To Ruin a Gentleman Read online

  Finally, they rounded the bend in the road, and Angelette sighed with relief. This stretch was as empty as the rest had been. They were still safe. Just a little farther, and they could duck back into the cover of the woods. And then they would reach the palace and be truly safe.

  “Not long now,” she said, moving more quickly so she might walk beside him. “You will be on your way to Calais and then far away from France.”

  He glanced at her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead. The sun had risen now, and the day had dawned clear and sunny.

  “I hear the censure in your tone,” he said. “You think I should stay in France?”

  “You obviously finished your business here. Why would you stay?”

  “Precisely.” He paused in the middle of the road and she paused as well. “This is not my country nor my revolution.”

  “It’s hardly a revolution—”

  He waved a hand. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s not mine. My business brings me here, but all the wine in the world isn’t enough to convince me to risk my life.”

  “What about the people, then? What about the men and women murdered at my château last night?”

  “I feel for them and for their families, but what can I do? I can’t save them all. I doubt most even want to be saved as they won’t admit they are in any peril. I offered to take you to Calais, but you won’t leave. You’ll stay and when you finally realize the danger you are in, it will be too late to get out.”

  “And so I deserve to die? Because I have some loyalty to my adopted country? Because I won’t run at the first sign of trouble?”

  “Do I deserve to die? This is not my country, and I didn’t run at the first sign of trouble. But I sure as hell will run when I have the chance.”

  “Do that then!” She turned on her heel and marched away.

  “I will.” She heard his feet crunch on the stones and dirt behind her. Other than that, the day was silent. Too silent. No birds sang. No insects chirped. Perhaps they had been frightened by the arguing. Or perhaps something more sinister lay ahead.

  She stopped and Daventry stopped beside her. “I don’t like this.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. We should go back—”

  “Stop where you are!” came a shout in French.

  Angelette looked about, seeing nothing but green fields on one side and the woods on the other. And then, slowly, men and a few women crept from the trees and out of the trenches on the side of the road bordering the fields. The people were roughly dressed, their clothes stained with soot and what appeared to be blood. In their hands they carried scythes and hedge clippers and even frying pans. They had taken the tools of their trade to use as weapons.

  Angelette reached for Daventry’s hand, and when he squeezed hers tightly, she knew her assumption was correct. These were the men and women who had burned, if not her home, the residence of someone. Last night she had believed the attackers had come from Paris to invade the wealthy little town of Versailles. But now she could see these were servants and peasants from the town. Their existence was not miserable, not like that of many of the lower classes. But if the discontent had spread to them, then France was in grave, grave danger.

  “We have no business with you,” Daventry said in French. “We are unarmed and only want to pass this way.”

  “To go to the palace,” a man said. He was one of the first to emerge from the woods. He looked to be a farm laborer, dressed as he was in stained red and white trousers, the rough shoes called sabots, and a red hat on his head. “To report to the king. Your king can’t save you now. It’s only a matter of time before we deal with him like we dealt with you, Madame la Comtesse.” He spat the title as though it was a foul brew in his mouth.

  So she had been recognized. It wasn’t as though she could have hoped that by removing her skirts she would be in disguise. The local villagers knew her. “We only want to pass by in peace,” she said. “I’ve never done you any wrong.”

  “You ain’t never done us any right neither!” one of the women called. She too wore the red cap and the sabots. Her skirt and blouse were covered by an apron streaked with blood. “You never cared about us. While we froze in winter and starved, you ate pastries and warmed yourself by the fire.”

  Angelette straightened her shoulders. “None of you look to me to be starving. I’m willing to wager that you ate from the table of the master you served and warmed yourself by the fire he provided.”

  “And put one toe out of line,” the leader said, “and a man could be dismissed and destitute. It’s time we took some of the power you aristos hoard. It’s time we no longer had to bow and scrape just to feed our children.”

  The men and women around him nodded and murmured. And then the woman raised her frying pan. “Death to the aristos!”

  The others repeated the chant and started forward. Angelette squeezed Daventry’s hand harder. There would be no escape this time.

  Daventry shoved Angelette behind him and held up both hands. “Wait a moment. Let’s be reasonable.”

  “The time for reason is done,” the man who seemed to speak for the others cried, still advancing, though more slowly and cautiously now.

  “This woman is defenseless and blameless. I can’t allow you to harm her.”

  “We aren’t asking for your permission, rosbif. Go back to your own country. If you leave now, we’ll let you pass unharmed. We want no trouble with the English.”

  “And what will you do to the comtesse? If you murder her, then you are no better than criminals. You claim you want justice. You claim she has wronged you. She deserves a trial, just as any man or woman would receive.”

  “We hereby declare her guilty!” the woman cried, brandishing her frying pan. “That’s the only trial she needs.”

  Angelette peered around Daventry’s broad shoulders. The leader of the mob looked thoughtful. “You want a trial?” he said to Daventry. “I say we give her a trial. A trial by the people!”

