Traitor in Her Arms Page 7

  Cressy huffed and put an arm about her. “You won’t even make it to the drawing room, much less Paris.” She wrapped Gabrielle’s dressing gown about her and supported her until Gabrielle nodded that she felt steady again.

  “Why the sudden interest in Paris?” Diana asked again.

  Gabrielle debated for a moment; her friend would never let it go. She might as well tell them. What was the harm? She began with the events of the ball—pleased with Diana’s restraint when she only uttered two or three oaths at the mentions of Marsan and Lady Blakeney—then went on to describe her meeting with the Scarlet Pimpernel. She ended with the confrontation with Mr. Pin’s henchman.

  When she finished, Cressy shook her head in anger, but Diana had a determined look. “You don’t have to run to Paris to escape this Mr. Pin. You can come to my father’s country estate. Pin won’t find you there.”

  It was a tempting offer. The Exeter country estate was lavish and beautiful. She wouldn’t mind escaping there. But how long would it be before George’s creditors found her? And when she returned, they’d still be waiting.

  Of course, they’d be waiting when she returned from Paris as well, but if she could steal le Saphir Blanc, perhaps she could steal another precious object she might sell back home to pay the men off. If nothing else, her brief sojourn would give Mr. Pin’s thugs the opportunity to pursue another poor debtor. It would take a little of the heat off her.

  Gabrielle stood before her clothespress, examining dresses. What did one wear to revolutionary Paris? “I will not put you or your family in danger, Diana,” Gabrielle said, pulling out a silk gown and discarding it. Where was her muslin? Weren’t they wearing red, white, and blue in Paris these days?

  And there was another reason to go to Paris. “Running away to the country won’t help the comtesse de Tonnerre or her daughter.”

  “And you really think you can steal this bracelet?” Cressy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gabrielle admitted. “But I feel I should try.”

  “And what of this supposed Scarlet Pimpernel?” Diana asked. “How can you be certain this man speaks the truth? Perhaps he’s an imposter meant to lure you into danger. I don’t believe in the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  Gabrielle pulled out a worn shawl. “But what reason would anyone have for luring me to Paris?”

  “Perhaps the story of going to Paris is nothing but a lie. Perhaps the man works for one of McCullough’s creditors and seeks to isolate you and steal you away.”

  Cressy was gathering Gabrielle’s discarded gowns, but she paused now and gave Gabrielle a hard look. “She has a point. This might be an elaborate ruse. The man knew of your talents. Perhaps he intends to exploit them for his own profit. You have no way of ensuring he is the Scarlet Pimpernel or that his story about the comtesse de Tonnerre is true.”

  Weary, Gabrielle sat on the bed. “So both of you agree I shouldn’t go to Paris?”

  “I think it a very dangerous proposition. Perhaps I could ask vicomte Marsan to look into the story of this comtesse de Tonnerre.”

  Gabrielle raised a brow at Diana. “A few moments ago, you called the vicomte a slithering snake.”

  “Perhaps he can redeem himself through this small act…and a dozen or so more.” She crossed her arms and mumbled, “Dancing with that tart Lady Emily!”

  “I don’t know.” Gabrielle shook her head. “The Scarlet Pimpernel did not give me leave to discuss any of this. I probably should not have even mentioned our conversation to you.”

  “Well, if you ask me,” Cressy said, “it all sounds—“

  A brisk tap on the door interrupted her. Gabrielle gave everyone a moment to compose themselves then said, “Come.”

  A butler opened the door. He held a silver tray with a white card on it. “A gentleman waits in the drawing room for you, my lady,” she said.

  “Who?”

  Without waiting for permission, Diana snatched the card off the tray. She read the name on it, and her face paled.

  “Who is it?” Gabrielle asked. She crossed the room and took the calling card from Diana. On it was printed COMTE DE TONNERRE and his address, which she noted was a hotel.

  “It appears we may not need the vicomte after all. Cressy, would you help me dress in my lavender gown? Pierce,” she said, addressing the butler, “tell the count I will be with him momentarily and bring him tea and cakes while he waits.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The door closed behind her.

