The Bride Wore Scarlet (2 page)

An uneasy silence hung in the air. “Very well,” Maria finally said. “I write. But on your head be it.”

“
Sì
,” the old woman answered a little sorrowfully. “On my head be it.”

Chapter 1

It is only the enlightened ruler and the wise general who will use the highest intelligence of the army for the purposes of spying.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

N
ight lay over Wapping, nearly silent, the sky wisped with a fog that twined like languid cats about the bare masts of the ships at anchor in the Pool of London. Despite the hour, the rhythmic
slush-
shush
-slush
of a receding tide was unmistakable as it washed over mud and gravel, the sliver of shore beneath as yet a mere speculation.

Atop the embankment, Lord Bessett ground the stub of a cheroot beneath his boot heel, then flicked up the collar of his greatcoat, a defense against the sharp, fetid breeze that sliced off the Thames. The gesture cut the wind, but did little to mitigate the stench of rot and raw effluent.

Thank God it was a chilly night.

The water slapped again, more violently, exposing for an instant the last step, slick with green algae. Just then Bessett's well-trained ear caught a sound. He jerked his gaze up, scanning the Pool. There was nothing. Nothing save a few distant shipboard lanterns, misty yellow smears bobbing faintly with the tide, and the occasional spate of raucous laughter carried across on the wind.

Then, silent as the grave, a waterman slid from the gloom, cutting along the river's edge until his hull rumbled slightly aground. A bony, tremulous finger pointed toward the stairs. His passenger—a great hulk of a man in a long, dark cloak—unfolded himself, tossed a few glittering coins into the air, then leapt with a heavy thud onto the last step.

The waterman slid back into the gloom, silent as he had come, looking rather as if he accounted himself fortunate to escape.

His every sense alert, Bessett leaned over the embankment and offered a hand as the visitor ascended into the pool of yellow lamplight. He took it, stepping up onto the paved surface with a grunt tinged with weariness.

Not a young man, then.

This assessment was proven accurate when the man turned his face toward the lamp that swung from the Prospect's riverside balcony. His was a worn and weathered visage, with small, hard eyes, and a nose that hung from his face like a bulbous wad of sausage. To complete the disconcerting picture, a scar slashed from his chin up through his mouth, horribly twisting the bottom lip.

The waterman's consternation was understandable.

“Fine weather tonight, is it not?” Bessett said.

“
Oui
, but I hear it is raining in Marseilles.” The voice was like gravel, the accent thick and decidedly French.

Bessett felt the tension inside him relax but an increment. The phrase was right, aye. But there could still be trouble—and he never entirely trusted the French.

“I'm Bessett,” he said simply. “Welcome to London.”

The man laid a heavy palm across Bessett's right shoulder. “May your arm, brother, be as the right hand of God,” he said in flawless Latin. “And all your days given to the
Fraternitas
, and to His service.”

“And so may yours,” Bessett answered in the same.

Sensing no animosity, Bessett eased his left hand from his pocket, releasing the hilt of the dagger he'd instinctively clutched. “So you are DuPont,” he went on. “Your reputation, sir, precedes you.”

“My reputation was made long ago,” said the Frenchman. “In younger days.”

“I trust your journey was without incident?”

“
Oui
, a swift, easy crossing.” The visitor leaned into him. “So, I have heard much of this new safe house you keep here. Even we French cannot but admire your effort.”

“It is a good deal more than a safe house, DuPont.” Bessett motioned him down the narrow passageway that linked Pelican Stairs to Wapping High Street. “We are dedicated to rebuilding this sect. We live practically out in the open, in the guise of a sort of intellectual society.”

The visitor snorted with Gallic disdain. “
Bonne chance, mon frère
,” he said, stepping out into the gaslight. “As you know, we in France are not so bold—but then, we have good reason.”

Bessett smiled thinly. “I take your point, DuPont. One begins to wonder if the political upheaval in France will ever end.”

The Frenchman lifted one thick shoulder. “
Non
, not in my lifetime,” he answered evenly. “And all your fine efforts here in London will never change that fact.”

“Aye, sadly, you may be right,” said Bessett. “As to the house—the St. James Society, it is called—any brother of the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
who passes through England is welcome to quarter with us—even those who do not support the unification.”

