Chapter Nineteen
In Paris, the smell of death was thick in the air, and the news people on the streets relayed to Verity in hushed voices, unbelievably grim. The power-hungry Girondins were filled with blood-lust. She cringed at the sight of bodies left to molder in the streets, stripped of their boots and coats. Anyone accused of being an aristocrat was run through with a pike or rounded up and sent to the guillotine. She was stopped twice by sans culottes demanding her papers as her fear for her father’s fate increased.
Verity walked over the bridge to the Île de la Cité. She shuddered at the sight of the medieval walls of the Conciergerie prison where all prisoners condemned to death, waited. The clock on the corner tower of the Palais de Justice struck twelve as she crossed the Pont au Change.
She steeled herself and entered the office of the newly appointed Minister of Justice. Danton’s big head bowed over papers on his desk. “And to whom do we thank for your return to Paris, citizeness?”
She clasped her hands tightly in front to hide their shaking. “I’m afraid Beaumont was not as enamored of me as you hoped. Once he held left London for his country estate, I saw no reason to remain.”
He stared at her. “You didn’t feel it judicious to await my instructions?”
“What possible good would it do for me to stay there? The English actors resented me. I wanted to return to work in a Paris theatre. And my father is here somewhere.”
With an indifferent glance he returned to his papers. “You look travel weary, mademoiselle. Not as appealing as usual.”
“I apologize for my appearance. My life lacks the elegance I once enjoyed.” She spread her hands. “My first thought was for my father.”
“You have no knowledge of Beaumont’s whereabouts?”
“Non. Please, is my father well? Where is he?”
He looked down at his desk. Shuffled papers. “I’ll make inquiries.”
She should have gone home and changed. She lost her bargaining power dressed like this. She looked like a washerwoman. “I did my best to carry out your wishes. Surely you intend to keep your word.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’ve failed with the viscount, mademoiselle. He has come to France of his own accord.”
She widened her eyes. “He is in Paris?”
“He has just escaped from a Paris prison!” he thundered, thumping his fist on the desk. Papers jumped, and pens were sent sliding.
His sudden violence, made her tremble. Verity inhaled sharply. Raised her chin. “Escape from prison? Unbelievable.”
“Nevertheless, he did. He came to France to rescue his brother-in-law. But I will find him. I will find them both! They cannot leave the country without my learning of it.”
“I’m sure you will, Monsieur Danton. You never fail. You’ve built a wonderful network which is of great credit to you.”
He looked mollified as he straightened his pens. Her flattery had calmed him, but she risked upsetting him again. “If Beaumont has spoken out against your cause in the English Parliament, then so have many others. Why is he so important to you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Beaumont is one of the Englishmen who’ve joined with the émigrés to form an army which will move against France. His head upon a pike will be a deterrent.”
“Lord Beaumont is involved in such exploits? It does not fit with the man I met.”
“You slept with him did you not? You learned nothing from bed talk?”
She flushed. “He spends most of his time on his estate. He made no mention of an army. I don’t believe it.”
“Whether you do or not, is of no interest to me.”
“I still don’t understand why you’ve singled out Beaumont.”
His demeanor changed. A soft light entered his eyes, and he gazed beyond her into the distance. “Beaumont’s wife was the woman I planned to marry, when I had risen high enough in the government to woo her. He snatched her away from France. Removed her from her family, her country. Anna St André was an exquisite woman. Any man would have been most fortunate to have her as his wife.”
Stunned, Verity listened as he expressed passionate feelings for Beaumont’s dead wife. He could never have married an aristocrat’s daughter. “Lady Beaumont died some years ago.”
He shrugged. “There is a daughter from the union. I’m told she is the image of her mother.”
Danton was married. Did this madman believe his powerful position would open all doors for him in revolutionary France? That he could take Henrietta for his mistress? Anthony had got the better of Danton all those years ago. This was pure revenge, and he’d harbored it for a very long time. A shiver ran down Verity spine, horrified that while Henrietta remained on French soil she was vulnerable, especially when Danton had spies in every corner of France.
“I don’t know what her mother was like. I did not hear that expressed. But I didn’t find her particularly beautiful or charming.” She shrugged, adopting indifference. “Beaumont mentioned she was a troublesome chit. It can no longer be of importance to you, surely.”
“Matters of the heart never fade. I will have her, and I will put an end to him. Capture the father and the daughter may follow.”
“She would never follow her father to France. She is soon to become engaged to an Englishman. But if Lord Beaumont is in France, as you say, then our agreement is at an end. Will you now honor your promise and free my father?”
He glared at her. “You have failed, Mademoiselle Garnier.” He leaned forward. “There is still a chance for you, however. Bring Beaumont’s daughter to me and I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”
Verity stared at the massive, coarse-featured man. His voice so loud it almost rattled the windows. It served him well as an orator, but was off-putting when close. “That’s impossible. She would hardly listen to me. She took a dislike to me.”
