Time for Eternity (24 page)

He’d seen them when he was buying jewels for someone else. Someone who was not his ward. She wouldn’t think about that.

“You trust a footman with so much money?” He was choosing food for her plate.

“Coulet trusts me to address his invoice when it is presented.”

He lived a different life than she did.

He set her plate in front of her. It was such an intimate gesture, serving her without the aid of servants. And this was the third time he’d done it. He poured her some claret and turned to his own plate. “I have been thinking. I must insist you go abroad—at least while revolutionary fervor rules France. One of my ships is leaving at the end of the week for England.”

“We’ve been through that. Without friends or money, England is no better than France.”

“You would have money.”

There it was. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “I won’t be kept by you.”

He stilled. His back was to her. She saw his shoulders sag, ever so slightly. But when he turned, his plate full, his voice was light.

“What kind of a protector would I be if I let my ward live in such a dangerous place as France or in England without resources?”

That’s what she was, his ward. Was he denying what had happened between them last night? Evidently. That was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?

“We’ll talk again at the end of the week, ” he said, realizing apparently that pressing her would not bring results. He was preparing to move on to more innocuous topics.

She couldn’t let him. “I w-want you to know that last night, while a fine adventure, won’t be repeated.” She had to get it straight between them.

“A sad lapse.” He shrugged. “For both of us. You needn’t fear I’ll importune you further.”

And that was that. He whiled away dinner talking about the people she would see tonight and what they were to France then or France now.

“At least Monsieur Robespierre and Madame Croûte will not be here,” she managed. “I find those two frightening.”

“I’d wager a set of sapphires to match those pearls they will arrive early and stay late.”

“At one of your soirées? It’s contrary to everything they believe in.”

“When beliefs are in conflict with one’s emotions, emotions always win.”

“But why would they want to come?”

“Ahhh. Robespierre would not. But Madame Croûte? I think she craves what has been denied her. She is stronger than Robespierre. And more emotional, therefore more dangerous.”

Françoise widened her eyes. She felt so young. And yet another part of her, the part that recognized the truth of what he said, didn’t feel young at all. “You’re right. They’ll come. I wonder what she’ll wear?”

Avignon smiled and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Let’s see. Aubergine, I think. Just dustier than royal purple, which is what she’d like to wear. Too much jewelry, too much lace.”

“You are severe. I’d better look to my lace.” She cast a glance to her dress.

“Your lace is where lace ought to be. Hers won’t be. You’ll see what I mean.” He examined her. “Are you nervous?”

“No. Yes.”

“You needn’t be.”

“I am an imposter.” She couldn’t seem to raise her voice above a whisper.

He chuckled. “It doesn’t matter. They don’t dare question because they want what I can give them.”

“That doesn’t change what I am. They’ll talk.”

“Let them.” His dark eyes burned. “You are of aristocratic blood. Half in the room respect that, misguided as that may be. The other half knows that blood is blood and yours is as red as anyone else’s. Either way, you’ll be fine.” He lifted his glass of wine and held it, waiting.

She looked into those eyes for a moment, wondering if she knew him, if she had ever really known him. He was just like his eyes, a flat surface with hidden depths. He had more secrets than just being a smuggler, she was sure of it. Was everything she ’d ever thought about him even remotely true? The feeling flooding her was just the opposite of déjà vu. She’d done all this before, but it seemed different now. She saw it with new eyes.

Am I the fool, or you, Françoise?

The voice. It was unnatural. The fear of madness flashed through her again. She shook herself. This whole situation was ridiculous. Of course she’d never known him. She’d met him four days ago. If she ignored the voice it would go away. She lifted her glass.

He clinked his glass with hers. “Enjoy tonight,
ma petite.”

Her mind darted between Robespierre and Madame Croûte, Madame LaFleur’s death that seemed fated, the dreadful bag with its even more dreadful contents, and the feeling of urgency inside her. How could she enjoy a party?

“May I present my ward, Mademoiselle Suchet?” Avignon’s baritone introduced her for what seemed the hundredth time. The gentleman bowing over her hand was portly and avuncular. His wig smelled of rancid oil mixed with powder under the perfume.

