The Secret History of the Pink Carnation (39 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

‘U
nhand her,’ Richard snapped.

He knew he had made a tactical error when Delaroche’s smile widened. ‘Such a touching tête-à-tête,’ the little man crooned. ‘And so very…convenient.’

Fifteen men. Richard rapidly assessed the situation. Fifteen burly infantrymen crowded into the little alleyway behind Delaroche’s lodgings. Of those fifteen, fully three were occupied in subduing Amy. A shako hat rolled through the dust as Amy rammed into one of her captors, sending him reeling. Another darted back and forth, trying to avoid Amy’s flailing feet as he wound a rope around her wrists. A third still held her around the waist, but his nose oozed blood onto his white cross straps from a well-placed butt of Amy’s head.

Which only left twelve infantrymen pointing muskets at Richard.

‘Move,’ cautioned Delaroche, ‘and my men will shoot the charming Miss Balcourt.’

Twelve muskets hastily shifted target.

‘You’re warring on women now, Delaroche?’ Richard didn’t have to feign the disgust in his voice. ‘Needed to find someone smaller than you to beat up on, did you?’

‘Insults will not alter your predicament, my friend.’ Delaroche smirked. ‘You fell into my trap, just as I knew you would.’

‘Trap?’ Amy gasped.

‘Trap,’ Delaroche repeated smugly. ‘Every man has a weakness,
Monsieur Purple Gentian. For some, it is drink. For others, it is cards. For—’

‘Is the treatise on human nature really quite necessary?’ Richard interjected, glancing sidelong at Amy. The rope had finally made its way around her arms.

‘For
you
,’
Delaroche continued, as though Richard had never spoken, ‘it is a woman. That woman.’

‘She has nothing to do with this, Delaroche.’

‘Oh no, Monsieur Purple Gentian? She led you to me. Just as I knew she would.’

‘No!’ Amy squirmed in her captor’s grasp. ‘I wouldn’t—’ Her words ended abruptly as a heavy hand clamped down over her mouth. A masculine yelp followed as the guard snatched his bitten palm away from her mouth.

Horrified comprehension swept through Amy. That groom of Delaroche’s, that smirking, spotty boy, who had been so forthcoming in telling her exactly when his master would be out of his chambers. Amy doubled over, feeling sick for reasons that had nothing to do with the bulky arm clamped around her ribs.

Richard forced his body to relax, forced himself to wave a languid hand in Amy’s direction. ‘Quite a fuss over a bit of fluff.’

‘A bit of fluff?’

Richard studiedly avoided Amy’s eyes, hoping to hell that she would realise what he was trying to do. ‘A light-skirt,’ he clarified, in his best man-about-town air of bored sophistication, ‘a mere spot of dalliance. Don’t you French know something about that sort of thing? Or did you lose your talent for amours along with your monarchy?’

‘A mere spot of dalliance,’ Delaroche repeated, turning the unfamiliar English words scornfully on his tongue. ‘Or so you claim. We have ways of testing the truth of your words. Pierre?’

A heavy hand crashed against Amy’s face, snapping her head back. Amy gasped in surprise and pain.

‘Antoine?’

Metal gleamed at Amy’s throat. A knife.

‘He is under orders to use it,’ Delaroche said softly. ‘A bit of fluff, you say?’

A strangled yelp emerged from Amy’s throat as the knife pressed against her skin, raising a thin red welt.

‘What do you want?’ Richard asked grimly.

‘That, Monsieur Gentian, ought to be obvious.’

‘Not to all of us,’ Richard snapped.

‘Your confession and surrender.’

‘Don’t!’ Amy cried out. ‘Don’t do it! You’ve made a mistake, Monsieur Delaroche! He doesn’t care for me. Really! It’s not worth – urgh! Keep your bloody hand off my mouth! Owwwww…’

‘On one condition!’ Richard’s voice rang out over Amy’s cries. The soldiers holding her froze. ‘You leave the girl alone. Otherwise there’s no deal. No confession. No surrender. I want your solemn word, Delaroche, that the girl will be left here.
Unharmed.’

Delaroche nodded. ‘Unharmed.’ The knife fell away from Amy’s throat, and the hands yanking her bound arms behind her back slackened.

