1939912059 (R) (22 page)

“We will name her after my mother. Marguerite. In English it is Margaret.”

Margaret. English. She did her best to smile for him. “Thank you. I genuinely needed that. Now where will I be able to find you? Should I need to speak to you one last time before you—”

“
No
.” He kept rigidly pointing. “You are not staying in this hell alone.
Especially
if you are pregnant with
my
child! You, I and the babe will be leaving Paris in two days. Two. I need time to gather money, weapons and call in more than a few favors from the people I do trust, which obviously is
not
Naudet. That damn
sodomite
, I—” He jerked open the door and was about to step out, when he paused.

Capturing her gaze, he rumbled out, “Watching over you these past three months was the greatest honor of my life. Everything about you makes it difficult for me to let you go. Honor me by loving me, and I swear I will spend my life being everything you need me to be and more. Once we get to England, we will marry.”

She swallowed, realizing he had proposed.

No longer meeting her gaze, he stepped out and slammed the door behind him.

A shaky breath escaped her. Why did a part of her want to take the risk and go with him and leave France for a chance to be with him? Was it possible she was already in love?

Mon Dieu
. She was.

The Andelot estate – three minutes to ten that evening

Running down the massive, candlelit corridor which had long been empty of servants given he convinced his father to dismiss every last one in order to save them from the mounting chaos overtaking Paris, Gérard whipped aside the soiled clothing he still held and bounded up the vast spiraling stairs leading toward the upper floor.

“
Monseigneur!
” he shouted, jumping up onto the landing. “
Monseigneur!
” He darted toward his father’s private quarters knowing the man had most likely retired.

The door at the end of the massive corridor swung open.

The duc veered out in a robe, a pistol in hand, and stared.

Gérard slid to a halt, and between seething breaths, choked out, “We have to leave France. We have two days to plan and only three days to do it.”

Those blue eyes widened as the lines etched into that aged, regal face deepened. “What the devil is going on?”

There was too much to say. Too much to plan. Too much to do. His hands quaked. “
Sa Majesté
is going to trial.” He tried not to heave knowing it. “There will be thirty-three charges set against him.
Thirty-bloody-three
! There is no saving him or his family. They will all die and we are next. I was informed not even an hour ago, that your name and mine, is next given we are so closely related to
Sa Majesté.
They are amassing charges as we speak.”

The duc dragged in a long breath and let it out through his nostrils. After a long moment, he took Gérard’s hand and placed the pistol into it, molding his fingers against the rosewood handle. “This is my country, and no one will ever run me out of it.” That voice hardened. “Take whatever you can and leave. Go to London to the address you have been writing to since you were seven. Your mother’s family will welcome you and get you through this, and whatever money you need, they most certainly have that and more.”

Gérard’s vision blurred. It was as if everyone around him had given up on wanting to live. “No. I am not leaving you.”

“There is nothing more to be said. Now go and ready yourself.”

“Are you mad? You cannot stay. They will cleave your very head from your shoulders if you do!”

Setting a heavy hand on Gérard’s shoulder, the duc grudgingly met his gaze. “You and I both know I am well beyond saving. The one and only person I ever believed in was your mother, and as you well know, these savages took her from me. They— Honor her and our name by marrying into what we deserve. The Andelot title carries six generations of prestige no one will
ever
take from us. The moment you get to London, embrace a new life and only associate with people of worth. People of pedigree. The daughter of a viscount or higher in standing is who you must marry. Do this for me and our name. Swear to it. Swear to it so I may die in peace.”

Gérard edged back, his heart pounding. “I…” Shite. There was no way around this. He had to say it. “I regret to inform you that it is too late for me to embrace what you want. Our name is going to who I deem best, and her name is Thérèse Angelique Clavette. She is the daughter of a butcher and now a renowned actress at
Théâtre Française
. I have taken her virginity and must therefore honor her by marrying her the moment she and I get to England. For it is the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Do you understand?”

Those features stilled. The duc said nothing. He stiffly turned and walked back to his room. He closed the door.

Gérard felt the weight of the pistol tremble in his hand. He half-squatted and set it down onto the floor of the corridor with a clack. Quickly rising, he dragged in several breaths and shifting his jaw. He stalked toward the closed door, more than ready to take on his father in the name of what he wanted and what he saw in Thérèse’s eyes when she told him he had changed her perspective on men. It held a promise of far more than love. It held a promise of forever. Something he thought he would never find.

Opening the door to the half-lit bedchamber, Gérard stepped in. Rolling up his linen sleeves, he announced, “Fist wager. If I win, you come with me and Thérèse to England. If you win, you can stay and die. I will give you that right.”

The duc, who had seated himself on the edge of his bed, stared out vacantly at nothing in particular. He didn’t even blink. After a long pulsing moment, he slowly rose and removed his robe, revealing his night shirt. He went over to the hearth and picked up an iron poker. Turning, he pointed its sharp tip straight at him. “You are no son of mine to take sides with the very people who murdered your mother. You are dead to me. All of my sons are dead.
Dead
!”