“My dear, do say you will save me a dance this evening.” He was … a general, Avignon said. Still, dancing with him might be bad for her toes.

She mustered a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

“A treasure, Avignon,” the florid-faced general said, sotto voce, as though she weren’t standing in front of him.

“One I hold close, Digne. Remember that.” Avignon’s voice sounded bored, but Digne shot him a piercing glance. He wasn’t fooled any more than Françoise was. Avignon was much less bored than he pretended. The general moved into the room beyond.

The orchestra sat in the little balcony provided for musicians that hung over the hall. It wasn ’t as grand as the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles but it held a hundred easily. A very young man came up and bowed. She extended her hand and he kissed it, a trifle too fervently.

“My eyes, they are smitten. My heart, it bleeds.” He tore his smitten eyes away. “Monsieur le Duc, I must know this angel’s name.”

Avignon steadied his lips. “Mademoiselle Françoise Suchet. My ward.”

“Oh, that I should be allowed to offer her my protection.”

Patently absurd, since he was so young. Of course, Avignon was really too young to be her protector either. A fact she’d seen registered on several faces tonight.

“Mademoiselle, may I present Monsieur Bessel? Monsieur is one of the Revolution’s most potent orators. He will want a dance, I’m sure.”

“But yes! That I should be so smiled upon by fortune—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Françoise interrupted. For there, coming through the doorway were Monsieur Robespierre and Madame Croûte. It was still early.

Avignon had been right—about everything. They’d come. And Madame Croûte had sought to dazzle. Cascades of off-white lace over aubergine silk, lace flounces, lace ruffles in the neckline, a lace fichu. She even affected a lace mantilla in the Spanish style over a tortoiseshell comb set in her ridiculously high, powdered wig. The cream and aubergine was unfortunate with her ruddy complexion. Her neck was practically weighed down with amethysts. Her expression reminded Françoise of a vulture trying to be regal. Surely Avignon was wrong about her being stronger and more dangerous than Robespierre.

Marta Croûte surveyed the crowd that talked and laughed and clinked their glasses under the magnificent chandeliers in number sixteen’s ballroom. They had found nothing at the warehouse. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t Foucault who was carrying out these blatant escapes. It was their duty to be here tonight, to catch him out. That’s what she had told Robespierre. It wasn’t that she had a fancy to see a ball given by Foucault. She had, in truth, felt a bit intimidated by the occasion. But the house was only in the Marais. All the real aristocrats lived in the Faubourg St. Germain. Foucault had nothing to brag about with his address.

The crowd was half old aristocracy and half stalwarts of the Revolution. Only Foucault could have drawn such a mélange together. She saw several glance toward her and her dourly dressed and diminutive lawyer companion. The eyes of the aristocrats disdained her. But she saw fear bloom there too. A little thrill shot down her spine. They’d better be afraid.

She had made sure she had nothing to be ashamed of tonight. She tugged surreptitiously on the lace at her sleeves. She had more lace than any of them and more jewels—only amethysts, to be sure, but that was what matched her dress. She assessed the crystal, the gold plate, well enough to be sure. But the furniture was old, like it was in the salon in which she had met Foucault before. Not in the latest style at all, and the woven and embroidered hangings portraying some battle or other in the room where she had laid her evening cape were positively threadbare in spots. She smiled, a little smugly. Perhaps Foucault had to smuggle to support his gambling and his whores.

“Ahhh, my so dear representatives of the very spirit of the Revolution, ” the man himself greeted them. He was dressed exquisitely. There could be no mistaking that. And he was beautiful. More handsome by far than Robespierre. His newest whore was by his side. “You know my ward, of course. Mademoiselle Suchet.” He gestured languidly to the girl, who dipped her curtsy.

“How delightful that you could honor this humble abode. Perhaps you’d like to search for escaped prisoners? I open my house to your hunt, of course.”

Robespierre flushed. “These escapes are a damned serious business, Foucault.”

“Dear me. Do they continue? How … lax of the army.”

“Not for a week or so, except for the old woman. They are spirited out,” the little man said, watching Avignon. “By the time we hear the screams, it is too late.”

