Immortal Muse (41 page)

“And why should I meet this man?” she asked.

“You have a propensity for talented people and handsome men, and he's both. He's intelligent, and he also writes—very strange tales, I must say—and he's intensely interested in the Arts. He professes that he wants to meet all the painters, artists, and musicians that he can. I think you would like him.”

“Then I'll lunch with you and meet this paragon. Hand me my pelisse and bonnet, please.”

After returning to her own rooms, Emily fed Verdette, who mewled piteously at her overnight abandonment but made up almost immediately as Emily scratched her ears. She went to sleep for a few hours, with Verdette curled up and purring contentedly in the curve of her waist. The German-made alarm clock on her dresser woke her with its noisy clanging just before eleven.

After dealing with her toilet and dressing, Emily took a hired carriage to the Dorset Park Hotel near Regents Park. “Lord Byron's table,” she told the maître d'. As they approached Byron's table, she saw only the back of the other man at the table. Byron rose to seat Emily, but she froze as the stranger turned his face toward her.

She gasped, audibly, the shock freezing her when she wanted to do nothing more than turn and run.

It was Nicolas.

Yet that was impossible, for she'd seen him—as Robespierre—guillotined, watched his head roll from his body and the executioner pick it up by the hair to display to the crowd. She'd seen it, witnessed it, and—with some guilt—felt exultation at seeing it. Yet here he was, undeniable alive . . .

And if Nicolas had somehow survived the guillotine, did that mean that Antoine might have as well? Did that mean that she'd buried him while there was still a chance of recovery? Did he wake up in his coffin terrified and alone? My God, was he
still
alive and still trapped, two decades on?

Her stomach lurched with the rush of thoughts in her head. She swallowed hot, scorching bile. She stared.

She could not mistake that face, those eyes, his short stature, that mocking half-smile. Emily backed away from the table. She doubted that he'd do anything here, in public with Byron as a witness, but the temptation to flee was nearly compulsive, and she suddenly wished that she'd prepared a spell or brought one of her chemical vials with her before coming here, or had a drawstring reticule large enough to carry a pistol.

“Miss Pauls,” Byron said, his gaze moving between them quizzically, “do the two of you know each other?”

“I regret to say that we do,” she told him, hardly daring to speak, her regard entirely on Nicolas, who had also started to rise from his seat. He didn't appear to be as startled as her; it was almost as if he'd expected to find her. “I'm afraid, Lord Byron, that I must leave. I apologize.” She started to walk away, aware of the stares from the other patrons in the hotel's restaurant, but Nicolas put his hand out to her forearm: gently, not grabbing at her, but only touching her arm.

I have to go back to Paris . . . Antoine . . .

“Please, Miss Pauls,” he said. “You have every right to leave, and I would understand if you feel you must, but I beg you to stay. Please . . .” He gestured to the chair that Byron was still holding. Emily hesitated. Nicolas had found her again, but she'd gain nothing by running blindly from him, and in Byron's presence. Most importantly, she had to know how Nicolas had survived the execution, so she would know whether she had to disinter Antoine's body.
The agony Antoine has endured, the madness of being buried alive in his casket. What have I done to him?

She took a long, slow breath, and allowed Byron to seat her.

“Well, this is rather awkward,” Byron said as he took his own seat again. “Miss Emily Pauls, Mr. John William Polidori—though I take it that introductions are entirely unnecessary.”

“We're rather well acquainted with each other,” Polidori said. He was staring at Emily, though she found herself unable to decipher the emotions he might be feeling. “We knew each other, in France. I confess that I'm as shocked as Miss Pauls by seeing her so suddenly. I had no idea . . .” The tone of his voice indicated that he was genuinely stunned and unprepared to have seen her. There was a quaver in his voice as he shook his head. “I'm afraid, Byron, that I'm guilty of having treated Miss Pauls quite poorly in the past, and she is right to be loath to sit at the same table as me. In fact, I'm certain that she thought me dead—and I have to confess that she has every reason to have found comfort in that belief. I can only hope that she can find it in herself to somehow forgive me and let us begin to know each other again, as if our unfortunate past history . . .” Here he gave the slightest of smiles. “. . . did not exist,” he finished.

