Laura took a slow turn around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary among the general debris. “An unusual time for a sitting.”
“Yes, well, I’m an unusual person.” Philippe grinned at her, piling on the charm like coals on a fire. “Why don’t you come sit here near me and I’ll tell you all about it?”
She had seen him before, and not just at Jaouen’s. Laura stared at him, fighting to place the elusive memory.
Philippe patted the chaise next to him. “Mademoiselle?”
Apparently, he was used to being stared at by women; he seemed to be more amused than alarmed by her attention. Or simply used to being stared at.
With a final, fatal click, Laura remembered.
That was why he didn’t look at all like Jaouen, or like his supposed cousins. There was no relation there, not unless one counted Adam and Eve. She had seen him once before, in England, riding by in an open carriage, surrounded by an admiring entourage.
The lost prince they were all searching for wasn’t the Dauphin. It was the third man in line for the throne, the Duc de Berry.
And he was here, in front of her, in Antoine Daubier’s studio.
Chapter 18
“Won’t you sit down, Mademoiselle, er . . .”
The heir to the French throne patted the velvet seat of the chaise longue.
“Griscogne,” Laura said numbly. “Mademoiselle Griscogne.”
In this world turned upside down, even her name sounded curiously unreal, the syllables unfamiliar on her tongue. Here, in the disordered artist’s studio of her youth, so remarkably unchanged over the years, one of the heirs to the French throne was urging her to a seat.
A mere fifteen years before, sitting in the presence of a prince of the blood would have been accounted a little sort of treason.
It was mad. Laura stared at the man on the pedestal, fighting to reconcile the evidence of her eyes with the outraged voice of practicality. Unutterably, irredeemably mad. But no matter how mad it was, her memory didn’t lie. She knew him for who he was.
The Duc de Berry. Here. In Daubier’s studio.
“Ah, yes,” said the Duc de Berry, nodding. “Mademoiselle Griscogne. Of course.”
But if he was the Duc de Berry, then Jaouen . . . Laura’s mind fumbled after conclusions and fell short. Jaouen was the cousin of the Minister of Police, his most trusted confederate.
And he was harboring one of the heirs to the French throne.
Laura forced her dry throat to move. “But what am I to call you?”
“Well, you can’t very well call me cousin as André does,” said the Duc de Berry winningly. “Since we aren’t. So I imagine it will have to be Monsieur Philippe.”
Laura recklessly tossed the dice. “Or should I just say ‘Your Highness’ ?”
His reaction was all the confirmation she needed. The Duc de Berry jumped as though she had just pinched him. “I say, I—what?”
“You know exactly what,” said Laura, hearing her own voice as from a distance. Against it, she could hear the echoes of other conversations, Jaouen and Daubier in the antechamber that evening; de Berry’s earlier visits to the Hôtel de Bac. “He’s been hiding you, hasn’t he? Daubier.”
The Duc de Berry looked about as though looking for a place to bolt. “Don’t know why you would think such a thing. Hiding! Ha. I’m simply on leave from my regiment. As my cousin André might have told you.”
“He’s no more your cousin than you are mine,” said Laura brusquely. “Why did he agree to it? Jaouen? Is he helping you?”
De Berry backed away from the intensity in her voice. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re on about,” he said, looking slightly hunted. “Are you sure you’re feeling quite all right, Mademoiselle?”
No, she wasn’t sure. But that wasn’t the point.
Jaouen—a Royalist agent?
Laura felt as though she were clinging with one hand to the side of a cliff, watching the landscape sway beneath her, everything turned topsy-turvy.
She knew Jaouen’s past as well as she knew her own. She had read every word of his dossier, committing it all to memory in the pleasant gardens of a manor house in Sussex. Avocat of Nantes, delegate to the Estates-General, committed republican, cousin by marriage to the all-powerful Fouché, Minister of Police. There was nothing in there to indicate any form of Royalist leanings, nothing. There was no time unaccounted for, no period when he hadn’t been in the service of the Revolutionary regime for which he had so passionately advocated in the dying days of the old order.
And Daubier! Where was Daubier in all this? He was no more a Royalist than Jaouen, albeit for different reasons. He had never been political, not even when politics were all the fashion. King and country concerned Daubier only in so far as they provided him a place to hang his canvases. For those purposes, a Consul served him as well as a king.
Why?
And who was deceiving whom?
“Mademoiselle?” The Duc de Berry bent over her, too much a gentleman to toss her out the window. His mistake. If she were an agent of the government, such solicitude would sign his death warrant.
“I’m quite all right,” said Laura sharply, brushing off de Berry’s solicitous arm. “But you may not be. We have no time for these charades. Monsieur Daubier was arrested tonight.”
De Berry looked at her in confusion. “Then are you—? Do you—? Jaouen didn’t tell me that you were—”
“You don’t imagine that he tells you everything, do you?” That might be more true than either of them knew. Laura wondered what Jaouen was telling. And to whom. “The agents of the Ministry might be here at any moment. Does Monsieur Daubier keep anything here that might condemn him? Other than you.”
De Berry reacted without question to the note of authority in her voice. “His ledger. He has the code in his ledger.”
“Where is it?” Laura asked. “Quickly!”
“He keeps it here, close by him,” said de Berry, looking around helplessly. “As to where exactly . . .”
“It’s a book?” said Laura. “A leather-bound one?”
De Berry nodded. “About yea high.” He sketched it out with his hands. “Should be around—”
The door to the foyer burst open, spitting out Jaouen like a cork from a bottle. He was speaking as he moved, in a rapid-fire staccato that matched the brisk pace of his legs.
