French Leave (11 page)

Who did wish to be disturbed? Certainly not Mab. She had been, nonetheless, and having been, had not the least compunction about visiting that fate upon someone else. The door was closed. She knocked.

“Qui vive?”
came an impatient voice. Mab did not try to explain, but turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

Gabriel Beaumont was seated at a small table, writing. When Mab entered the room, he covered his papers with his arm. “You’ll get ink on yourself,” Mab observed, and closed the door behind her. “I assure you, I mean no harm.”

“Harm?” Gabriel was derisive. “What possible harm could you do me? I wish you would go away. I have work to do.”

Mab leaned against the door. Gabriel Beaumont had the sort of looks over which many a silly maiden would break her heart. Black curls that fell carelessly across his brow, noble features, alabaster skin, startlingly green eyes.

Fortunate it was that Mab was no silly maiden. “I know of your work,” she said. “I wish to help.”

“Help?” During her silence Gabriel had returned his attention to his papers. Now his scornful green glance flashed at Mab. “What can a woman know of such things? Better that you reserve your passion for a man.”

A pity Gabriel’s manners didn’t match his looks. “I am the daughter of Jean-Paul Foliot,” said Mab.

“Jean-Paul?” Gabriel became a shade less arrogant. “My condolences, ma’mselle. Your loss was also ours.”

Mab wondered what was written on the papers he tried to shield with his body, by means of postures that on a less admirable physique would have looked absurd. “You see that I am not entirely ignorant,” she persisted, and under her breath hummed the
Marseillaise.

Gabriel picked a glass up from the table.
“Vive l’Empereur!”
he cried, and drank. Mab glanced quickly at the door.

No one entered. The habitués of the cafè were accustomed to such shouts, and toasts “to
his
health,” and references to their monarch as Louis
le cochon,
and playing decks which contained not a king but a “pig” of hearts. Gabriel drained the glass, thunked it back down on the table. “Your father spoke to you about his beliefs.”

Her father had spoken about little else. “Louis tries to pretend the Revolution and the Empire never existed,” said Mab. “He dates his reign from the death of the Dauphin in the Temple Prison. Such an attitude is resented,
of course
.”

“Of course,” echoed Gabriel bitterly. “This Senate of regicides is a bitter pass. Were it composed of honest people—but murderers and rogues are too much to bear.” He looked at the ceiling.
“0 Napoleon où es tu?”

It was a rhetorical question only; Gabriel knew as well as anyone that the Emperor of the French was currently reigning over the isle of Elba, eighty-six miles square, off the Tuscany coast.

If Gabriel was like her papa and his cronies, he would prose on for hours about his beliefs. Mab didn’t have hours to spare. She reached for the buttons of her bodice.

“Ma’mselle!” Gabriel looked offended. “I speak to you of serious matters, for the memory of your papa, and your reaction is to do this? It is inappropriate
.
For all things, there is a proper time and place, and this is not it. I have important matters with which to deal—with which only I can deal.” He caught her hand and flung it away from her buttons. “I told you, ma’mselle, desist!”

Mab scowled. She thought none the less of Gabriel for his attitude, but quite the contrary. Mab’s acquaintance with gentlemen uninterested in
l’amour
was slight. But that he should think her no better than one of the creatures who strolled the pavement outside stung her pride. “You are mistaken, m’sieur. I did not wish—”

“I know exactly what you wish,” Gabriel interrupted scornfully. “All the same, you women. Interrupting a man at his work as if the most important thing in all the world was an
affaire de coeur.
I have no time for such frivolities. Go away.”

Mab wished she could go away. She wished she’d never come to the cafè. Having come, she would not leave without achieving her purpose. She reached into her bodice and pulled out the packet. “Before you further insult me, m’sieur, I think you should read this.”

Gabriel stared at her in astonishment, as if she were a magician who had unexpectedly pulled a rabbit from a silk hat. “What is it?” he asked.

How suspicious he was. Understandable; Jacobins were severely repressed by the new regime. “It came into my hands wholly by accident. I think it will be of interest to you.”

“Avec ça!”
Gabriel said derisively, but took the packet all the same.

Her errand completed, Mab had no reason to remain. Still, she was curious to hear what Gabriel would say. The little room was very warm. She walked to the window and pushed it farther open, glanced out into the empty alleyway.