“By Heavens, Polidori,” Byron said, “you make it seem like you murdered her family or something equally foul. I must admit you have me curious.”

“I've done grave disservices to Miss Pauls in the past,” he answered, “but I'll leave it to Miss Pauls to relate the tale to you, or not, as she sees fit. Otherwise, that's all I will say on the matter, other than to remind Miss Pauls that I have something of hers that I assume she would like me to return, and I will do that as a token of my sincerity.”

Does he mean my notebook from the Lavoisier laboratory?
Emily toyed with the napkin on her table. If he'd actually used the notebook, then he knew that the formula she'd written there was deliberately flawed and that the notebook had little value at all. She wondered how many people he might have killed to discover that, relishing their deaths. “Indeed, Mr. Polidori,” she said, keeping her voice flat, “returning my property would go some way toward amends. And there are questions I would like to ask you.” She wondered whether he could really believe that she would ever forgive him. Nothing could change the deaths, the injuries, the pain he had caused: nothing could pay for that. Forgiveness would have to come from who or whatever waited for Nicolas in his eventual afterlife. Since the Reign of Terror, she had believed that he had already gone to the arms of that last judgment, and she had prayed to God that hell truly existed, for that's where Nicolas would have been sent.

“Then you and I should meet later,” Polidori was saying. “I would leave that to your discretion, Miss Pauls, understanding that you may have reservations about such a meeting. Make whatever arrangements would make you comfortable; I will be happy to bend entirely to your wishes. It's my fervent wish to repair the rift between us, as much as that is possible.”

“I wish I could believe that,” Emily answered.

Polidori favored her with a wry, almost shy smile. “I wish you could, as well. Believe me, I am sincere.”

“Sincerity is easily claimed.”

“Then I ask you to meet with me again so I can demonstrate it to you. I'd . . . Well, after our last encounter, I've been actively looking to find you again. Since then, I've had time to regret my past actions toward you, and to repent my ways. Please, I pray you, let me demonstrate my sincerity. Set a time and a place, and I'll be there and we can talk further.”

He sounded entirely genuine, and she could see no deceit in his face. “I'll consider that,” she told him.

Byron, who had listened to their exchange with a bemused expression, stirred finally in his seat. “Well, since that's settled, we should eat.” Byron smiled, patted Emily's hand, and gestured to a waiter leaning against the wall nearby. “I understand the roast pigeon here is quite exquisite.”

But Emily rose from her seat. “I'm afraid that my appetite is quite lost,” she said, “and I have much to think about. Forgive me, gentlemen.” With that, she made her way from the restaurant, feeling her whole body trembling as she put her back to Nicolas.

“I say, Polidori, you really must give me this tale . . .” she heard Byron begin to say, but she was gone before Polidori could answer.

 * * * 

Emily made the arrangements through Lord Byron: she would meet Polidori in the garden of King's Square on Wednesday noon. Her thoughts still roiled with the implications of Nicolas' presence. Part of her had wanted to immediately book ship for France and Paris, to run to poor Antoine's grave. But she told herself to wait, that another week wouldn't matter against the quarter century already past, that she needed to know more before she permitted herself to panic.

She slept very little that night, so restless that even Verdette abandoned her usual spot next to her and instead curled up at the foot of the bed away from her thrashing. Emily's dreams were of being trapped in a coffin, her fingers clawing futilely at the wooden lid as she screamed and screamed and screamed in the darkness . . .

The Blakes had agreed to accompany her; she told them that she was meeting someone whom she didn't trust, and while she wished to speak privately with him, they weren't to allow her out of their sight. King's Square was busy at noon with people out in the gardens. If there
was
to be violence, it would be noticed, and people would come to the aid of a woman in distress, especially with the Blakes directing them.

