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Not surprising. In the paralysed state in which she’d existed since emerging from the first shock of leaving Philippe, she’d probably been oblivious to any conversational attempts he might have made. The awful reality of losing her son again had been like staring into the sun, the terrible brilliance blinding her to everyone and everything else around her.
Aside from the vivid encounter with St Arnaud north of Paris, she scarcely remembered anything about the days between walking out of Philippe’s bedchamber at the Hôtel de la Rocherie and arriving at the coast tonight. Trying to piece events together now, she could come up with only snippets of memory.
Will, walking beside her across Paris. Settling her into a bed. Feeding her with his own hands. Cradling her against his warmth while grief smashed her like a china doll into shards of misery. And when the anguish had been past bearing, helping her escape into the oblivion of passion.
No friend, companion or lover could have treated her with more gentleness and compassion. A tiny flicker of warmth—affection, gratitude—lit the bleakness within.
‘Thank you, sweet Will,’ she murmured.
‘For rescuing you from St Arnaud? That was my pleasure, though I would have preferred to have beaten him into pudding, if I was not to be allowed to gut him.’
‘Would you have gutted him?’
He paused. ‘I don’t know. Would you have wanted me to?’
‘Yes. No. Oh, je sais pas! How can I know, when it would make no difference? Killing him wouldn’t get Philippe back.’
‘It would have guaranteed Philippe could never fall under his power. Although it does seem both Talleyrand and the Prime Minister have united to send him far away, far enough that your son will be safe—and they will be freed from his scheming. Apparently they’ve also given us their blessing, or so it seems. What do you make of de Merlonville’s appearance?’
Like an old iron wheel gone rusty from disuse, she had to scrape away a clogging coat of apathy to focus her mind on the question.
‘Talleyrand has been replaced. I didn’t know that.’
‘Nor did I, but it seems he retains a good deal of influence.’
Thinking more swiftly now, she ran back through her memory the whole exchange between St Arnaud and de Merlonville in the upstairs parlour. ‘De Merlonville said Prince Talleyrand had informed the Duc about St Arnaud snatching me, so he must still have agents trailing us … but apparently the Duc now controls who takes action. St Arnaud is tolerated, but just barely. With his thirst for power, I expect St Arnaud will be very careful not to make any further moves against us—or Philippe—without the Duc’s approval.’
‘In any event, it appears he will soon be leaving France—permanently, de Merlonville seemed to suggest,’ Will said. ‘The comte also seemed to want to make clear that the French government had no interest in any testimony you might give.’
She nodded. ‘Which seems logical—with the king’s throne secure, no one would wish to remind Louis of the unhappy past by bringing to his notice a long-failed Napoleonic plot.’
‘That matches what George Armitage told us outside Linz—neither the French nor British governments want to dredge up the old scandal now. Which would leave those de Merlonville called “recalcitrants” as the most likely group looking to harass us.’
‘Yes, St Arnaud and any of his remaining associates trying to claw their way back into government would be keen to make sure no embarrassing evidence of their former Bonapartist leanings came to light,’ Elodie summed up. ‘Eh bien, de Merlonville was instructed to provide us an escort to prevent them from harrying us.’
‘Perhaps. Unless de Merlonville’s offer was intended to put us off our guard and we are still in danger from Talleyrand’s forces, too. Although, since they could have apprehended us any time during our travel north, that seems unlikely, I prefer to remain wary. Hence, this draughty inn.
‘A precaution of the wisest sort.’
‘I hope you continue to think so after you’ve slept in bedclothes clammy from its dripping eaves.’
She tilted her head at him. ‘You have slept under its dripping eaves before, perhaps?’
Will grinned at her. ‘Never underestimate the contacts of a former thief, cut-purse and salesman of illegal goods.’
‘You were involved in smuggling, too?’
‘Smugglers make landfall all along the coast, then use a network of agents to move the goods inland. The boss for whom I worked used to have us distribute lace, silk and brandy that had never had duty paid on it to eager, if clandestine, clients. A profitable business, as long as the revenue agents didn’t catch you.’