Covertly, in the window glass, she studied her companion. Mab had strong opinions, which she was not reluctant to air; but the opportunity to act on those opinions did not often come her way. Gabriel was a man of action. He would sacrifice all for his beliefs. What a contrast there was between Gabriel and the Duc. Aristocrat and patriot, devil and—dare she think it?—saint. Although the Duc had not looked particularly satanic, laid upon the pillows of the old divan. What
was
she to tell him when he next awoke? For what good her lies might do her, however little time they might buy. The Duc must eventually remember who and what he was, and how he came to be in Mab’s studio.

“ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’ “ she murmured, put in mind by her predicament of lines written by Sir Walter Scott. “ ‘When first we practice to deceive.’ ”

“Deception!” cried Gabriel so passionately that Mab jumped. “I’m surprised you are so careless with the truth. Don’t pretend to be innocent, ma’mselle. And don’t think you may escape me!” He caught her by the arms.

Mab had no thought of escape, or perhaps just a little one, because the window was so near. “I don’t understand! I thought you would wish to see the papers. Is something wrong?”

“You knew I would wish to see them.” Gabriel’s green eyes burned. “They were to be your passport into my confidence, were they not? You would disarm me, and I would confide in you everything, and then
voilà.”
He released one arm long enough to snap his fingers. “There is Samson without his hair.”

He thought her a Delilah? Mab was almost amused. “The papers are legitimate. I swear it,” she protested.

“You swear it.” Gabriel’s fine lips curved into a sneer. “What do you swear it on, ma’emselle? Your papa’s grave? If Jean-Paul was your papa, which I take leave to doubt! Spare me further protests of your innocence. I am not a man to be tempted into indiscretions by a beautiful spy.”

Mab was astonished by the accusation. “You are mistaken, truly! The papers are no trap set for you. Be reasonable, m’sieur. I am neither beautiful nor a spy.”

Gabriel’s eyes tightened painfully on her arms. “How innocent you sound. How convincing you are. I do not know about your papers, or if you are a spy; but you must know yourself that you are beautiful, and so for you to deny it is a lie.”

Mab knew that Barbary was beautiful. As was Gabriel. She had no such notions of herself. “Me, I have no time to think of such things. I wish you would let me go.” When he continued to frown at her, she added weakly, “Is it true?”

“That you are beautiful? Of course.” Gabriel’s grip slacked. He rubbed her arms where his cruel fingers had pressed. “Have I hurt you? I am sorry for it. But I can trust no one, and these papers that you brought—” He turned away.

Why had she cared what Gabriel thought of her looks? Mab was shocked at herself. “They are important, then, these papers? I guessed so but could not tell.”

“Important?” Gabriel folded away the papers and tucked them into his shirt. “Yes, they are important, ma’mselle. So important that to be caught with them is surely to hang. That is why I have decided to perhaps trust you. You took a great chance.”

Had she realized the risk she ran, Mab might well have left the packet in Barbary’s portmanteau. She wondered now why she had not. She had wished to serve the cause about which her papa had felt so strongly, she supposed. Perhaps she had also hoped to speak privately with Gabriel, which was not at all like her. Mab could blame her strange lapse only on her cousin’s unfortunate influence.

Her cousin. Heaven alone knew what trouble Barbary might have gotten into during Mab’s absence. “I must go now,” she said, and turned toward the door.

“Wait!” Gabriel frowned. Mab heard it then, a commotion in the main room of the cafè.

“
Putain!
You meant to betray me after all!” Gabriel grabbed his papers off the table and flung himself out the window.

Mab stared after him in disbelief. The noise from the other room was louder now. Cautiously, she opened the door. A scene of considerable confusion greeted her. Students and uniformed soldiers jousted with chairs and bottles and drinks, even involving the ceiling chandelier.

Quietly, Mab closed the door. Had the Gendarmerie come in search of Gabriel? If caught with the damning packet, would he reveal from whence it had come? Or were the Gendarmerie on Mab’s own trail as result of the missing Duc?

She would not wait to find out. Gabriel had escaped through the window, and so she might also. Awkwardly, Mab swung her legs over the sill.

Behind her, the door burst open.
“Halte!”
cried a rough voice. Mab did not halt. She slid quickly off the windowsill.

