The Making of a Duchess (36 page)

   "We're going—"

   The constable held up a hand. "Let her answer."

   Sarah's head jerked up, and she darted a scared glance at Gilbert. The constable was watching her, smiling slightly, as though he knew he had them.

   Gilbert nodded, his look resigned, and Sarah opened her mouth and was sick all over the constable.

Julien stood in the stone turret and listened. To his right was a door, slightly ajar. Inside he could hear at least two of the guards playing a card game. To his left was a long gun rack, and several weapons were leaning upon it. He did not see any keys, but there was another door a few feet ahead on the opposite side. Beyond it was the gate that led into the prison proper. The gate was closed and locked.

   Damn. He had not considered the possibility of an inner gate.

   Julien focused on that door again. The keys could be inside—along with more guards. He would need the keys to open the gate; then he had to slip inside the prison, all without the two men playing cards hearing

him. And without being spotted by any other guards.

Impossible.

He needed a new plan.

Fast.

   He had an idea, but the likelihood it would work was slim. Still, he had come this far. He was not going to turn back now. High up in the garret of this prison was Armand.

   Reluctant to waste any more time in thought, he moved forward and rapped loudly on the open door. The two men started, swiveling around, weapons in their hands.

   "Good evening, Corporal," Julien said, speaking to the highest-ranking guard.

   The man stood and scowled. He had a short mustache and a long nose, and Julien guessed he was probably forty.

   Forty and only a corporal. That did not speak well for his career.

   "I've been sent by the lieutenant," he continued, "in order to treat one of your prisoners. I'm a trained doctor."

   The corporal stared at him, and Julien held his breath. If the man did not believe him, he'd have to get out. Fast. He resisted the urge to turn and gauge the distance to the outer gate.

   "Which prisoner?" the corporal asked slowly. His eyes never left Julien's.

   Julien considered. How much did these men know about Armand? Did they know he was the son of a duke? An aristocrat? He would go the safest route.

   "I was given the name Armand and the garret cell.

That is all."

   The corporal nodded and lowered his shoulders, relaxing. "If any prisoner needs your help, Doctor, it is that one. I, Jean Moreau, will take you to him."

   "Thank you, Corporal Moreau."

   Julien stepped back into the entryway, trying to block the gate with his body. He did not want the corporal to notice the absence of the guard.

   But the corporal did not spare a glance for the prison's entrance. He hurried toward the inner gate, extracting a set of keys from inside his coat. He found the one he wanted, slid it into the lock, and turned. There was a loud snick followed by a piercing creak as the gate swung open. Julien thanked God he had not tried to open the gate without alerting anyone. The noise would have wakened half of Paris.

   The guard stepped inside and waited for Julien to do the same. Then, to Julien's dismay, the corporal locked the gate again. He was inside, and it had been easy. But no one ever had difficulty getting into a prison. It was getting out Julien had to worry about.

   "This way, Doctor," the corporal said, indicating a stairway carved into the stone. It was steep, winding, and dark as sin. "I'll take you to him."

The constable jumped back and swore loudly. Mortified, and now certain that they would be dragged off to prison, Sarah covered her mouth and stared. Gilbert stared as well but recovered himself quickly

   "Monsieur, I am so sorry. My daughter is ill. The motion of the cart made her queasy. That is why we

had stopped."

   "Idiots!" the constable snapped, staring at his clothing. "You have ruined my coat!"

   "A thousand apologies, monsieur. I would pay for another, but we are just poor bakers. We have no—"

   "Get out of my sight!" the constable barked. "Move along. I don't want to see either of you again tonight."

   "Yes, monsieur." Gilbert slapped the reins and urged the horse forward.

   Neither of them spoke for several minutes; then Sarah broke the silence. "What should we do? Julien won't know how to find us."

   "We will circle the prison and hope we are close by when Monsieur Julien needs us."

   Sarah nodded, but her stomach threatened another revolt. How long could they circle the prison without attracting the notice of another constable? What if the constable they had escaped spotted them again? What if Julien needed them and they were blocks away?

   As Gilbert drove past the dark houses and shops, Sarah closed her eyes and prayed. Their circle took about fifteen minutes, and when they approached the prison again, Sarah hardly dared glance at it for fear she would give Julien away. But she could not control her eyes, and her gaze slid traitorously toward Le Grenier.

   She gasped when she saw the front gate. No one was guarding it. Did that mean Julien had disabled the guard and gone inside? Had the guard caught Julien and put him under lock and key? How long before someone else noticed the front gate was unguarded

and reported it?

   And then they were past the prison and moving away again. Once again, Sarah clasped her hands and closed her eyes.

Above all, Julien was conscious of the stench. The noise was unsettling—men groaning, raving, crying out in anguish. The darkness was thick as a blanket. Julien was thankful for the corporal's dim lantern, which cut a swath of meager light through the blackness. But the odor was unbearable. It was the smell of the unwashed mingled with the scent of death and decay. Rotting flesh, excrement, sweat, and desperation choked the breath from his lungs. He put up an arm to ward it off.

   "You learn to tolerate it after a while," the corporal told him. "You never get used to it, but you learn to tolerate it."

   "How much farther?" Julien asked. They had been climbing the narrow stairs for several minutes.

   "Almost there. The one you want is on the top floor. He's been up there for years. Thought everyone had forgotten about him by now."

   Julien's hands clenched, and he bit his tongue to keep the angry words from spilling forth. No, he had not forgotten about his brother. But, dear God, how long had Armand been here?