  A few men cheered, but most of the mob looked confused. Undoubtedly, they were bloodthirsty and wanted nothing more than to kill her and find the next victim. Even if Daventry managed to give her time by convincing the leader to put her on trial, she was doomed. She still had the knife she’d hidden beneath her petticoats, but what good would it do against this many people? It would have been better for her to run.

  “That’s exactly right,” Daventry said. “Let the people decide her guilt or innocence. Take her into the village and—”

  “No!” This time it was the woman who spoke. “We take her to Paris and deliver her to the people there. When she hangs for her crimes, it will be a symbol to the rest of the aristos that the time of reckoning has come.”

  The leader looked at Angelette and smiled. Angelette shivered. Then his gaze slid to Daventry. “You asked for a trial. We agreed. Give her to me or the English be damned and we take both of you.”

  Angelette gasped in a breath. Surely Daventry had to realize the trial would be a farce. They would find her guilty and then they would murder her. That was if they didn’t kill her before taking her to Paris. Now was the time to run or to fight. She’d rather die fighting than go meekly to her death. Daventry would fight for her.

  But to her shock he moved aside, leaving her open and vulnerable. He simply stepped away from her and even before the peasants seized hold of her, she knew she had been wrong about him.

  He was a coward after all.

  Six

  The look in Angelette’s eyes as they pulled her away was sharper than a thousand daggers and pierced him just as deeply. But to her credit, she walked without stumbling, keeping her head held high. Dirty hands grasped her, pulling her into the center of the mob, but the peasants were true to their word—for the moment. They led her away without hurting her, walking in the direction of Paris. It was a formality and they all knew it. If she was put on trial, she would be found guilty of any and all fabricated charges.

  She didn’t look ba
ck at him, but Hugh could feel the hatred burning off her. And he could hardly blame her. She thought he had sacrificed her to save himself. Hugh could admit the thought had crossed his mind. He didn’t owe her or the nobility of France anything. He had duties and obligations back in England. He couldn’t afford to waste time leading French nobles through woods and rescuing them from mobs.

  But he hadn’t surrendered the comtesse to save himself. He’d done so because there was no other choice. And as long as she was alive, he could still save her.

  He watched the mob lead Angelette away. He could easily make out her dark hair in the center of the group. Her back was straight, and she walked gracefully. Hugh wondered if he would have comported himself so well if their positions were reversed. He couldn’t help but admire her. He couldn’t help but feel more than just admiration. He genuinely respected her.

  He turned to walk in the opposite direction, keeping his pace steady but not rushed until he rounded the bend in the road and was out of sight. Then he sprinted into the wooded area and scrambled out of view, lying down to make sure if he’d been followed he would not be spotted. He watched the road for several minutes and when no one appeared, Hugh jumped up and raced through the woods at a dangerous speed, back the way he’d come. He was one man, and it would be easy to catch up to a mob of a dozen or so, but he did not want Angelette out of his sight. He needed to see her, to make certain she was unharmed.

  Ignoring the creek that had brought them up to the road in the first place, Hugh ran through it, paying no heed to the way his feet slid in the boots. He ran on, passing matted places in the woods where the peasants had obviously lain in wait. One way or another, he and Angelette would have been caught. Finally, he heard the sound of voices, and he stopped running, cocking his head and holding his breath to listen. He thought it must be the peasants, and he ventured close enough to the edge of the woods to see them. His gaze immediately found Angelette. She walked, chin still in the air, but blood dripped from a cut in her cheek, and Hugh knew she must have been struck.

  Anger rose within him, but he tamped it down. He’d hold on to that fury and use it later. Now he slid back into the woods, far enough that he would not be seen but close enough to the edge that he could catch glimpses of the red caps among the peasants. After what seemed a long time, he sighed in relief. The peasants really were taking her to Paris, as promised. He knew the road well enough and, as it was so well traveled, the woods had been cleared to make it safe from bandits who might lie in wait for a passing conveyance. Hugh had no choice but to allow the peasants to walk far enough ahead that he could follow without being detected.

  It would take most of the day for them to reach Paris on foot. And then if they were too late, they would have to wait outside for the gates to open in the morning. This would be the best outcome because he could use the cover of darkness to steal Angelette back.

  Walk slowly, comtesse, he thought, feeling more helpless than ever.

  ANGELETTE DID EVERYTHING she could to slow the peasants’ journey to Paris. She feigned illness, stumbled and fell, and complained incessantly. She was the model of the spoiled comtesse, and by the end of the day she hadn’t won any of the peasants’ favor. They were especially annoyed at her when they arrived outside Paris to discover the gates were closed for the night. A few of them grumbled about finding a tree and hanging her then and there. No one had a rope, which was probably the only reason she was spared.

