust her. “Do you know, it was actually the promise of equality that drew me to acting,” she said.

  “Was it?” he asked, sipping his wine again and considering how best to be rid of her. “How so?”

  “An actress plays many different parts. One night I may play a servant girl and the next a duchess. I can be all things—at different times, of course.”

  “That is not true equality,” he said. Was it his imagination or had he slurred his words? The voices in the room had grown louder suddenly, so it was possible he had been speaking louder than he’d intended and with less precision.

  “
No, it is not. It was just an illusion, but I do enjoy my illusions. Shall we step outside for some air, citoyen?”

  She’d led him to a door, and he stared at it in some confusion. What door was this?

  “You look warm,” she said, her hand touching his cheek.

  “I do feel a bit overheated.”

  Her fingers on his cheek had sent a frisson of pleasure through him. Now he reached out and returned the caress. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, though he knew he acted in poor judgment. He touched her hair, her jaw, her lips. When he tried to pull her close, to kiss her, she held up a hand. “Outside, my love.”

  He would have followed her anywhere, which was strange because he didn’t particularly like her. But he allowed himself to be drawn through the door and into the cold evening. Something about the cold air cleared his mind briefly. He looked down at his glass, the liquid all but gone.

  “You drugged the wine,” he said, his voice sounding far, far away.

  “It won’t harm you,” she said. “You shall simply take a nice long nap.”

  “Will you lay with me?” he asked, his eyes already closing. Why had he said that? He wanted nothing to do with her.

  Hands—strong hands, not those of a woman—grasped him and lifted him, and then he knew nothing but darkness.

  Three

  “He’s waking,” Ffoulkes said, and everyone save Alex pulled masks over their faces to conceal their true identities. Chevalier already knew Alex, which meant if the League could not persuade him to cooperate, she would have to leave the country sooner than she’d planned.

  Alex moved closer so her face would be the first he’d see upon waking. She looked down at him, his hair spread on the pillow, his mouth slack with sleep, his hands locked in the fetters. He had not moved, and she almost contradicted Ffoulkes and argued Chevalier was still sleeping.

  And then she saw his eyelids flicker.

  The revolutionary was no fool. He was pretending to sleep, listening and attempting to discern where he was and who had captured him while his abductors still thought him senseless. Alex looked at the others—Blake, Montagne, and Ffoulkes—and put a finger to her lips. Then she sat beside Chevalier on a slim rectangle of space, all that was available on the narrow bed.

  “I know you are awake,” she said. “Open your eyes so we might discuss your current predicament and how you might be free of it.”

  “I’ll be happy to discuss it with you,” he said, his voice low and tinged with irritation and his eyes still closed, “if you unlock my hands.”

  “I cannot do that, monsieur.”

  Now he did open his eyes, and they were dark with anger. “I should have known you were a royalist,” he sneered at her.

  She kept her expression passive, although her heart had jumped at his words. She considered herself a humanist, and the urge to defend that belief was strong. But this was not the time or the man with whom to argue philosophy. “Because I like Shakespeare?”

  “Because you are English.” He sat and looked about the room. “You English love your kings.”

  She gave a small nod of assent. “So did you French until recently. But”—she held up a finger before he could interrupt—“I think we can all agree on one point. None of us likes the bloody turn of this revolution.”

  His eyes scanned the attic, taking in the others sitting at the table behind them, Ffoulkes at the side of the bed with a domino to disguise his face and hair, and then his gaze rested on her.

  She could all but feel the fury burn in the depths of those lovely café au lait eyes. Strangely enough, she felt more drawn to him, despite his obvious dislike of her. She had always loved passionate men, and she could easily imagine Chevalier’s anger turned to desire.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Who are all of you? Girondists?” His lip curled when he said the name.

  “Even worse,” Ffoulkes said in English. “The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  Alex had heard that Chevalier had spent some time in London several years before, and now she saw that information was correct. The way his brows rose in alarm proved he understood Ffoulkes perfectly. It had been wise of Andrew to test the captive early, lest they fall into a habit of speaking English in front of him, assuming he could not understand.

  “Je ne comprends pas.”

  “Liar,” she said, still in English. “Even if you did not know English, you would know the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel. And, unfortunately for you, you have been meeting with the man at a café in the Palais-Royal. A Citoyen Allié, I believe he called himself?”

