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“That might be you tonight or tomorrow,” a woman’s voice said. Ramsey turned sharply. He’d been standing with his back to another, seemingly abandoned residence, and he could not think where the dark-haired woman had come from. Inside the house? But he had not heard the door open. He would have seen her approach if she’d come down the narrow lane of the Rue Roi de Sicile.
“I’ve been watching you,” the woman said, her red lips barely moving.
That simple statement chilled him to the bone. He was half ready to declare her some sort of apparition. But she stepped closer, and he smelled her perfume.
It reminded him of someone…
“Have you?” he said.
She nodded. She was actually quite attractive, dressed in a blue robeá l’anglaise—at least he thought that was the term women bandied about—with a simple bonnet and the ever-present tricolor cockade. Her patriotic symbol was larger than most, covering a good deal of her bosom, which he supposed was fortunate, because the day was chilly and she showed quite a bit of cleavage. Her hair was dark as were her eyes and her complexion. She looked to be from the south, perhaps Gascony, though he never could remember all the regions of France. It seemed they were always and forever changing hands.
For an apparition, she was not unpleasant to look at.
“You are staying with Citoyenne Martin, the actress.” She said the last disdainfully, as though she had no use for actors and their ilk.
Ramsey had not gone to trouble to hide where he and Gabrielle were lodging, but he did not like being at a disadvantage. He shrugged easily, disguising his irritation and the rising anxiety beneath it. Who was this woman, and what did she want? She was a woman of power, he decided. She held her head high, looked him in the eye. And the perfume she wore…
“As you see, Citoyenne Martin and Citoyenne Leboeuf are just there.” He indicated the two women at the far end of the street, who were standing and conversing with a man who looked, by the stains on his apron, to be a butcher. Was that Alex’s friend?
“Leboeuf? Is that what the viscountess calls herself?” She laughed when he blinked suddenly, unable to suppress his surprise.
“And you, Lord Sedgwick. You are called Citoyen Delpierre. It must be exceedingly difficult to remember all of your names.” She held up a gloved hand. “Earl of Sedgwick.” She ticked off one finger. “Citoyen Delpierre.” She ticked off another. “And Ramsey Barnes.” She ticked off a third, smiling at him all the while. “Tell me, which name will you give when the jailer asks you at La Force?”
“I had hoped I would not have to make such a decision,” Ramsey said stiffly, hoping his face betrayed none of the turmoil he felt at the moment.
“I have that hope as well,” the woman agreed. Color had risen in her cheeks now, giving her a sort of violent beauty. “La Force is not a place where prisoners live long.”
Ramsey knew that well. He remembered reading the account of the mob riots on La Force in theTimesa year or so ago. Mobs had broken into the prison, hauled the prisoners into the courtyard, and one by one, beat, bludgeoned, decapitated, and butchered them.
The Princess de Lamballe was the most famous of these casualties. She was the particular friend of Queen Marie Antoinette, who was still imprisoned and certainly doomed. Ramsey had never met the princess, but he knew others who had. They described her as kind and gentle. And yet, according to the article in theTimes,and the stories he’d overheard here and there, she’d been insulted in every way imaginable by the mob, been cut to pieces, and had her head and the pieces of her naked body dragged about the streets of Paris for two days.
He glanced at Gabrielle, still standing down the street, again. It was not a fate he wanted for her.
“Yes, look long and hard at your lady friend,” the woman beside him murmured. “Because if you want to save her, you had better do as Madame Fouchet instructed.”
Ramsey cut his gaze to the woman. He knew why her scent was so familiar now. She wore the same rose fragrance as Madame Fouchet. Why didn’t he expect that she would have spies watching him in Paris? Her reach was long and wide.
God, he was a fool. He should have never even spoken to Gabrielle. He should have avoided her at all costs. Now he’d involved her in this business as well. “She”—he indicated Gabrielle—“has nothing to do with this.”
“Oh, but she has everything to do with your business, and I applaud your cunning in using her,” the woman said. Ramsey noted her teeth were rather jagged. Not at all attractive.
“I’m not using her,” he said, knowing it was a lie.
The woman laughed. “She will lead you to the Scarlet Pimpernel, but you’d better convince her to do so soon.” The woman moved closer, running a finger down his cheek. He recoiled.
“Madam grows impatient.”
Ramsey grabbed her wrist, holding it in what must have been a painful grip, but she did not flinch. “Do not threaten me,” he warned her. “I’m not a man who tolerates threats.”
“Oh, the guillotine for you and Viscountess McCullough is not a threat,” the woman whispered. “It’s a promise. Now release me or I scream, and you will see the inside of La Force much sooner than you hoped.”
He all but threw her wrist back at her. Unfazed, she backed away from him, smiling. “Goodbye,MisterBarnes…“
He watched until she turned on her heel and flounced away. He closed his hands into fists and resisted the urge to pummel the brick behind him. He would kill Madame Fouchet for this. How dare she expose his secret?
But that was all part of her plan. Threats, promises, fears of reprisal…those were the means with which she ensured her minions did her will. Oh, and they did her will. Look at all he had done for her. Look what he was doing now!
He watched Gabrielle turn and start back toward him, leaving Alex and her friend behind. Gabrielle gave him a quick wave, and he nodded in acknowledgment. He’d had that beautiful creature naked and in his arms twice last night. The second time, he allowed her to slip away from him. He might have convinced her to accept him as her lover, but she had mentioned trust, and he’d felt that twinge of guilt.
