Anne Dinsmore’s grace and charm, not to mention her impeccable standing among the doyennes of high society, were precisely what he needed to help him manage his spirited young sister. Elizabeth had barely been out of leading strings when their father died. His stepmother was an absent-minded creature who spent most her time puttering about the gardens at Moreham Hall, leaving Elizabeth’s upbringing to a string of governesses and Rafe. There were times when he felt more like a father to Elizabeth than a brother. He shook his head; he found it hard to believe that the gangly girl with the knotted curls was on the verge of coming out into society.
If she would just pay more attention to his advice, Rafe thought, unconsciously tapping his fingers on his thigh. She needed to learn to conduct herself with the decorum befitting an earl’s daughter. She needed to be more responsible and stop haring off on impulse. He’d told her that repeatedly, and each time she’d look up at him, eyes full of tears, lip quivering, and promise to do better. Rafe had a notion he was being shammed, but he always relented.
Jervis’s voice interrupted his musings. “What does last month make, two or three governesses she’s run off?”
“I believe it’s three.” It wasn’t that he wanted to kill her spirit, just curb it a bit. Rafe knew all too well where impulse could lead.
“You could do with bit of high spirits yourself my lad,” Jervis said, wagging a spoon at him.
Rafe’s lips tightened. He’d heard that argument before and he mistrusted it; it only led to disaster. It was impulse that had taken his father over a jump too high for his favorite horse, leaving the earl with a broken neck and the horse with a shattered foreleg. It was impulse that had led his brother to wager the family fortune on the turn of a card. And it was impulse that had brought him here to Paris instead of coming up to scratch with Anne. Rafe made up his mind; as soon as he returned to England he’d speak to her.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Jervis broke in. “I hear they’ve finally reopened the gates of the city. The cargo’s nearly all been delivered to the ship, so when do you think we might be getting out of here?”
“Another day or so and I think everything should be signed and delivered.”
“I tell you, Captain, I’ll be glad to see the last of this place.”
“Well, the city seems to have settled down.”
“Yes, it’s almost eerie. People going about their business as if there weren’t rotting corpses stacked like cordwood the next street over. In all my years, I never seen anything like it.”
Rafe nodded. In his late teens he’d fought in the colonial wars in the Americas; it was where he’d met Jervis. He’d experienced hand-to-hand combat in the forests of New England, fought at the disastrous battles of Saratoga. But in all those years, he’d never seen such horrifickillings. He found it hard to believe that only a week ago, mobs had broken into the jails of Paris, slaughtering the inmates. For days after, thugs known as sans-culottes for their distinctive baggy pants, roamed the streets looking for “counter-revolutionaries” and “traitors to the state.” He would never forget the sight of these men, their clothes spattered with blood and their wrists swollen from their labors, swaggering about boasting of their murderous deeds.
Jervis pushed his bowl away, patted his stomach, and emitted a satisfied belch. “Where to now, Captain?”
Rafe spun the stem of his spoon between his long elegant fingers. “Jervis my man, I believe it’s time to fold our cards and quit the game.”
Three
Alix stood in the open ground floor of a butcher shop on a muddy side street in Paris, picking chicken feathers out of her hair. “You know,” she said to David Chaumier, “I think this idea was better in the planning.” They both cast their eyes to the street where a cart with a false bottom was parked.
“Well, the crates of chickens did keep the guards from checking the wagon too closely,” David pointed out. “Nasty things though, chickens. Hate the way they’re always staring at you with them beady little eyes, probably thinking how to peck your fingers off with them sharp little beaks.”
“It wasn’t the birds that frightened me. It was the fear that I might expire from the odor. I wish I’d had my vinaigrette with me.”
“Here now,” David said in a whispered scold. “We told you. You can’t go waving fancy silver boxes under yournose like you’re too good for the barnyard or the streets. People will think you’re putting on airs, or worse.”
“I know, I know,” Alix replied quickly. “Don’t worry so. I haven’t so much as a lace handkerchief among my things. Speaking of which...” Alix swept a hand across her dress. It was spattered with detritus from the chicken cages.
David gestured toward an alleyway. “Henri says you can change your clothes in the room behind his shop, through the door over there.”
Alix picked her way carefully through the refuse-strewn passageway. Pushing open a rough wooden door, she entered a small dark room. From the light of a grimy window she could make out a bed, a table, and two crudely hewn wooden stools. The smell of butchered meat permeated everything, and her gorge rose. She willed her stomach to be still.
It had been a rough trip, but it was almost over. It was a stroke of good luck that one of the château’s former cooks, Henri, had set up a butcher shop near Les Halles, not far from the Rue de l’Université where her mother was living. More fortunate still, he had been willing to offer his assistance, though Alix understood the gesture was out of friendship to the Chaumiers rather than to her.
She pulled off her kerchief and began to unlace her dress, eager to shed the clothes she’d been wearing since she fled the château six days ago. She wished she could have changed her chemise, but without assistance she could not remove the stays that overlaid it. She recalled Solange arguing that she should wear a corselet, a shorter garment that laced in front, or forgo them entirely since they were currently out of fashion in Paris. Alix thought she would feel naked without her stays and so had refused. Besides, they had proven a useful hiding place for her valuables. She ran her hand along the lumps of papers and jewels sewn into the garment’s lining. Heaving a smallsigh, she wondered whether her linen would look less grimy if she folded under the lace of her chemise.
Henri, she saw with relief, had left a pitcher of water and a basin on the table. Using the skirt of her yellow wool dress, she sponged her face and body as best she could. Then she opened her cloth bag and pulled out her carefully chosen costume: a clean petticoat, cotton stockings, a white muslin dress sporting a print of gay red, white, and blue posies, and a waist-length red jacket. At the bottom of the bag lay a lace cap and a somewhat crushed straw hat trimmed with red, white, and blue ribbons. Clad in this attire, she should be able to pass as just another patriotic citizen attending to her business in the city.
She emerged into the alleyway, transformed, or at least so she hoped. She performed a graceful pirouette for David and Henri, and asked, “So, citizens, am I not a vision?”
Henri pursed his lips, uncertain of how to respond to his former mistress, but David crowed with laughter. “Oh, mademoiselle,” he gasped. “You’re a vision all right. I’m just not sure a vision of what.”
Alix eyed him. “I was given to understand such outfits are all the rage in Paris. Are you suggesting my attire is less than à la mode?”
“Well,” David offered, “maybe if you could do something with your hair?” He plucked off her hat, picked a pinfeather out her hair, and tried to smooth her tangled waves into a semblance of order. Tucking in as many of the errant strands as he could, he replaced the hat, stood back, and surveyed his handiwork. “I suppose if you walk with a purpose, don’t look anybody in the eye, you could make it to your mother’s without attracting too much attention.” David’s voice grew serious. “I tell you, Mademoiselle Alix, I’d feel better if you’d let me take you there. And you know Solange would agree with me.”
Alix looked at him, her gray eyes softening. “David, Ican never thank you enough for everything you and Solange have done for me. You’ve gotten me this far, and I can’t bear to ask any more of you. If I’m picked up by a district patrol, and you’re with me, you’ll be accused of aiding a fugitive aristocrat. And we both know what that means.” She cast a look at Henri, and he nodded in assent.
