Page 49 of The Count’s Charade

“Will you sit with me?”

She could think of no excuse that would not entail the explanations she was determined not to make. She dragged another of the three kitchen chairs to the other side of the table, and sat down in shadow. Henri was already slicing the roast, with a slight rigidity of his left arm. Watching him, Grace discovered she was blazingly angry.

Her eyes fell to his plate, and the sight of the growing pile of meat reminded her she had scarcely eaten today. A gnawing started up at her insides, mingling with the rage.

She stood up. “You can cut some for me as well,” she said, her tone curt, and went to fetch another plate.

Resuming her seat, she found Henri frowning over his work. He cast her a glance in which she read unspoken criticism. The fury erupted. “You need not look at me like that! As if it is I who has been less than honest!”

Henri laid down the carving knife. His tone was dangerously quiet. “You can explain this, please?”

Grace looked down. “Later.”

Unexpectedly, the gruff note touched him. He waited a moment, but she said nothing further. He leaned over to take her plate, and laid a few slices of beef upon it. “Do you wish the chicken?”

Her head shook. “Bread, if you please. I will cut myself a little cheese.” So saying, she reached across and drew the plate of crumbly white cheese towards her. She glanced about the table. “Butter. I forgot the butter.”

By the time she had located the dish, Henri had begun upon his repast, eating as if he were famished despite the stiffness of his left arm, and swallowing it down with gulping draughts of wine. Grace’s appetite quickened as she began upon the beef, and they ate in silence. The food did much to mend her temper, and Grace accepted with a quiet word of thanks the glass of wine Henri handed to her.

At last he pushed away his plate and sat back, sighing his satisfaction and nursing his upper arm close to his chest. A twinkle glittered in his eye in the candlelight. “This was very much needed.”

Grace managed a faint smile. “For me too. I have eaten little today.”

She saw the frowning question come into his face, and braced herself. His deduction was all too simple. “Because I have gone?”

Grace brought it out flat. “Because Sir James told me you are a revolutionary.”

His eyes widened. “Ah, it is this which makes you change.”

She eyed him from the blanketing shadow in which she sat. “Is it true?”

Her heart was thudding as she awaited his answer. It was a moment or two before he spoke. He was not looking at her. Guilt? Or was it to weigh his words?

“Grâce,” he said at last, raising his head, “it is not possible to answer yes or no. It is a matter not so simple, enfin.”

Despair engulfed her. “Which is as much as to say you are a revolutionary.”

“I have been working for the Revolutionary Government, yes.”

“As an aide to Robespierre?”

Henri nodded. “He was Le Directeur.”

“And that is why Jean-Marc and the others are pursuing you.”

He was silent. Grace felt her emotions dulling to an ache. Absently, she lifted the wine to her lips and sipped it. She had wanted it to be untrue. She had wanted to believe in him. Hardly aware, she voiced her thoughts aloud.

“It seems impossible you could do such things as you must have done. Horrible to think that I, had I the misfortune to be born in France, might have been one of your victims.”

Henri felt all the weight of his own guilt the more. But this last was not to be tolerated. “You think it is only those of high birth who have suffered? Ma chère, you do not conceive the reality of life in France. Each man must look to his back, and trust no one. His neighbour, his brother, his servant. All can speak against him. It needs only one voice to bring any man, woman or child, high and low born both, to trial in the name of an enemy of the République.”

“As you were brought to trial?” Grace cut in, low-voiced. “I read your papers again, and this time I understood. You were preparing your own defence, were you not? Only you did not know Jean-Marc and the others would prove to be your enemies. And I think you also have a list of those you might use to help you remove from France. Am I right?”

Henri could not withstand a smile, and admiration sounded in his voice. “This is well seen by you, Grâce.”

If only she could see beyond it, and recognise the truth. He dared not tell it to her, for fear that Jean-Marc, on discovering that she knew, might seek to dispose of Grace as well as he. Ruthless as he was, willing to sacrifice one who had been his closest friend, he would suffer no witness to live who could bring him to the guillotine. Not that Grace had a line to the Revolutionary Government, but she could report facts to the authorities, who did. Jean-Marc would take no chances.

Meanwhile, she believed the worst of him, and there was nothing he could do to mitigate it. Not yet. Besides that the weight of his own conscience took a curious satisfaction in punishment he had long felt he deserved. One could not act in the capacity he had, and not be party to deeds that had scarred his honour and given him nightmares. Only by holding the greater good in the forefront of his mind had he been able to live with himself. How should he expect a woman of the calibre of Grace Dovercourt to think well of him despite this background?