  “I can’t believe it,” Diana said. “I can’t believe there is really a Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Believe it.” Gabrielle shed her dressing gown.

  Diana paced, apparently lost in thought. “No matter what the comte says, you are not going to Paris.”

  Gabrielle glanced at Cressy, who was shaking out the lavender gown. Cressy sighed heavily. “I think, Lady Diana, the decision has already been made.”

  —

  The comte de Tonnerre was a handsome man. He had thick brown hair, large expressive brown eyes, and a charming smile. Gabrielle couldn’t imagine he was much more than thirty, but he looked ten years older. His eyes were sad, his face drawn, his movements that of a desperate man.

  As soon as she entered the drawing room, Diana and Cressy flanking her, he rushed to her, fell to his knees, and took her hand in his.

  “My lady, you must help me.” His English was heavily accented, but even if he’d been speaking Russian, she would have understood he was frantic.

  “Please, my lord, do sit down.” Gabrielle gestured to a chair. The comte looked at it distractedly and finally sat on the edge. “This is Lady Diana and my housekeeper, Mrs. Cress,” Gabrielle said. “I trust them fully. You have leave to speak before them.”

  The comte nodded, but his eyes were wary. Gabrielle could not blame him. She had heard stories of the horrors of the revolution—friend turning on friend, brother turning on brother. What had this man suffered? What did he suffer now, knowing his wife and child were imprisoned and subject to the guillotine at the whim of some revolutionary official?

  Cressy served the tea and cakes. The comte took his teacup and plate but set them on a small side table without touching it. “Please, my lady, you must help me,” he repeated. He stood again, then realizing it was rude to stand in the presence of seated ladies, sat. But apparently his fervor could not be contained. He rose again and gave Gabrielle and Diana apologetic glances.

  “It’s fine, monsieur,” Gabrielle said. “Please, tell me what is distressing you.”

  “I should not have left them, my lady. I should never have left them.” He knelt in front of her, his eyes red and wet, and Gabrielle felt hot tears sting her eyes. “I knew the situation was dangerous, impossibly dangerous, but I did not think there was any other way for us to escape. The revolutionaries were coming to bring me before the tribunal. The Committee of Public Safety had deemed me a traitor. This means certain death, my lady. I would happily go to my death, but I was anxious to save my wife and my daughter. My little Aline, mon chou d’amour.”

  “I can’t understand what that must have been like,” Gabrielle said, taking the comte’s hand in hers. His skin was hot and damp. “I don’t know what it must be like to know you cannot protect those you love most.”

  “It is horrible, my lady. But you see, there is a man—I have reason to believe you met with him last night—who made it possible. He came to me, in disguise of course, and offered to rescue the whole family. But it would be too suspicious if we went together. He was right—much as I regret the plan now—he was right. Look at what happened to the king when he tried to flee. If only the royal family had not traveled together!” He dropped his head, and Gabrielle squeezed his hand again to give him strength to continue.

  “I wanted the Pimpernel to save my wife and daughter first, but my Camille would not agree to the plan without me. And so the Pimpernel devised a complicated scheme. I am not at liberty to discuss the particulars, my lady. I have been sworn to secrecy. But
suffice it to say, something went wrong with my wife’s escape. One of the Pimpernel’s men, one of his own League, was killed trying to save my wife and child, but he gave his life in vain. Now my family sits in La Force, awaiting certain death.”

  Gabrielle took a shaky breath. If one of the Pimpernel’s men had been killed trying to save the comtesse, what hope did she have of success? “And you believe I can save her? I confess I am not so certain.”

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel seems to think you can be of assistance. He has been in contact with the warden of the prison, a Citoyen Toulan. You know that under the new regime in France, we are all equal. We are all citizens—that is the English word. Even the king was Citoyen Capet. This warden, this Citoyen Toulan, has the heart of a stone, but he is not wholly without weakness. He has a love of jewels. The Pimpernel has bribed this man with jewels before, but the price for my wife and child…” The comte shook his head. “The price is unreasonable.”

  “Le Saphir Blanc,” Gabrielle whispered.