She was as prepared as she could be. She was certain that, in public, he'd be very careful, but her reticule was very heavy indeed that Wednesday and much larger than was fashionable in order to accommodate the small, dual-barreled flintlock pistol that she carried. She knew it wouldn't kill Nicolas—as it appeared that even losing his head had not slain him—but it
would
stop him. She wore, as usual, the sardonyx pendant, but kept it hidden beneath the collar of her dress; she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing she still kept it.

Polidori was waiting in the park as Emily and the Blakes descended from the carriage she'd hired, rising from a bench on which he was sitting. “That's him,” Emily whispered to them, clutching at Catherine's hand. “I'll introduce the two of you, but we have, well,
private
matters to discuss, so if you would just follow us . . .”

“Certainly, dear,” Catherine said. “We understand, don't we, William?”

Blake merely grumbled. His gaze flew rapidly around the square: a King's Square address had once been the envy of everyone in London, though that time was now a century past. Fine houses still surrounded the open space and throngs crowded the square (and a herd of pigs that was being driven through the square toward London's markets). But the buildings surrounding the square were becoming more commercial than residential, and the nobility no longer sought to have an address here, as it had when Charles II's illegitimate son, the Duke of Monmouth, had his house here. The neighborhood of Soho was becoming crowded and dirtier; the garden park at the square's center boasted a now rather dilapidated statue of King Charles II, for whom the square had been named, and the garden itself needed attention. Emily wondered what Blake was seeing as he gazed around, whether there were angels or more demonic creatures lurking there for him. She squeezed Catherine's hand again, took a breath, and walked forward toward Polidori.

He seemed genuinely relieved to see her. “Miss Pauls,” he said, and his voice sounded pleased, though she noticed that his gaze slipped to her reticule and its obvious heft. “I was afraid that perhaps you might have changed your mind.”

“As you see, I've kept my word,” she told him, “as I hope you'll keep yours. I'd like to introduce you to my companions.” She indicated the Blakes, who were hanging back a step. “This is Mr. William Blake, whose fine work you may know, and his wife Catherine. Mr. John William Polidori, a friend of Lord Byron's, and an old acquaintance of mine.”

“Pleased,” Polidori said, taking the hand that Blake offered and bowing slightly to Catherine. “I certainly do know your work, sir, and I'm most impressed by it. Byron showed me his copy of ‘Songs of Experience' and I am in awe of your skill with words, as well as with your illustrations. If you have more copies, I would love to purchase one for myself.”

That seemed to mollify Blake somewhat; he nearly smiled. “I'm glad you've found my small efforts pleasing,” he muttered. Again, his gaze drifted away. “The Lord has given us a beautiful day,” he said. “The gates of heaven are opened all around us, and the dead might come forth to speak.”

Polidori cocked his head slightly, Catherine gave an indulgent sigh. “Yes,” Emily said, hurrying to cut off Blake's comment as he paused to take a breath, and no longer quite so sure that she'd made a good choice of support with William. “Let us walk and enjoy the day, Mr. Polidori.”

They began walking toward the garden area at the square's center, the Blakes a discreet few steps behind. Polidori said nothing at first, and Emily tried to pretend that she was looking at the flowers and shrubberies lining the short walk.

“Perenelle . . .” he began, and she stopped him.

“Don't use that name,” she said. “Whoever I am, I stopped being your Perenelle years and years ago. I'm not Perenelle, not any longer.”

“Fine,” he replied, speaking to her in French, “if you want to play that game, we can, though I must say I find it silly. We can't pretend that we were never Nicolas and Perenelle. But if you wish: I won't be Nicolas Flamel but only his pale ghost.”

“Fair enough,” she answered in the same language—perhaps that was a way to be circumspect; there were fewer people who, if they happened to overhear them talking, would understand them. “I'll continue to call you Mr. Polidori, then; I find that more to my liking. The other name . . . well, I don't have good memories of it. You said that you were going to return something of mine—which I'm assuming is either a very old notebook, or a much newer one from the Lavoisier house in Paris. You don't seem to be carrying either.”

“No,” he said. “I didn't bring the notebooks with me, though I do have both. The older one's become rather fragile with time and usage, I'm afraid, but my intention is still to give it to you, along with the other. Of course, the formulae in both are flawed, as you know.”