“Then you are a poor actress.” He stroked his chin. “I might send men to assist you, but as things stand here…” Verity held her breath. He shook his head. “You’ve proved to be useless and a waste of my time.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Get out.”
She stumbled from Danton’s rooms. Power sent men mad. She was sure of it. She rubbed her arms and hurried down the stairs. Her failure to please him would place her on a list, and her life might now be in danger. Particularly if he spoke to Jacques Rocchard about her. After she smashed a vase over his head, Jacques would be only too pleased to give her away. News of her appearance at the prison could reach Danton too.
She had to find another way to free her father.
Verity stood at the entrance to the dungeons of the Conciergerie where her father had been sent. A large pool of dried blood lay on the cobbles and stained the nearby brick wall. The stench of death remained. She picked up her skirts and walked to the guard room door. Boisterous soldiers were crowded inside.
A guard sauntered over to her, a pistol stuck in his belt. “What do you want, mademoiselle?”
“Can you tell me if Professor Florent Garnier is here in the cells?”
He bold gaze roamed over her, then fixed on her breasts. “What is your interest in him, citizeness?”
“He is my father.”
“Wait here.” The guards all turned to study her.
A bulky man with a pock-marked face detached himself from the group. She cringed while he subjected her to intense scrutiny. “What will you give for that information?”
Verity straightened her shoulders. “I’m here at the bequest of Citizen Danton.”
He raised an inquiring eyebrow. Danton’s name worked like magic again for he swiveled and went back to the guard room.
When he returned, he smiled as if he had pleasant news. “Professor Garnier is not here, citizeness.”
“Where… where has he been sent?”
He shrugged. “If you and I spent time together, I can find out.”
She looked down at herself. A ragged border of mud stained the hem of her gown, her shoes were scuffed. Her appearance safeguarded her in the streets, but it also made her look like fair game to any man who wished to lift her skirts and have his way with her. He didn’t know where her father was. She shook her head and hurried away.
* * *
Christian had no luck locating Henrietta’s whereabouts. With fear gnawing at his gut, he walked the streets, wondering where he might try next. Paris ran with blood, and the people he passed either looked furtive or resigned. The last shred of hope for the king’s release faded as he awaited trial. The Tuileries had been invaded, and the king forced to bow to rampaging peasants. Marie Antoinette’s friend, Princesse de Lamballe, had been raped and murdered, her head placed atop a pike and paraded beneath the Queen’s windows at the Temple.
The September massacre emptied the dungeons of the Conciergerie, the occupants brutally slain in the courtyards without the right of a hearing. The Girondins had accused Danton and the Incorruptible, Robespierre, who had done nothing to stop it. The sans culottes had murdered half the Paris population, many of them women, boys, and priests. All available young men were sent to fight in the Patriot army against the Austrians and the Prussians. Citizens in red capes presided over the tribunals, which were absent of law and protocol. They sent almost all the prisoners to their deaths. France had become very dangerous for Christian. Now that war with England loomed, any Englishman found in France was labeled a counterrevolutionary and summarily executed.
Christian had defied his orders by returning to Paris, such insubordination placed him in a bad light. He knew he had some explaining to do to his spymaster when he returned to England. The best he could hope for was that he was judged fairly and allowed to resign. What he had witnessed in the last few years had removed any trace of the youthful enthusiasm he’d had to create a better world. He should return to England straight away, time was not on his side. But the possibility that Henrietta might be caught here and embroiled in this horror made it impossible.
He turned on his heel and crossed the avenue leading to Rue Richelieu. He would turn his focus to finding the actress, Mademoiselle Garnier. Could they both be part of the Comédie-Française, now the reformed théâtre de la République? He would search all the theatres in Paris if need be. It was drawing a long bow, but someone might remember two exceptionally lovely blonde women.
* * *
Verity entered her apartment. The furniture rescued from her father’s house, before it had been seized and stripped after his arrest, looked dusty and out of place. She’d tried to make a home for herself here, but it never really felt like one. The rooms smelled musty. An odd feeling stole over her as if she’d never expected to return and was surprised to find herself here again.
Her kind landlord, Monsieur Balzac offered to take the trunk to Argenteuil tomorrow in his cart. Bless the man. Without his help she would have been desperate. He’d been a caretaker at the Sorbonne. He came to her aid after her father’s arrest and brought her here to live.
Before returning to Argenteuil, she would go to the theatre. Speak to Monsieur Morel. That man had tentacles everywhere. Many people died in the massacre, but he might have heard something of her father.
She changed into a sober gown of dark blue linen, added her cape and a straw bonnet, and left for the Gaite theatre.
* * *
“Mademoiselle. I am glad you came. The season ends. I must look to the next.” Monsieur Morel glanced over Verity’s shoulder. “And where is the beautiful Henrietta today?”