The little Frenchman’s eyes gleamed with triumph. ‘Your mask, Gentian.’

Richard’s hands went to the lacings of his black mask.

‘No!’ Amy protested, as his gloved fingers plucked at the knot. ‘You mustn’t!’

Amy pulled against the arms holding her, frantic to get to Richard before he could reveal his identity once and for all to Delaroche. She couldn’t let him do it! She couldn’t let him lose everything, all that he had worked and fought for and perhaps his life into the bargain, all because of her. If he did…Amy’s stomach lurched as the knot gave and the strings loosened. If he did, she would be worse than Deirdre.

The mask tumbled to the ground.

An inarticulate murmur of distress rose from Amy’s throat, inordinately loud in the hushed silence that had swept the alleyway. All eyes were riveted on Richard’s pale face in the moonlight, on
the straight line of his nose, the cool glimmer of his green eyes, the gilded gleam of his hair as he pushed back the hood of his cape, all the features that marked him damningly and irrevocably as Lord Richard Selwick, enemy of the French Republic.

‘You can still run!’ Amy cried desperately. ‘You don’t have to do this, Richard!’

One by one, his black gloves joined his mask on the ground. His long, slim fingers, now bare, went to the frogs holding his cloak closed. Sweeping off the garment, Richard sketched an ironic bow.

‘Here I am, Delaroche. Unmasked, unveiled, and at your service. Now release the girl.’

With a snap of Delaroche’s fingers, Amy tumbled, still bound, to the dirt. Using her shackled wrists as leverage, she scooted painfully towards Richard. Desperately, she tried to come up with a plan. If she could create a distraction…a fire, maybe? Only she had nothing with which to create fire, even if her hands had been free. Jane! Why wasn’t Jane doing anything! Amy knew she was back there in the shadows, hiding and waiting, biding her time as only Jane could bide, but why oh why couldn’t she just do something? Fling a match, cry murder, stumble in pretending to be a drunken manservant, anything!

Under Amy’s horrified gaze, Delaroche wound a rope around Richard’s outstretched wrists. Fifteen musket-bearing soldiers closed ranks around them, their high-crowned hats blocking Richard from Amy’s sight.

‘You won’t get away with this!’ she railed at the row of blue-clad backs, propelling herself unevenly forward across the ground. ‘The Pink Carnation will rescue him and see you hanged!’

Preoccupied with Richard, no one paid the slightest bit of attention, except one infantryman, towards the edge of the group, who turned back and jerked a finger at Amy. ‘What about the girl, sir?’

Without removing his eyes from his long-awaited prize, a bound (if not yet humbled) Purple Gentian, Delaroche shrugged. ‘Leave her to the dogs.’

As the booted feet receded into the distance, Amy could hear Delaroche utter, ‘We have much to talk about, you and I, Monsieur Selweeck. And you
will
talk.’

Richard never looked back.

Amy stared after the retreating party of soldiers, her indignant cries frozen on her lips, the enormity of the situation only gradually beginning to dawn. She half expected to hear the sounds of a fray, to see a black-garbed figure break away from the group and dart for the shadows. But he didn’t.

‘Amy!’ Jane bent anxiously over her. ‘Lean forward so I can untie you.’

‘They have Richard,’ Amy whispered incredulously.

‘I know.’ Jane tugged at the tail of the rough-hewn piece of rope. ‘I saw.’

‘Why didn’t you do anything?’ Amy twisted towards Jane, chafing her sore wrists as Jane pulled the rope free.

‘Amy, there were
fifteen
of them.’ Jane thriftily coiled the rope and looped it around her arm. ‘I considered going for help but it seemed more prudent to wait and see what happened before charging off.’

Prudent. The word tasted sour on Amy’s tongue. ‘Well, now you know.’ Amy stumbled to her feet. ‘So let’s go after them!’

Jane grabbed her by the wrist, making Amy wince as her hand closed around skin chafed by the rope. ‘Not alone,’ Jane protested. ‘We’ll be no use to him alone. They’ll simply capture us and use us against him.’

‘As they already did.’ Amy’s face twisted. ‘But we can’t leave him there! We can’t! Jane, the
Ministry of Police
has him! Do you know what they do to people? Oh, God…there’s no time to be lost!’