  The risks she’d taken by angering the peasants today were worth it. Once she was inside Paris she’d be taken to the Palais-Royal and the leaders of this so-called revolution and be killed as an example to other nobles who dared resist. She had to try and escape tonight and enter Paris on her own. Then she could go to the homes of her friends and beg for shelter. She knew it would be offered freely if she could find someone still in the city. Most would be at their country estates in the summer. Perhaps the Vicomte de Merville and his wife would be at home. The vicomtesse was with child and had not felt well enough to travel the many miles to the vicomte’s estate.

  The peasants built a small fire and sat around it, eating their meager rations. Most had no provisions. Angelette herself had not eaten since the day before and had only managed a few drinks of water from muddy creeks. She was dirty, hot, and hungry, but she didn’t complain. She pulled her knees to her chest and made herself small and unobtrusive. The less attention they paid her, the easier to escape. When her captors were done eating, some of them lay down to rest. Angelette lay down too, pretending to sleep. It was difficult not to allow fatigue to overcome her. Instead, she concentrated on listening for the sounds of heavy breathing that would indicate those around her had fallen asleep.

  After what must have been hours, all was quiet and Angelette opened one eyelid a sliver. A couple of men stood off to the side, keeping watch and smoking. Their backs were to her, but one turned to glance at her. She closed her eyes again and breathed slowly and rhythmically. When she opened her eyes again, the man was looking away. Now was the time to creep away and into the dark, except that at that moment someone emerged out of the darkness and slinked into the clearing. He stepped over the sleeping men and women and approached the guards without making any sound. What was the man doing? If he was a thief, why not rifle through the pockets of those sleeping? He seemed intent upon those watching over the camp. One false move and he might wake the entire group. Should she run now while she still had a chance or wait and pray the man succeeded in his plan—whatever that might be?

  Angelette had had enough waiting. Just as the man reached the first sentry, she rolled over, jumped to her feet, and started away. She’d intended to run, but she’d lain so still for the past few hours that her legs cramped. She fought the sting of needles as her muscles protested and limped into the shadows as quickly as she could. What a fool she’d been. She’d walked all day and her body was not used to so much exercise. She should not have been so still. Of course her muscles had seized up after so many hours of sudden inactivity.

  Angelette stumbled into the darkness, finally giving in to the pain and slumping with a hiss behind a broken wagon someone must have abandoned at the gates. Heart pounding furiously, she gritted her teeth and pressed her body against the wheel of the wagon. She could not stay here. The guard was sure to notice her absence in a moment and raise the alarm. She just needed a moment’s respite to allow the cramps in her legs to ease. Slowly, she stretched out one leg, stifling a groan. She began to massage the tight calf muscle when she heard footsteps approaching.

  Panic welled within her. She would not be captured again. She’d rather die here and now than be paraded through the streets of Paris or murdered by a mob of bloodthirsty peasants. She fumbled under her petticoats and closed her fingers on the knife she’d taken from the stables. Clasping it in her hand, she readied to strike.

  The footsteps came closer, and she raised the knife just as the man came around the wheel she used for shelter. She lashed out and would have stabbed him in the thigh if he hadn’t caught her arm. A scream rose in her throat, even though she knew she needed to remain quiet, and his other hand closed on her mouth. He yanked her down again, sinking with her and pulling them both behind the cover of the wheel.

  Angelette struggled to free herself, but he held her tightly, squeezing her wrist until she finally let go of the knife. Now she was defenseless. She would be raped...or worse.

  “Why are you running away from me?” the man hissed in her ear.

  She knew that voice.

  Daventry.

  She tried to say his name, but his hand was still covering her mouth.

  “Quietly, yes?”

  She nodded.

  Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth, but he kept his hand around her waist.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “Rescuing you.” His tone was pedantic, as though his purpose should have been patently obvious.

  “I don’t need rescuing from you. I wa
s rescuing myself. Not that I’d have to rescue myself if you hadn’t handed me over to the peasants in the first place. Get your hands off me.”

  He released her, putting distance between them. She should have been glad, but she actually missed the feel of his body pressed to hers. He felt safe and strong. Without looking at him, she felt in the darkness for her knife and clasped it again.

  “What choice did I have but to let them take you? They would have killed us both, and I knew if I followed and waited for the right time, I’d get you back.”

  She turned to him, trying to see his face despite the darkness. “And how were you planning to stop the mobs in Paris from murdering me?”

  “I was hoping you’d manage to stay out of Paris. You didn’t disappoint.”

  She shouldn’t have felt pleasure from his words. She was angry at him. She wanted to berate him further for handing her over. Instead, warmth curled inside her. She should have known he would come for her. Why hadn’t she trusted him?

  “Now is the time to start for Calais. Before the guards I hit over the head wake up.”

  Ah, this was why she hadn’t trusted him. Because he was always trying to run away. “I told you, I cannot leave the country. I have friends and family here. I can’t leave them behind. Not until I warn them of the danger.”

  “Then write them a letter from London.”

  She scowled at him. “Why did you even bother to come after me? I have told you over and over again, I will not go to England with you.”

  He rose, careful to stay low and out of sight. “Then I’ll go without you.”