A pistol fired. Mab cried out as pain exploded through her arm. She staggered, almost fell, and began to race down the deserted alleyway as soon as her feet touched the ground.

Chapter Thirteen

Barbary hastened through the massive gate, across the courtyard, and up the narrow stair. Mab would be cross with her for having been gone so long, but it couldn’t be helped. One did not accomplish such revenge as she envisioned in mere seconds. In point of fact, Barbary was still uncertain as to how that revenge would be best accomplished. But she was sure she’d laid the groundwork excellently well.

Mab was nowhere in sight when Barbary entered the studio, and Tibble was asleep in the battered armchair. Barbary did not wake him, but unwrapped her parcel and helped herself to a generous portion of sausage and cheese. She wished she could have purchased something more exotic from the tiny food shop. Conor no doubt dined regularly at elegant Parisian restaurants where candlelight caressed marble tables and thick carpets and gilded mirrors, while Barbary’s own food tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

Curse the man! He would think about her, that was certain. Perhaps he would notice that she’d taken some of the coins which he’d left lying on the double-topped table near the gondola bed.

Barbary licked crumbs from her fingers. She was turning into a thief. Had Lord Grafton realized where he left his pocket watch? Had his
fiancée
noticed its absence? If so, what tale had he made up? Barbary wished she could have heard it. She would not have given his lordship high marks for inventiveness.

This disloyal reflection startled her. How could she think so little of a man she had loved? Misfortune and heartbreak must have turned her cold and callous. It was a great shame. Despite this sad reflection, Barbary was in better spirits than she had been for some time, due to the excellent progress of her planned revenge. Her hunger satisfied, she crossed the room to look at the Duc. How innocent men looked when they were sleeping. Conor had been the same.

Barbary sat down on a chair near the divan. What were they to do about the Duc? Perhaps a letter to the Duc’s worried friends. A letter telling them—what? That he’d been called away on urgent business? That he had eloped? Barbary wondered if Mab knew the Duc’s address. If he had a wife. Most gentlemen did have wives, especially gentlemen so handsome as the Duc must be when conscious and well. Barbary was put in mind of Lord Byron’s Childe Harold, a debauched young nobleman, world-weary survivor of many love affairs and riotous nights.

“ ‘And now Childe Harold was sick at heart,

And from his fellow bacchanals would flee—’ ”

What the devil was the rest of it? Barbary drummed her fingers on her knee. Something about sullen tears congealed by pride, and joyless reveries—

“ ‘With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe;

And ‘een for change of scene would seek the shades below!’ ”

Something about the poem nagged her. Barbary had a sense of
déjà vu.
Not this poem, but another. This man stirred on his pillows. Mercy, he was handsome. The Duc had tried to give Mab a slip on the shoulder? Mab had been a ninny to refuse.

He opened his eyes suddenly and looked at Barbary. “My ministering angel,” he murmured.

He thought Mab an angel even after she had assaulted him? Here was infatuation of an extraordinary degree. How much did the Duc remember? “Ah!” Barbary said cautiously. “Are you hungry? I can offer you some sausage and cheese.”

“Perhaps I might have something to drink.” The Duc’s voice was weak.

Barbary wished that she might have something to drink. Preferably something of an alcoholic nature. This day was providing very wearing on the nerves. Perhaps she had not yet recovered altogether from the brandy she had drunk with Conor. Barbary tried to concentrate. She would have to tell the Duc some story—but what? She busied herself at the stove, where a pan of chocolate had been left to grow cold.

The Duc struggled to sit up. Barbary hurried to lend him her assistance. “You must not overdo, m’sieur!” she scolded him. “You have been, er, very ill.”

“ ‘M’sieur’?” The Duc looked quizzical. “I thought you were to call me Edouard.”

At first Barbary wondered if the Duc had gone off his hinges. Then she wondered if Mab had, because, of course, the Duc thought it was Mab to whom he spoke. Mab had admitted him to a degree of intimacy, addressed him by his Christian name, and then assaulted him with a pot when he leapt to not-unreasonable conclusions? It was obvious to Barbary that this whole sorry affair was not the poor man’s fault. Prodigious magnanimous he was about it, moreover. Mab was luckier than she deserved. “Edouard,” she said meekly. “But of course.”