  The comte nodded and stood, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “What is le Saphir Blanc?” Diana asked. Her voice almost startled Gabrielle. She had become so engrossed in the comte’s story she forgot Cressy and Diana were still present.

  “The White Sapphire is a bracelet encrusted with precious jewels.” The comte paced as he spoke. “Louis XIV had it made for Madame de Montespan, one of his mistresses.”

  “Why is it so precious?” Diana asked.

  “Because at the center of the…how do you say it?” The comte made a gesture with his fingers about his wrist.

  “Cuff,” Gabrielle supplied.

  “Oui. At the center of the cuff is a large sapphire. A white sapphire. These are extremely rare in nature. In fact, this may be the only one in existence.”

  “After the attack on Versailles by the French mobs,” Gabrielle continued, “the palace was looted. It is believed most of the treasures were carried off and lost forever. Including le Saphir Blanc.”

  “Yes.” The comte nodded. “But Citoyen Toulan has information as to the whereabouts of the bracelet. He claims his great-grandfather was the jeweler who designed it, and he wants it for sentimental value.”

  “Do you believe him?” Diana asked.

  “No. These revolutionaries are no better than the ancien régime. They are greedy and power hungry. But it is the price for my wife. I would gladly pay such a price, but I cannot return to France. Too many would recognize me, and I would be murdered immediately. If that would help my wife, I would do it in a moment…”

  “But it will not help your wife. Only the bracelet can do that,” Gabrielle said.

  The comte looked at her directly. “And the Scarlet Pimpernel says you are the woman to steal it.”

  “I will try,” Gabrielle said. She looked at Cressy and Diana, but there was no longer any sign of their adamant objections to her going. In fact, both appeared to have been swayed by the comte’s story and were nodding their heads.

  Cressy stepped forward from the corner in which she’d stood in order to appear unobtrusive, as good servants did. “If anyone can steal this bracelet, it’s Lady McCullough. Where is it? Is it guarded?”

  The comte looked sad. “I do not know this information, madam. It has not been entrusted to me. I have only this.” He reached into his tailcoat and extracted a thick white envelope, which he handed to Gabrielle.

  She studied the envelope. On the front was written her name. On the back, it was sealed with scarlet wax, bearing the imprint of a small flower. She took a quick, sharp breath. “The Scarlet Pimpernel,” she whispered.

  She hesitated at the seal, feeling if she broke it she was obliged to accept the Pimpernel’s mission. But hadn’t she accepted it in her heart already? How could she refuse this desperate man? How could she allow a woman to be murdered and her child orphaned in a cold, harsh prison?

  Gabrielle’s hands shook slightly as she brushed the imprint of the flower and then snapped the seal. Inside were several folded sheets of paper. The first sheet she pulled out was thick and creamy, its whiteness marred with black ink. The words were written in a scrawling, confident hand.

  Burn this after reading.

  Attached are your papers, as promised. Sail from Dover on the schooner Fugitive tomorrow night at nine sharp.

  In Paris, go to the house at 33 Rue Saint-Honoré and await further instructions.

  Gabrielle unfolded the forged papers and saw that she was to be Citoyenne Gabrielle Leboeuf, lace maker. She read the missive and papers twice, but feared she wouldn’t remember everything. She would burn them before she reached Paris.

  She tucked the papers into her pocket and glanced up to find all eyes upon her. She rose and extended her hand to the comte. “Monsieur, I assure you I will do all in my power to save your wife and child. I’m leaving for Paris right away, as a matter of fact. God willing, you will see your wife and daughter soon.”

  The comte kissed her hand. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you. S’il vous plaît, if there is ever anything I can do to repay this kindness, do not hesitate to ask. I am not wholly without means. I have the ear of your King George. But even your powerful king cannot stop the hand of the devil.”

  Cressy showed him out, and Gabrielle collapsed in her chair and looked at Diana, seated beside her. “I must be mad. I need to order post-horses directly and travel to Dover. I sail for Paris tomorrow night on a ship called Fugitive.”

  “Appropriate.”

  “Isn’t it?” Gabrielle closed her eyes. “My papers claim I’m Gabrielle Leboeuf, a lace maker.”