“Screams. Dear me.” Avignon’s shudder was feigned, Marta was sure. “But my so dear Madame said that it is families who escape. Surely after the first member is taken you can watch the rest of the family and prevent their following.”

“The guards are incompetent,” Marta interjected. “They must be incompetent because even under torture they do not admit to taking bribes. And torture breaks everyone.” She knew that well by now.

Robespierre glared at her then clamped his mouth shut. What was he on about? That she talked of torture at a party?

“It sounds supernatural to me,” Avignon confided. “Ghosts, perhaps. The ghosts of Danton and Desmoulins.”

Robespierre flushed again. He’d never been secure about weeding out the first leaders of the Revolution, but they had not been nearly resolute enough to take it forward. Marta knew they had had to go. “I don’t believe in the supernatural, Citizen,” Marta said firmly. “There is an explanation and we will find it,
and
the one or ones who are flaunting justice.”

“Justice …” Avignon mused. “One must serve justice. Being a devotee of Voltaire requires no less.”

“Strange that we agree, Foucault.” Robespierre’s eyes narrowed.

“Enough of Voltaire. I have come to see this … ward … of yours.” Marta examined Françoise. She couldn’t help but frown.

The girl was … lovely. It galled Marta to say so. The dress had less lace than Marta’s own, but there was something about it …

the drape of the fabric … Marta wasn’t sure what. All she knew was that Foucault’s whore insulted them all by wearing white.

“Well, she’s dressed better than she was the other day.”

“My ward dresses like a woman of the people when the occasion allows, as she did the day of the fire. Surely you cannot quibble with that, madame.” Foucault raised his quizzing glass. “As your own dress proclaims your admiration of the Citizen style.”

Shock washed over Marta. He … he was insulting her taste. She had no desire at all to look like an ordinary citizen tonight and he knew it. The hate that welled up from her belly sent bile into her throat. She stood there, speechless, unable to think of a retort, getting angrier. The blasted man looked only bored and that seemed to enrage her the more.

“Marta, come,” Robespierre said. “I see St. Denis.” He took her arm and she shook him off. But she stomped away, her lips grim.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Françoise whispered to Henri.

“What I should do is claim the first dance with my ward before I lose you to the bevy of fools to whom you ’ve promised yourself.” Actually, Henri wondered if she knew how to dance. Had that spinster aunt thought to provide for her social education?

He should have asked earlier. Perhaps that was why she seemed to dread this evening. But she didn’t demur as he raised his hand to the musicians. They struck up a minuet and couples began to form sets. He took her hand. The shock of touching her had not diminished. He must make the assemblage believe her his ward, no more, in spite of the feelings she raised in him, no matter his resolve. Dancing with her must look like an obligation.

That was onerous, when all he wanted was to take her in his arms and ravish her mouth with kisses. For all her dress was white, Fanchon had captured the fact that she was not quite an innocent. Would anyone notice? What they couldn’t miss was that she was by far the most beautiful woman in the room. Françoise was right. There would be talk. He schooled his face as he led her to the head of the line of couples. He wouldn’t make it worse.

As it turned out, she was a lovely dancer, graceful, her movement slightly sinuous.
Mon Dieu
but she fascinated him. The very reason she was off to England as soon as the ship came in. He ’d start filling up the warehouse with families this very night if he could get his guests out before dawn. His cargo would be safe now that the Croûte woman had searched the warehouse.

He’d think about his work and not those blue eyes looking up at him. He saw her searching his face as they came together in the figure of the dance. She was uncertain of him. Afraid? Yes. No. He wasn ’t sure. All he knew was that she was holding herself away from him inside. He’d felt it ever since the ride home in the carriage from Versailles.

That was good. It was what he wanted too.

So why did it feel so damned bad?

The dance drew to a close. Couples parted. He was about to escort her for refreshments when their progress was blocked by one of the young men hovering about the edge of the room.

“M-mademoiselle,” the young cub stuttered. “M-may I have this d-dance?”

“Go,” he said, shushing her away. “This is the last I’ll see of you tonight.”