“
Merci
, but I must not linger.” The Frenchman rolled his shoulders uneasily. “So, my new
Fraternitas
brother, do we walk? Have you a carriage?”

Bessett jerked his head toward the public house adjacent. “The Society has come to you, DuPont. They wait within.”

Just then, the Prospect's door flew open and a pair of garishly dressed nightingales burst out, laughing, a hapless young naval lieutenant hooked arm-in-arm between them. He looked wealthy, besotted, and thoroughly foxed—the prostitute's holy trinity.

The Frenchman watched them go assessingly, then gave his disdainful grunt again. “Ah,
mon frère
, life is the same the world over,
non
?”

“Aye, he'll be pissing pain till All Saints' Day with that pair,” Bessett muttered. “Come, DuPont. The brandy here at the Prospect is passable, and the fire is warm.”

Inside, the front taproom of the public house was abuzz, with every scarred and beaten table surrounded by men of the dockyards, with tavern maids swishing and weaving between them, trays and tankards hefted gracefully aloft. Lightermen, shipwrights, sailors of every nationality—even the occasional shipping magnate—all of them came, eventually, to the Prospect, where a hot meal and a fairly pulled pint might be had in companionable good spirits.

Bessett waded through the human morass, the man called DuPont on his heels, and made his way round the bar and into a quieter room where the tables sat along a row of small-paned windows overlooking the Pool.

His three colleagues rose at once, shaking DuPont's hand with outward welcome. But Bessett knew them well, could see the tautness in every move of their muscles and sense—in an ordinary, human way—the age-old wariness each exuded. Even if DuPont was
Fraternitas
, he came as an agent of the Gallic Confederation, a stubborn and secretive sect.

“Welcome to England,
monsieur
.” Their Preost, the Reverend Mr. Sutherland, motioned toward the empty chair. “A pleasure to meet one of our brethren across the water. My associates, Ruthveyn and Lazonby.” Handshakes were exchanged, then Ruthveyn snapped his fingers at one of the girls, sending her scurrying for a bottle of brandy.

“So, DuPont, I hear from my Catholic compatriots in Paris that trouble is afoot,” Sutherland began once the bottle and glasses had been situated. “Is that what brings you?”

DuPont sipped at his brandy, his scarred mouth twisting even further at the taste. He set it down at once. “
Oui
, a child has fallen into the wrong hands,” he said. “We require your help.”

“A child?” Ruthveyn's dark visage hardened. “A Gift, you mean?”

The Frenchman scrubbed his hand round what looked like a day's growth of stubble. “It seems so,” he admitted. “Though the child is young—not yet nine years of age—the circumstances are . . . troubling.”

“Troubling how?” Lord Lazonby, an inelegant, broad-shouldered man, had thrown himself casually back into his chair, set his booted legs wide, and was absently turning his glass round and round on the scarred oak table. “Can the Guardians of Paris not keep up with their charges?”

DuPont bristled. “Ours is a nation in turmoil, you may recall,” he snapped. “Our King now resides here—in utter exile—and even in these modern times, we can barely keep the rabble from rolling out
Madame la Guillotine
again. No, my Lord Lazonby. We cannot always keep up with our charges. Indeed, we often fear for our heads.”

Ruthveyn planted his dark, long-fingered hands wide on the table. “Enough,” he commanded. “Let us be civil. Tell us, DuPont, what has happened. And be quick about it. We mightn't have much time.”

“Aye, you are to be married, old boy, in a few days' time,” said Lazonby dryly, entirely unperturbed by the scold. “And home to Calcutta thereafter. I believe Bessett and I can guess who will be charged with this task.”

“Precisely.” Ruthveyn's voice was tight. “Now, what is the name of this child, and how strong is your certainty of the Gift?”

“The child is called Giselle Moreau. About the other, we are certain enough to fear for her. The Gift is strong in the father's blood. Her mother, Charlotte, is English.”

“English?” said Ruthveyn sharply. “Who are her people?”