  Most people would have not seen the small sign of distress Chevalier made. The slight testing of his fetters was almost unnoticeable unless one was accustomed to studying imperceptible gestures and nuances of expression. “You begin to see your predicament, I think,” she said, still speaking in English because she knew it was not his native language and would put him at a disadvantage. “You have been consorting with a known enemy of the republic. Robespierre’s most wanted, I believe.”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line, and she could see he would have liked nothing better than to leap at her, lock his hands around her throat, and drain her life away. Ffoulkes must have sensed that as well because he drew nearer. She did not need to be protected. She was perfectly capable of defending herself, but men did like to feel as though they had a purpose, so she gave Ffoulkes a grateful smile.

  Then she looked back at Chevalier, whose expression might have melted the ice crystals that had formed on her window overnight. “Not only have you been consorting with the enemy, you have aided and abetted him.” She held out her hand without bothering to turn around. She knew Montagne would hand her the papers. When they were in her hands, she turned them so he could see. “I believe these are copies of letters in your own hand.”

  His gaze flicked to the papers and then back to her face. His look was so intense she could imagine he burned her visage into his mind. She did not want to think what revenge he imagined for her. No doubt it was violent and vicious.

  She glanced at the papers now, thumbing through them as though she had not read them all several times. “Oh, dear. Robespierre will not gain many allies from these letters. He has a long list of political enemies and he seems quite determined to see them all arrested and executed on charges that seem...well”—she gave him a rather embarrassed look—“rather flimsy if not outright false.”

  She looked at the next document and tsked. “And this one. Oh, my. He condones a recent massacre in Lyon. I do think the public opinion is quite against him in that instance. Didn’t the Convention recall that general and charge him with all manner of abuse of power and atrocities?”

  “So, you have enough material to blackmail me,” Chevalier said in English. He had a rather thick accent, and Alex, who had grown so used to hearing French, remembered that she had a soft spot for men who spoke English with a French accent. Her gaze shifted to his lips. When the French spoke English their mouths always moved as though they were eating a ripe peach. Alex found it rather erotic.

  Which was precisely why she should not look at his mouth. But she did it anyway.

  “Go ahead then. Tell me your”—he gestured with his hand—“what is the word? Demands? What is it you wish me to do before you will hand over these letters?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said shaking her head and smiling. She rather enjoyed having the upper hand, rather enjoyed being the one to make him squirm and suffer as he had been part of the reason for the misery of so many of his countrymen. “If I tell you that, you will run right back to your superior, Monsieur Robespierre, and inform him of the Pimpernel’s latest plan. Then you could swoop in and thwart us and that would only turn you into a hero. I am firmly against that course of action.”

  Chevalier’s eyes narrowed as though he were taking all she said in and translating it quickly in his mind.

  “Get to the point, Alex,” Ffoulkes said.

  Alex glared at h
im. The man had no sense of dramatic timing. She was building anticipation, and he would ruin it all and have her blurt everything out.

  “Fine,” she said. Ffoulkes had ruined the scene at any rate. “You will help us, and your first task is to prove your loyalty with a small favor.”

  Chevalier snorted. “And in so doing I dig my grave deeper? Is that it?”

  “Precisely. You see, my friend here”—she indicated Ffoulkes—“thinks we have you skewered and cooked and served on a platter.”

  “You are to eat me?” For the first time Chevalier looked alarmed.

  Perhaps having him at a disadvantage at this point in the discussion was not such a wise idea. “My friend,” she said in French, “thinks we have you right where we want you, but I don’t agree. I think you would sacrifice yourself before you would help the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  This time he gave nothing away. She would have preferred to see something in his face—something that would tell her she had been right and there was no hope or that she was wrong and he might turn after all. But she could not read him.

  “We cannot allow any heroic sacrifices. You will prove yourself free of them and show us you know your place and your role. If not—” She waved the papers he’d given the Pimpernel menacingly.

  His gaze slid from her to Ffoulkes and back again. “What would you have me do?”

  “Save an innocent man from death,” Ffoulkes said, handing him a paper with a name written on it.

  Chevalier took it awkwardly as his hands were still locked together. But he held it and managed to angle it toward the light to read the name. “An abbé?”

  Ffoulkes folded his arms across his chest. “A man imprisoned for little more than his faith. Surely you cannot object to freeing such a man.”

  Chevalier opened his mouth, probably to utter some rot about how he must be guilty of something if the Republic had imprisoned him, but apparently even he did not believe that any longer. He glanced at the paper again. “Must I make my decision now or will I have time to consider?”