   "Here we are." The corporal paused at the top of the stairs and motioned down a short corridor. "His cell is through that door." He shooed Julien forward, but Julien hesitated.

"Don't I need a key?"

   "Key?" The corporal smiled. "Oh, not with that one. He won't try to escape. I'll wait for you at the bottom of the stairs."

   "A light?" Julien asked before the corporal could descend.

   "Ah, right. So rare to have a visitor." He reached up and took a cobweb-covered torch from the wall. Opening his lantern, he lit the torch with the flame and handed it to Julien. "You tell the lieutenant we're doing our best here."

   Julien nodded. "I'll specifically mention your name."

   The corporal smiled and turned to go, probably already dreaming of a better post.

   Not if Julien had his way.

   He shuffled forward, his heart pounding, his body as tense as the strings in a pianoforte. Outside the door to the garret, Julien had to pause. If it was truly unlocked, why had Armand not escaped before now? His hand shook as he reached for the knob. He didn't want to know what he would find behind the door, and yet he could not go away without having done so.

   He turned the knob, and the door creaked open. The room was dark, so dark that Julien immediately lifted the torch high. He was met with a hiss and caught a flash of movement as a figure on the far side of the room raised a hand to ward off the light.

   Julien stepped forward, shedding more light in the room and the thing—the man, if the creature could accurately be described as such—crouched, drew back his lips, and prepared to attack.

"Armand?" Julien closed the door behind him and lowered the torch into a sconce on the wall. "Armand, it's me, Julien."

   The man hissed and brought up his hand to shield his eyes from the light, but he remained ready to fight.

   Julien moved closer, taking in the state of the room. It was barren—devoid of windows or comfort of any kind. A mat of old straw was lumped in the corner, and on this the prisoner crouched. In one corner was a fireplace, but it was cold and dark, and Julien wondered if it had ever been used. Beside the fireplace was a metal plate and a cup, probably left from the day's meal.

   The prisoner himself was dressed in tattered rags. His gray breeches were frayed at the knee, and he wore no stockings. His yellowed shirt had boasted lace at one time, but now that hung in ruins. The man had no shoes.

   Julien crouched beside the pile of old straw, so old it stank, and stared at the man. Could this really be his brother? The man looked back at him, eyes wary and suspicious. His dingy brown hair was matted, shaggy, and covered his face where the long, dirty beard did not.

   The man was Armand. He remembered those brown eyes, those long lashes, the straight Roman nose. Years of imprisonment could not wipe away what had once been fine aristocratic features.

   "Good God," Julien whispered. "It's really you."

   The man did not answer, just continued to stare at him.

   Julien reached out to touch Armand, but he hissed and raised a hand in defense. "Armand," Julien said, lowering his hand. "It's your brother Julien. I've come for you."

   What had his brother done to deserve this? From all appearances, he had been locked up and all but forgotten. But by whom? The revolutionaries would have killed him had they known who he was. But it appeared even the guards did not know.

   Julien clenched his fists.

   He would find out who had hurt his brother.

   Armand began to back away, posture still defensive, and Julien struggled for a way to reach his brother. Time was running out. He needed to free Armand before the changing of the guard.

   "Armand. It's Julien. Your brother. Don't you remember me?"

   Nothing. Armand stared at him, fists balled at his sides, ready to strike at the smallest provocation.

   Julien sat back on his heels and attempted to think of something he could say, something he could do that would remind Armand who he was. When the fear that Armand might never again know who he was began to bubble to the surface, Julien pushed it down.

   Had there been any games, any songs, any—

   He lifted his head, the faintest memory of a song dancing across his brain. It was a bedtime tune their nanny had sung to them. Julien could not remember the words—not many of them—but he remembered the tune.

   Quietly, Julien began to hum it, inserting the words wherever he could think of them. His rendition was tentative at first but grew more confident as he went along.

   
Au clair de la lune

   
Mon ami Pierrot

   
Prête-moi ta lume…

   He continued to hum, gradually realizing Armand was watching him and had moved closer. There was still nothing akin to recognition in his brother's eyes, but there was something else: trust.

   Julien prayed Armand would trust him enough to follow him. "Armand," he said quietly. "I'm taking you out of here. I'm taking you home to ma mère. But you have to come quietly. You have to do exactly as I say. Can you do that?"

   Armand made no sign he heard, but he continued to stare at Julien. Julien stood, took Armand by the shoulders, and pulled him up.

   He had expected some resistance, but other than a hiss when Julien touched him, Armand complied. He stood in the center of the room, his hair in his face, his clothes soiled, his back hunched. Julien had cried very few times in his life, and all of those instances were before the age of fourteen. But he felt like crying now.

   "Come," Julien said. He lifted the torch from the wall and opened the door.

   Armand shuffled forward, pausing at the doorway. He glanced back into the room, and Julien understood that, like a long-caged animal, Armand felt safe only in his prison.

   Julien began to hum the lullaby again, and Armand glanced at him sharply. Julien backed up, motioning for Armand to follow.

   Once in the corridor, Armand seemed to know what was expected of him. He lowered his head and shuffled forward. Julien stared ahead of him, lighting their way down the steps. He was well aware the corporal would be waiting at the bottom, and he had no idea how he would get Armand past the guards or get back out the locked gate.

   But whatever happened now, he would escape or die trying. He would rather both of them were killed than leave Armand in that cell for one more minute.