“Impoverished gentry near Colchester,” said the Frenchman. “They found enough money to send her to school in Paris and she thanked them by falling in love with a lowly clerk in the royal household—a bastard nephew of the Vicomte de Lezennes. She has had little contact with her family since.”

“They disowned her?”

“
Oui
, so it appears so.”

“Lezennes?” Lord Bessett exchanged uneasy glances with Mr. Sutherland. “I've heard the name. He's often found near the center of court intrigue, isn't he?”

DuPont nodded. “Always near,
oui
, but never close enough to be blamed,” he said bitterly. “He is a clever devil, our Lezennes. He has survived the fall of Louis-Philippe, and now endeared himself to the Bonapartists—even as it is whispered that he is in truth nothing but a Legitimist, secretly seeking to restore the
Ancien Régime
.”

“What do you think?” Bessett demanded.

The Frenchman shrugged. “I think he is a cockroach, and cockroaches always survive. His politics scarcely matter to me. But he has taken this Englishwoman under his wing in order to use her child, and that matters to me very much. And now he has removed them to Brussels, where he serves as an emissary to the court of King Leopold.”

Bessett's hands fisted involuntarily. “From one political uncertainty to another,” he murmured. “I cannot like the sound of this. This is the very thing we wished to avoid, DuPont, with the
Fraternitas
's unification.”

“I understand, but this is France we are talking about,” said DuPont calmly. “No one trusts anyone. The
Fraternitas
in Paris—such as we still exist—is uneasy. Lezennes is not known for his charitable nature. If he has taken this child, it is for a purpose—his own purpose, and a bad one. That is why they have sent me. You must get the child back.”

“Of course we wish to help,” said Sutherland gently. “But why us?”

“As I said, the mother is English,” said DuPont. “Your Queen wishes her subjects abroad to be protected, does she not? You have some rights in this, I think.”

“I . . . don't know,” said Ruthveyn warily.

The Frenchman crooked a brow arrogantly. “You are not unknown to us, Lord Ruthveyn,” he said. “Nor is your work in Hindustan. You have your Queen's ear, and your Queen's favor. The King of the Belgians is her beloved uncle. You have influence. Would you truly punish the Gallic Confederation merely because we keep to ourselves, when all we ask is that you use your influence to save our Gift from being raised by a devil? From being used for nefarious purposes?”

“Of course not.” Ruthveyn's voice was tight. “None of us wants that.”

“But what of this woman's husband?” Bessett demanded.

DuPont pressed his misshapen lips together for a moment. “Moreau is dead,” he finally answered. “Killed but a fortnight after the King's abdication. He was summoned late one night to his office near the palace—by whom, we are not sure—but somehow, the draperies caught fire. A terrible tragedy. And no one believes it was an accident.”

Lord Ruthveyn's expression stiffened. “The dead man—he was a Guardian?”

“
Oui
.” The word was but a whisper. “A man of little Gift, but of good heart and much bravery. He has been sorely missed amongst our number these many months.”

“He was close to his uncle?”

DuPont's bitter smile deepened. “Scarcely even acknowledged,” he said, “until rumor of little Giselle's talent began to stir through the court.”

“Good God, she was discovered?” said Bessett.

The Frenchman sighed deeply. “What is your English expression?” he murmured. “
Out of the mouths of babes?
Little Giselle predicted Louis-Philippe's abdication—blurted it out very innocently, but alas, very publicly—in front of half his courtiers.”

“Oh, dear.” Mr. Sutherland's head fell into his hands. “How could such a thing happen?”

“A court picnic at the Grand Parc,” said the Frenchman. “All the royal household and their families were invited—commanded, really. The King, of course, came out for a few moments of
noblesse oblige
with the masses
.
Regrettably, he ran straight into Madame Moreau, and decided to catch Giselle's chin in his hand. He looked her straight into the eyes, and would not look away.”

Bessett and Ruthveyn groaned in unison.

“It gets worse,” said DuPont, the truth spilling from him now. “He asked why her eyes were so sad on such a lovely day. When she did not reply, he teased her by saying he commanded her as King to speak. So little Giselle took him literally, and foretold not only the fall of the July Monarchy, but went on to say that his abdication would be followed by a second terrible loss—the death of his daughter, Louise-Marie.”