‘Stop that!’ Jane shook Amy sharply. ‘What good do you think you’ll do him running off after him alone?’

Amy stared at Jane with wide, horrified eyes. ‘What would you have me do? Sit and wait for him to be executed? Jane, I can’t! I’d rather be caught and tortured!’

‘We will save him.’ Jane took a deep breath, her own face pale
and miserable in the moonlight. ‘We will. You wanted to be the Pink Carnation, Amy? Now’s your chance. You need to
think
like the Pink Carnation. Not like…like the heroine of a silly horrid novel running pell-mell into disaster! Show some
sense
! We need reinforcements and we need a plan,’ Jane finished decisively.

Amy drew a shuddering breath, knowing Jane to be right, and hating it. ‘His family. We can go to Lord Richard’s town house. There must be some members of his league there who can help us.’

Amy didn’t waste any more breath; she set off at a run. They both knew the reputation of the Ministry of Police for cruelty. Abuse, torture, even mention of the dark arts. Tales of English agents captured and never seen again. Or, worse – could it be worse? – released as vestiges of their former selves, their minds as broken as their bodies, babbling like village idiots as they limped along on crumpled limbs.

They ran down twisted streets, past drunken carousers, through puddles of filth. Jane slipped in a patch of mud, and Amy yanked her upright and hauled her forward.

Hideous thoughts chased Amy. Oh, heavens, Richard had been right; her involvement had been fatal for him. If he had never met her, he would still be free, not in the hands of a fanatical maniac intent on torturing him for both professional and personal reasons. If she hadn’t been so credulous…why hadn’t she realised that Delaroche’s groom was parting with information far too freely? Even a child could have realised it was a trap! But, no, she, Amy, in all her hubris, had just assumed that their instant success was due to her innate knack for espionage, not because she was an unresisting pawn in the hands of the French Ministry of Police. If that weren’t bad enough, she had kept Richard there arguing – what had possessed her to stand there bickering with him in the chambers of the Assistant Minister of Police? Good heavens, she couldn’t have done him more disservice had she been in Delaroche’s pay!

Being the Pink Carnation had seemed such a grand idea, thumbing her nose at Richard and at Revolutionary France all at
once. Why had she never thought of the consequences? She
was
worse than Deirdre. At least the loathsome Deirdre had merely been thoughtless. She, Amy, had known the risks Richard ran as the Purple Gentian, and set out deliberately to thwart him. She ought to have foreseen the dangers. She ought to have
known.

While her lungs twisted, and her leg muscles ached, Amy played her painful game of If. If she hadn’t let wounded pride rule her… If, if, if. If she had only told him in the garden that she knew who he was, and that she loved him anyway.

If she could only have him back, she would beg him to forgive her. She would never ever quibble with him over trivialities again. She would revel in the luxury of just gazing at his face. And it wouldn’t even matter if he loved her back, just so long as he was safe and well.

Amy clutched a tattered image of Richard, his green eyes glinting with mischief, his mobile lips twisted with amusement. Richard with his clever turns of phrase and moments of disarming boyishness. Richard taking her hand and teasing her about thorns.

They had only been to Lord Richard’s house once before, for tea with Lady Uppington, and even Jane’s excellent sense of direction wasn’t enough to keep them from becoming hopelessly muddled in the tangled streets of Paris. A dangerously long amount of time elapsed before the two scrambled up the steps to Lord Richard’s front door. Amy pounded anxiously with the big metal knocker, knocking over and over until the door jerked open. Amy tumbled over the threshold.

The silver-haired butler sniffed as though he smelt something nasty (which, as Amy’s clothes had formerly belonged to an undergroom, he probably did), and nudged her recumbent form with one polished toe. ‘Tradesmen to the back,’ he said disdainfully.

The heavy wooden door began to close.

‘Who is it, Stiles?’ Lady Uppington’s voice carried through the hallway, and in the crack of the door left open, Amy could just see her standing at the top of the stairs, like a guardian angel in robe and ribboned nightcap.

‘It’s Amy Balcourt and Jane Wooliston,’ called out Amy, struggling to her feet.

‘We’re sorry to call at such a late hour,’ Jane added politely.