  “Do you know anything about lace?” Diana asked.

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Well, at least your French is beyond reproach. I’ve always envied your facilities with language.”

  “Let’s hope I sound enough like a lace maker not to arouse suspicion.”

  Suddenly, Diana’s face paled and she reached for Gabrielle’s hand. Gabrielle gave it to her, astonished to find Diana’s flesh ice cold. “You don’t have to do this,” Diana said. “You don’t have to go.”

  Gabrielle saw a movement in the doorway. Cressy stood watching them.

  Speaking to both of her dearest friends, Gabrielle said, “If not me, who?”

  Chapter 6

  Ramsey stood in the entryway of Montagu House and wondered if he’d made a colossal mistake. This couldn’t be right. A master forger employed at the British Museum?

  He glanced at the slip of paper again. He’d scrawled the words Blake and Montagu House after his midnight interview with a rather unsavory gentleman who had asked a ridiculous amount of blunt to part with the information Ramsey needed. Forgery was a hanging crime, so there was reason to be cautious. And because Ramsey could not hope to enter Paris without very authentic-looking papers, he’d paid the exorbitant fee.

  He was prepared to pay again now, once he found this Blake.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Ramsey turned to find a small, white-haired man in a black coat approaching him.

  “The exhibits are this way.”

  “Actually,” Ramsey said, tucking the paper back in his silk coat, “I’m here to see Mr. Blake.”

  “Mr. Blake?” The man’s eyebrows rose slightly. “May I ask the nature of your business?”

  “He and I are old friends,” Ramsey lied. “I had hoped to reminisce, perhaps take him to dinner, as it’s drawing near that hour.” It was indeed almost half past five, but Ramsey had no intention of taking Blake to dinner. He had post-horses waiting and must leave for Dover immediately. The schooner on which he’d booked passage to France sailed in only a little over twenty-four hours. It could take eight or more hours to reach Dover.

  “Old friends,” the white-haired man echoed. “I suppose you went to school together.”

  “Yes,” Ramsey said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “We did.”

  “I see.” The older gentleman gestured for Ramsey to follow. “Let us see if Mr. Blake
is still in his office.”

  Ramsey had the feeling he’d said something wrong. Perhaps the bit about school had been too much? But he had little choice but to follow the older man now as he led Ramsey through narrow corridors, up a steep flight of stairs, and through a dark passage where the ceiling was so low Ramsey was obliged to duck to avoid bumping his head. At the end of this gloomy stretch was a weathered brown door. The white-haired gentleman knocked on it briskly, then turned the handle. Ramsey half expected to find a prison cell. Instead, one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen looked up from a desk piled high with yellowed parchment.

  Her eyes caught his attention immediately. Even in the dismal, windowless room, the color was striking: violet. Not blue, but a true violet. And so large they all but dominated her face. And what a face—porcelain skin, pink lips, high cheekbones, and swallows’ wings for eyebrows. Her hair, a thick, glossy black, was knotted severely at the nape of her neck, but Ramsey could imagine her with it down about her back and shoulders. Any man would be seduced.

  “Yes?” she said, her elegant brows furrowing. “What is it, Mr. Strooper?”

  Strooper moved aside to indicate Ramsey. “This gentleman claims to be acquainted with Mr. Blake.”

  “I see.” Her lips tightened, and she gave Ramsey a cursory glance. “I’m afraid you must have the wrong person, Mr….?”

  “It’s Lord, actually,” Ramsey said. “I’m the Earl of Sedgwick.”

  She rose, and Ramsey noted her body, even clothed in a drab gray gown that matched the office, did not disappoint.

  “My lord.” She curtsied. “Welcome.”

  “You are correct that we are not acquainted, Miss Blake.” He glanced at Strooper, who frowned at him. “I am sorry I was not honest with you, sir, but I need to speak to Miss Blake about a desperate matter.”

  He glanced back at the woman in time to see some flicker of understanding flit across her face. “It’s fine, Mr. Strooper,” she said. “I’ll speak with him.” She gestured Ramsey inside and indicated a small, crumbling chair opposite her desk.