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Paris, the Reign of Terror
Gabrielle stood on the swaying tumbrel, the breeze tickling the nape of her neck. Her head felt oddly light, deprived as it was of her thick, heavy mane of unruly brown hair. The loose, uneven strands brushed the skin on her neck like long, pointed fingernails. Would she feel the blade of the guillotine, or would death come fast and sweet as promised?
She clenched her hands on the cart’s rough rail and tried to think of something else—something other than blood and death and the swish the blade made when it fell in the Place Louis XV, now the laughably named Place de la Révolution. This wasn’t a revolution. This was murder.
Hermurder.
Her stomach roiled and she closed her eyes and tried to think of happier times.
Mrs. Cress would love this short hairstyle. Of course, she’d bemoan the artless way in which the hair had been hacked off by the prison guard, but Mrs. Cress could fix that. Give Cressy a pair of shears and she’d have Gabrielle’s hair cleverly styled in mere moments. Gabrielle would miss her brash speech and her unfailing loyalty. She’d miss Diana too. Diana had been a good friend, someone she could count on in a crisis. If only Diana were here now, she’d turn her famous imperious stare on these raucous revolutionaries and have Gabrielle free in a moment. She smiled, and then she sighed.
She could admit it. She would miss Ramsey. Pathetic to even think of the lying, deceitful scoundrel. He was the reason she stood here, squeezed ever tighter as guards herded more and more of the condemned onto the already packed cart.
She shouldn’t have trusted him. She shouldn’t have believed him.
She wished he were beside her. She’d like to see him mount the scaffold, face Sanson and his assistant, who worked with that awful blood-red rose clamped between his teeth. She liked to imagine Ramsey would grovel and beg and fall to his knees as the crowd jeered. The assistant would drag him, kicking and screaming, to Madame Guillotine, tie him down, and whoosh! The blade would sing. Ramsey would be no more.
The tumbrel jolted as the horses began a slow plod toward the Rue Royale, now the Rue Nationale. Gabrielle shook her head to clear it, feeling those loose strands of hair on her neck again. She was as bad as the peasants waiting to taunt her and the other condemned as they left the security of the prison. For now, she had bloodlust too.
Only she was the one who would die.
Chapter 1
LONDON, THREE WEEKS EARLIER
Gabrielle hated the reel—rather, she hated her partner for this reel. She could not fault his enthusiasm, but she did protest the way he locked his arm with hers and spun her around as though she were a marionette. She swore at one point her feet had left the floor—and she was not a short woman! By the end of the dance, she was so confused and dizzy she felt as though she had drunk a bottle of champagne. And if Sir Herbert Rutherford swung her about one more time, she would grab said champagne bottle and smash it over his head. Above, the cut crystal in the chandeliers lighting the ballroom glittered drunkenly, and beneath, the polished floor swayed clumsily as she attempted to regain her bearings.
Thankfully, the orchestra’s strings rose to a crescendo, signaling the end of the piece. Sir Herbert tried to spin her for a final flourish, but she caught his sleeve and held on. He gave her a puzzled look, and she disarmed him with what she hoped was a wan smile and a fluttering hand to her forehead.
“Lady McCullough, are you well?”
“Perfectly well. Only”—she allowed her smile to falter, and he leaned in, concern etched in the faint lines on his brow—“would you be so kind as to fetch me a glass of lemon water?”
“Of course, my lady.” He took her arm and paraded her across the ballroom, his chest puffed up with the importance of the task she had given him. She passed a dozen couples, none without a title or a fortune, and few possessing both. Nevertheless, jewels dazzled, laughter tinkled, and the music played on. England’shaute tonhad turned out for one of the last balls of the Season in fine form. When she and Rutherford reached a row of Sheraton chairs placed against a wall, Sir Herbert reluctantly released her.
“I shall return.” He gave her a deep bow, and she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling at his seriousness.
