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Hugh put his hat on his head. “Excuse me.”
“But Daventry! It is too dangerous!” the vicomte called.
“Let me worry about that,” he said and jogged down the steps. Anger burned within him. Angelette was a little fool. If he could have, he would have tossed her in a coach, locked the door, and driven her away. Once the anger burned off, he walked aimlessly for some time, wandering the narrow cobblestone streets. Most of the windows were shuttered and the shops closed. It seemed all of Paris was in hiding, waiting with bated breath for what would come next.
Hugh knew what would come next, and he wanted no part of it. He could waste his breath and rail at Angelette again when he returned, but the problem was that despite his arguments, in her place, he would have done the same. She was loyal to her late husband’s family, and he admired that more than he wanted to admit. The question was whether he admired her loyalty enough to stick his neck out and stay to help her.
She hadn’t asked for his help, but he didn’t think she would refuse it if he offered. But to stay...That would be suicide. The mobs would not care if he was English or French. They wanted blood. He felt it with every step he took. He didn’t see them, but he felt hungry eyes watching him from the dark windows above the cobblestone streets. The people were starving for bread and for justice. If it would not be given to them, they would take it through any means necessary.
The Vicomte de Merville had been correct that the streets were dangerous, but Hugh had wanted to form his own sense of the mood of the city. It didn’t hurt that this gave him the opportunity to spend a little time away from Angelette. He hadn’t been jesting when he’d said he couldn’t seem to let her go. Something about her drew him to her. At first, he’d blamed it on duty and honor and all the rest of that rubbish. But now he’d done his duty. She was safe among friends and busy writing to others. He’d done as she’d asked, and he still did not want to leave her.
He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to draw those heavy skirts up and run his hand along her bare calf.
He wanted to take her to bed. Hell, he wanted to take her back to England with him.
Quite suddenly, Hugh needed a drink. He remembered a wine seller he had seen open on another street. He doubled back and stepped into the shop. It was crowded, which didn’t surprise him as almost nothing else was open. Hugh bought a bottle and found an empty table toward the back, barely waiting for a glass before he sat, pulled the cork, and took a drink. It was good wine. He might not appreciate the French penchant for coffee, but he couldn’t fault their taste in wine. He’d met with a half dozen of his suppliers and shipped several hundred bottles back to England before all hell had broken loose. His mother would be pleased. That was likely to be the only thing about him that pleased her. For years she’d been pushing him to marry. He’d claimed he wasn’t interested in marriage. No woman had ever managed to capture his attention for more than a few hours. And when a woman finally did, of course it was one who not only didn’t want him, but who lived in another country and refused to leave.
He took another drink and closed his eyes. Gradually, he became aware of the conversation behind him. The men spoke in hushed tones, but Hugh could hear them clearly enough.
“We have taken possession of the muskets at the Hôtel des Invalides, but we lack powder and shot,” one man said, his voice low.
“I heard the commander of the Invalides sent it to the Bastille,” another man at the table said.
Hugh dared not turn his head for fear the men would know he had overheard them. Instead, he sat still and drank his wine, pretending he was concentrating on the bottle before him.
“I heard that as well,” a third man said.
“Then we need to get inside the Bastille,” the first man said.
“How?”
“We rally the people,” the first man said. “There’s no greater symbol of tyranny than the Bastille. The king imprisons whomever he wants there, political prisoners with no other offense than looking at His Majesty the wrong way.”
Another man snorted. “You know as well as I that there aren’t but a handful of men in that prison and those who are there are mostly mad.”
“But the people will believe what we tell them, and when we have the Bastille under our control, we have the powder and the shot to take a stand. The monarchy will fall and equality will rule the land.”
Murmurs of assent followed, and when the men walked past him on their way out, Hugh did not dare look up. He did not want them to see his face.
***
ANGELETTE HADN’T WANTEDto believe Daventry. Even if the conversation he’d overheard at the shop was true, surely it would not come to fruition. Attack the Bastille? The idea was ludicrous.
But so had been the idea of burning her château.
She hadn’t known of the unrest in Paris. Tucked away as she was in the little village of Versailles, all of France seemed quiet and well. Was the king even aware of the violence and destruction? If he was aware, would he dither or would he act? She had the awful feeling he would vacillate and waver and wait too long to act, as always.
Was she a fool for remaining here? Very possibly, but that didn’t weaken her resolve. She could not abandon her friends and family in what might very well be their time of greatest need.
At dinner, there were only three. The vicomtesse had retired early to unpack and repack, as she would have to leave behind much more than she had originally planned. Daventry and the vicomte had sent a servant to hire coaches and in the morning the three would be on their way with only the essentials. Angelette wished she could go with them. Her gaze met Daventry’s across the table, and she wondered if he would miss her or think of her when he reached the shores of England.
After everyone said their goodnights, Angelette returned to her chamber alone. She had tarried on the steps, hoping Daventry might say a private word to her, but he had walked up with the vicomte. She supposed she would say adieu in public tomorrow morning. Now, she sat in her chamber in a borrowed night rail and dressing gown and combed out her hair. The streets of Paris were unusually quiet. The calm before the storm or the peace they had been waiting for?
Someone rapped on her door and, expecting Marie’s maid who had come to attend her the night before, Angelette bid her to enter.
But it was Daventry who entered. Daventry in the dark, sober clothing the valet had found for him. The clothing didn’t fit him properly, but he still managed to look handsome. His hair was swept back from his face and his cornflower eyes were dark and serious. Angelette’s heart thudded and she suddenly found herself short of breath. This was what she had been hoping for, but now that he was here she didn’t know what to say, what to do.
It was improper for him to be here, in her chamber, alone with her. But she didn’t ask him to leave. She didn’t want him to leave.