‘You have led an adventurous life.’
‘No more so than you. Émigrée creeping from Nantes in the dead of night, returnee to the “New France”, soldier’s bride, grieving widow disguised as a wounded soldier passing through the detritus of two armies, Vienna hostess, seamstress in hiding, old man, valet, monk, farm girl, orange seller …’ Will ticked them off on his fingers.
She’d been smiling at his list until the last disguise reminded her of Paris and the final resolution of her quest. ‘Then back to Elodie again,’ she said quietly. ‘Without home, without family, without my son.’ Her voice breaking on the last word, she slumped back in the chair, despair and weariness suddenly overtaking her.
She felt Will’s hand cover her own. ‘At least you need no longer worry about St Arnaud’s interference.’
‘Perhaps not,’ she replied with a sigh, looking over at him. ‘Praise God, my son is safe. But he is still lost to me.’
‘Where there is life, there is hope, so—’
She put her hand to his lips, stopping his words. ‘Please, Will, no more schemes!’ she cried. ‘I can’t bear it.’
He must have realised how close she still walked to the precipice of falling apart completely, for when she removed her finger, he let the topic drop. Silently he took her hand again, stroking it, his sympathetic gaze on her face.
‘I wish I could help. I know how much you’ve lost.’
Though her rational mind appreciated his attempt at empathy, the wounded animal in her turned on him.
‘You know?’ she spat back. ‘How could you? Je te jure, you have no idea what I feel!’
‘Swear if you like, but I do. I held my mother’s hand and watched her die. I was five years old.’
The expression on Will’s face struck her to silence, her anger withering in its wake. No wonder he’d never wanted to talk about his childhood.
Five years old—almost the same age as Philippe! And she had thought stealing her son from his home a trial too great for any child to bear.
Compassion—tinged with shame—filled her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
‘She was the only being in the world who’d ever cared for me or tried to protect me,’ he said softly, staring beyond her, seemingly unaware of her presence. The anguish in his eyes said he was reliving the experience. ‘Though I was always hungry and ragged, even at that age, I knew she was doing the best she could for me.’
Elodie hesitated, unsure what to say that might bring him back from the emotional abyss into which he’d tumbled. Then he shook his head, as if throwing off the memories, and turned to her with an apologetic smile. ‘I told you the tale wasn’t edifying.’
‘How did you survive?’
‘I already knew the street boys, though Mama had tried to keep me from running with them. They found me at the market, going through rubbish piles with another, smaller boy, looking for the bits thrown away by the vendors as too tough or rotten to sell. When two of them tried to take away what the younger lad had gleaned, I fought them off. Their leader, an older boy, stopped us. He probably could have finished me with one fist, but instead, he ordered them to leave me alone. Said he liked my spirit and they could use another fighter. So they took me in, taught me the ways of the street.’
‘How to thieve?’
He nodded. ‘Thieving, house-breaking, lock-picking, card-sharking, knife-fighting. Sleight-of-hand and how to do a few magic tricks to beguile the gullible while a mate picked their pockets. The real trick was to become skilled enough to win without using a weighted deck or marked cards.’
‘It must have been quite a change, when the earl brought you to Swynford Court.’
Will laughed, a rueful smile on his lips. ‘By then, I was in line to become a street leader for the boss, and resisted mightily being dragged into the country by the brother of the toff who had abandoned my mother. Nor was I interested in exchanging my mates for three dandified cousins. Alastair and Dom were as unimpressed by me as I was by them. But Max … for Max, it was different. I was a Ransleigh by blood and that was that: whatever it took, he would turn me into one.’
‘What did it take?’ she asked, curious. ‘I don’t imagine you would have made the task easy.’
‘I did not. After beating some respect into me, he used a bit of everything—coaxing, challenging, empathising, daring, rewarding. By the end of the summer, much to the chagrin of Alastair and Dom, who had bet him the transformation couldn’t be done, he’d instilled in me a sufficient modicum of gentlemanly behaviour that the earl agreed not to return me to Seven Dials.’