Gérard dropped his hands, feeling numb and…betrayed. For in his greatest hour of need, during a time when the woman he had endangered, a woman who might very well be carrying his babe, needed protection, his father had decided to lose the last of his mind.

“I harbor a great affection for her,” Gérard confessed, “and have ever since I met her. She defies convention but retains a beautiful mind and a beautiful heart. I need you to help me,
Monseigneur
. If there is ever a time I need you to be a father to me it is now. Help me to protect her, because I cannot do it on my own against an entire nation that wants me dead. Do you understand? Help me. Please.”

Those nostrils flared. “No. I am done swallowing the way these people take everything from us. They will not seize our name.” Walking up to him, the duc stared him down, fingering the poker with thick fingers. “She is not yours to save. Nor does her kind deserve to be saved. Denounce her and I will go with you to London this very night.”

Gérard’s eyes widened, knowing his father was asking him to murder Thérèse and leave her to die. Merely because she was not pedigree.

“Denounce her,” his father bit out. “Denounce her and we will leave this very night. We will become the father and son we deserve to be. The sort your mother wanted us to be.”

Gérard’s throat tightened. This man was not his father.
This
was the mere skeleton of a hateful name that deserved to be buried right along with the revolution. He had known for some time that his father’s mind was no longer his own, but it had taken this moment to finally accept it.

They were father and son no more. “I would sooner denounce you,
Monseigneur
, than let her die. To abandon her when she needs me most would be nothing short of murder. If you wish to stay here and die, so be it. Cling to your filthy, rotting name and see if it saves you. As for me? I am taking her to England and giving her the life she deserves. For despite what you think, my title is not what will make her a duchess. She is already that and more.”

The duc’s lips parted. “You are choosing a nameless peasant over your own father?”

“Yes. I am. Live with it.
Adieu
,
Monseigneur.
May I never see you again.” Glaring at his father, Gérard swung away and was about to leave, when a
crack
rattled inside his skull. Choking pain slashed its way straight to his teeth and every bone.

He swayed, one last breath leaving him before everything spilled into nothing but black.

Théâtre Française

Forty-two minutes later

Gathering jars of cosmetics and perfume bottles from her lacquered, oak dressing table, Thérèse paused and then rolled her eyes, setting them all back down, one by one by one. She kept forgetting she had servants to do things for her.

It was a life she was still getting used to.

Tightening the large red bow around the waist of her blue and white gown with hands that still quaked knowing she was more or less waiting for
Citoyen
de Sade to report her, she swiped up her reticule and was about to blow out the remaining candles in the room when she heard a thundering boom and an echo from beyond the closed door of her dressing room.

Thérèse paused, brows coming together. It sounded like a pistol being fired. In the theatre?

Female screams and random male shouts of actors suddenly penetrated the silence.

Her pulse roared. What—

Swinging toward its direction, she gathered her skirts to keep them from tangling around her slippered feet and ran to the door, her breaths uneven. Jerking open the door, she peered out into the candle-lit corridor.

A few people, who had been gathering props, darted by. “Grab a sword! Move!
Move, move, move!
”

“There are none on hand! All swords taken off the set an hour ago! Someone needs to find a way out and fetch the bloody
gendarmerie nationale!
”

Her eyes widened. Oh, God. What was happening? She scrambled down and out of the corridor, to better see what was going on.

Another echoing crack of a pistol being fired pierced the air, causing her to almost fall against the nearest wall. She dragged in heavy breaths, scanning the red curtained area and walkways leading out to vast auditorium, stage and lobby beyond.

Screams and male shouts from the auditorium made her realize she needed to run toward the back of the theatre, not the front. But not before she had something to swing with.

Grabbing up a metal pole bearing the blue, white and red flag of the new Republic, she flipped it and wrapped the flag around the pole to get a better grip on it.

Another echoing crack of a pistol being fired pierced the air.

“
Thérèse
!”

She froze, gripping the pole hard and swung toward Jacques’s voice. “Jacques!”

From across the stage, he sprinted toward her, whipping off his periwig. He skidded in, his dark eyes wide and his chest heaving. He grabbed her and swung them behind a prop against the wall. Leaning, he whispered, “Stay quiet. Stay. Quiet.”

She tightened her hold on the metal pole in an effort to keep herself and her panicked mind steady. “What—”

“A man is looking for you,” he rasped, shaking her. “
He shot Rémy in the head.
He shot him for refusing to let him pass and just shot two others.”

The metal pole clattered from her trembling hands in a blurring effort to make sense of what was happening. “
Rémyyyyyy
!” Blinded by the terror of knowing her cousin had been shot, she tried shoving past Jacques, only to be yanked back. “Release me!” she screamed, shoving at him again. “We cannot leave him to die! We cannot—”

Jacques grabbed her shoulders hard and violently shoved her into the wall back behind the prop, clamping a hand against her mouth. “
Thérèse
,” he hissed, hovering so close they were nose to nose. “Cease yelling or he will bloody find us. There is nothing you can do for Rémy
.
Now stay quiet. Do you hear me?”