“She has not been well, monsieur. Can I contact you about the play, or do you need a firm answer now?”
“There is time.” He sucked his pipe, a shocking habit, Verity thought, since theatres so often burned down.
“I came to ask you for a further favor. Would you ask around about my father? I understand he has been held in the dungeons of the Conciergerie, but now...” She faltered, unable to continue.
He patted her back. “A terrible time, mademoiselle. I doubt anyone in that prison survived the massacre.” He scratched his head. “There is so much confusion it will be difficult. I can’t promise anything. A stagehand has a relative who works as a guard there. If you please wait, I’ll go and ask him.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Morel. I am most grateful.”
Verity wandered around the room and searched through the costumes. A pile of soft caps and sashes lay on a table. She snatched them up and wrapped them in her shawl.
Monsieur Morel returned. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. He has gone for the day. If you could come back tomorrow?
Verity left the theatre with her bundle. She dabbed at her eyes. Strange, she’d shed few tears since her father had been dragged away, she’d been so focused on getting him released. And even when she’d begun to doubt he ever would be, the ice in her heart refused to thaw. Now she was like a watering pot.
As she tucked her handkerchief in her reticule, a man dressed in shabby clothes barred her way. She glared at him and was about to order him to stand aside when he bowed. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to find you at last, Mademoiselle Garnier.”
Verity’s heart skipped a beat. Beneath his almost impeccable French, which would fool many, she detected a language of which she was familiar. English. “And you are, monsieur?”
Blue-gray eyes searched hers. “We share a mutual acquaintance.”
“I hardly think so. Who would that be?”
“We don’t have time to dice with words, mademoiselle.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a deserted laneway. “When I last saw you, you were in the company of a certain young lady.”
She shook her arm from his grasp and moved away. “What might you want with her?”
“I intend to help her.”
“What makes you think she needs your help?”
“If she remains in France, then that is self-explanatory I should think.”
“And why do you wish to help her?”
“Suffice to say, I knew her in a better time.”
“We are talking at cross purposes, monsieur.”
A man passed the laneway entrance and gave them a curious glance. “Such are the times, mademoiselle.”
They studied each other while Verity wondered where she’d seen him before. Would it be foolish to trust him? “You wear the cockade. What is your name?”
“No need for names. Why did you and our mutual acquaintance come to Paris?”
Verity’s heart galloped. Was it an open secret? Would Danton hear of it? “What interest is it of yours, monsieur?”
He’d read her thoughts, his gray eyes grave. “Your secret is safe with me. I am a friend.”
“Where did you meet this, acquaintance, of mine?”
“London. Where I first saw you, in fact. You performed a piece from Shakespeare’s Hamlet at the home of Baroness Le Trobe.”
So that was it. But she must remain cautious. “There were many there that night. I don’t remember you.”
“You wore a white gown with flowers in your hair and sang very sweetly.”
“Surely it isn’t wise for an Englishman to be in Paris?”
“Business brings me here.” He looked over his shoulder. A man and woman passed the entrance and glanced their way. “We can’t talk here, it is drawing unwanted attention. Is there somewhere we can go?”
He was tall and possessed of a charming smile. His smile made their bleak surroundings vanish for a moment. It was also a smile that had her trusting him. But should she? Would Henrietta be pleased if she took him back to Argenteuil? “I’ve seen you before,” she said, remembering. “It was Hyde Park, you were riding in Rotten Row.”
“Ah, good.” He glanced around. No one was in sight. “I am at your service, mademoiselle. I suspect you and Lady Henrietta are in trouble. As I have said, I want to help.”
She recalled that he had been on friendly terms with Anthony and Henrietta. But that wasn’t enough to trust him. Some Englishmen found the Revolution beneficial. Was he one? “Your name, monsieur?”
He smiled. “Later perhaps.”
“What help can you offer?”
He took her arm and led her out into the street. “We will discuss it further, where the walls don’t have ears.”
“What is this business you speak of?”
“That I cannot tell you, mademoiselle. You shall have to take my words at face value.”
At least he didn’t create a story to convince her. Verity made up her mind. She instinctively liked the look of this man. And her instincts were generally sound. “You’d best come to my rooms.” She looked for a carriage in the traffic rumbling past.
He stepped onto the road and hailed a passing fiacre. When it stopped, he assisted her into it. His actions were those of a gentleman. And he moved in Anthony’s circle. She studied him from beneath her lashes as they negotiated the Paris streets. He had a certain elegance, despite his ill-fitting clothes.
“Will we find Lady Henrietta at your home?”
She shook her head.
“Will you tell me where she is?”
Verity raised her eyebrows and gave him back some of his own. “Later, perhaps, monsieur. When I learn your name.”
He acknowledged it with a bow of his head as the fiacre drove through the open fields of La Butte Montmartre.