Watching his retreating back with narrowed eyes, she waited until his yellow satin coat faded into the crush of people, then turned swiftly and arrowed for the door. There were no guests lingering in the vestibule. It was too early for most to send for carriages and too late for arrivals. The Prince of Wales had arrived three-quarters of an hour ago, and everyone wanted to be present in the ballroom should any drama ensue. Gabrielle almost hoped Prinny would cause a scene. It would make her absence less conspicuous to any who might search for her.
A sleepy footman straightened and nodded at her. She was glad he stood alone. The other footmen were probably outside with the grooms and coachmen, having a wee nip while the quality danced the night away.
“Call for my carriage,” Gabrielle instructed the man. “Lady McCullough.”
The footman raised his eyes, obviously surprised any guest would leave with the prince still in residence, but he dutifully went about his task. As soon as he opened the door and stepped outside, Gabrielle lifted her skirts and took the winding marble steps two at a time. She was out of breath by the time she reached the landing on the second floor. Good Lord, but these town houses in Grosvenor Square were huge. She shouldn’t have allowed her maid to lace her corset so tightly. She struggled to quiet her breathing before padding down the corridor to the last room on the left.
The candles in the wall sconces had all but burned down. They flickered feebly, and she assisted the inevitable by leaning forward and extinguishing them. Murky gray descended, enveloping her in a shroud of stealth. Her black satin gown—open to reveal the silver petticoat beneath and draped behind—though not festive ball attire, melted into the shadows. She quickly removed the diamonds sparkling along her neck and in her ears and tucked them into her bosom. The footman would have returned by now, but he would not yet be suspicious. She would be granted time to fetch her wrap and any other guests traveling with her. She had ten minutes at most before her absence would be noticeable. Not that she worried he would sound an alarm. Still, she did not want her name mentioned when the Duke of Beaumont questioned his staff about suspicious guests in the morning.
With time ticking away, she turned to the door and tried the handle. Locked. She’d expected as much, but it never hurt to try. She had been lucky before. She would be lucky now, she told herself as she reached into her hair and removed an extraneous hairpin fastened into one of the many thick coils. She put her hand on the door and used touch to guide the hairpin silently into the lock. Darkness surrounded her. She closed her eyes anyway, seeing the lock’s mechanism in her mind. She inched the hairpin one way, then another, until she felt resistance. Then it was just a matter of a twist and a pull, and she felt the lock give. She removed the hairpin, tucked the evidence back into her hair, and turned the handle.
A low fire flickered in the hearth, but otherwise the room was shadowy as midnight. Gabrielle did not hesitate, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. She pressed her back against the solid wood and allowed her eyes to adjust.
What she saw was a typical lady’s bedroom. A large tester bed hunkered in the middle of the room, taking up most of the space. The heavy curtains were not drawn, and on the far side she could see a small, elegant desk against the window beside a porcelain washbasin. A pretty dressing table stood at the far wall, beside a door that most likely opened into the dressing room and then the duke’s bedroom. Brushes, combs, and cosmetics littered the table’s surface. She caught a glimpse of sparkle from the jewel of a discarded earring, but she ignored it, her eyes continuing to roam. On the side nearest her, to her right, was a large clothespress. According to the servant she’d questioned, it would be locked as well. When she opened it, she would see the jewelry box. That lock might give her trouble—the more delicate ones tended to be the most difficult—but once she mastered it, Queen Cleopatra’s lapis lazuli necklace would be hers.
With new purpose, she strode to the clothespress, tried the lock, just to be certain, then reached up to extract her hairpin again. She could feel her heart tap excitedly as she slid the metal into the lock. Her breath came in quick, controlled snatches as she twisted the hairpin this way and that. In her mind, a jig played, and she tapped one foot to the tune. It was always thus when she worked—the excitement and fear mixing with the pounding of her blood until she swayed, heady from the combination.
Snick.
Gabrielle smiled, knowing the lock was hers, and if the lock was hers, so was the necklace.