“Bad news. Dau—” Jaouen broke off, breathing hard. He came to an abrupt halt. His eyes locked with Laura’s. “You. What are you doing here?”
Laura took a step towards him. “What are you doing here?”
“Shouldn’t you be with the children?”
“Shouldn’t you be at the Prefecture?”
They stared at each other, mirror images of mistrust, neither caring to let the other out of sight. Jaouen’s breath was ragged from his hasty ascent of the stairs. Laura had no such excuse, but her breath came fast just the same, rasping against her throat.
“She’s not with us?” said de Berry unnecessarily. “But I thought . . .” He blanched, as though realizing what he had so nearly given away.
“I know who he is,” Laura said, addressing herself only to Jaouen. “There’s no use pretending.”
Jaouen didn’t betray himself by so much as a flicker of the eye. “He?”
“Your supposed cousin. His royal highness, the Duc de Berry.”
“I didn’t tell her,” de Berry said hastily, looking from one to the other. “She guessed. I thought she was one of us. She seemed to know. . . .”
Jaouen pressed his eyes together in a brief, telling moment of irritation. Laura couldn’t blame him. The Duc de Berry must be a very trying coconspirator. He was rumored to be a man of courage on the battlefield and charm in the ballroom, but the world of subterfuge was not for one such as he.
Unlike Jaouen.
When Jaouen spoke, his voice was hard and flat. “Who are you working for?”
Laura spoke with a bravado she didn’t
feel. “The last time I looked, I was working for you. The question is, who are you working for?”
“We’ll have to do something with her,” said the Duc de Berry anxiously from somewhere behind her. “Tie her up or . . .”
“One word to the wrong person,” said Jaouen, his eyes on Laura, “and you sign Daubier’s death warrant.”
“Are you here to save Daubier?” Laura demanded. “Or to hang him?”
“What is it to you?”
Laura met his gaze steadily. “More than you imagine.”
There were noises from the stairs; Laura could hear the heavy tread of boots through the open door to the foyer.
“Too many damn flights of stairs,” someone was saying. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down.
The bubble encasing them shattered. Jaouen swung abruptly away, his head jerking towards the door.
Jaouen cursed, briefly and violently. “Delaroche’s men. He wasted no time. Merde. Both of you, in the back room. Now.”
De Berry danced from one foot to the other, spoiling for a fight. “How many of them are there? We could take them, you and I. There’s a sword on the wall—”
“A pasteboard one,” clipped Jaouen. “The last thing we need is a fight. What are you waiting for? Go!”
When a man said “go” like that, people went.
Grabbing de Berry’s arm in both hands, Laura tugged. Caught off balance, the prince staggered, stumbling after her through the door to the dining room. Jaouen followed after them, grabbing the handle of the door. His eyes for a moment lit on Laura’s face, frankly mistrustful. She could see him frown.
“Your old friend’s life,” he said. “Remember.”
Was that a warning? Or a threat?
Then he shoved the door shut, plunging the room into darkness.
He knew he should have paid his governess a higher salary.
André’s eyes caught those of his governess as the door swung closed. She stared back, watchful, wary, giving nothing away. Damn. He wanted to shake her, to demand answers, to rattle her out of that impressive self-possession. Was she an agent of Delaroche? Or someone else? Or nothing more than what she said. A governess. A friend of Daubier.
He might not, thought André, with gallows humor, have to wait long to find out. If she wanted to hang them all, she could. All she had to do was cry out. It would be difficult explaining de Berry’s presence in Daubier’s studio. They might try to pass de Berry off as his cousin, but it was a threadbare deception at best. And even the taint of suspicion would be enough to damn them all.
He had told Cadoudal not to bring de Berry to France. Not yet. There were too many pieces still left to fall into place: key generals to be suborned, potential foes to be neutralized, an appointment at the palace to be procured. He had urged prudence, but hotter heads had prevailed, and now here they were, at the mercy of a governess who might or might not keep silent for the love of an old painter who had once been a friend to her parents.
Put that way, they hadn’t a hope in hell.
The guards were almost upon him. “—hate these late-night assignments,” one was saying companionably to the other. “The night was meant for sleep, not traipsing around the city after phantoms.”
“A phantom? But I thought they said it was an artist,” said the second man disingenuously. “Sir!”
Both men snapped to at the sight of Jaouen, who folded his arms across his chest and fixed them with a stern stare. He had learned more of theatre these past few years than any actor in the Comédie-Française.
He recognized the men as the same who had been sent to Cadoudal’s lodgings. The dim one was . . . Laclos. That was it. Laclos and Maugret. Neither was particularly bright, but dangerous, nonetheless. He would have to trust to the appearance of authority and the late hour to keep their suspicions at bay.
“You certainly took long enough.” André kept his back to the door to the dining room. He knew better than anyone the danger of the betraying glance. “Where were you?”
“We came as fast as we heard,” said Laclos quickly. “There was trouble on the bridge, an overturned cart—”
“Yes, yes,” said André curtly, dismissing the man’s excuses in a way that made clear just how much credence he gave it. André turned his attention to the other man. “What were your orders?”
Maugret’s wandering eyes snapped back to André. He noticed too much, this one. He had been looking about with frank curiosity. “To guard the chambers of the traitor Daubier, sir. To make sure no one else entered.”
“Well done,” said André, with a fine edge of sarcasm. “By now, half of Paris might have been in and out. Do you know how much time it takes to destroy evidence, Maugret?”
Maugret started to nod, then changed his mind and shook his head instead. “No, sir,” he said sulkily.
“Less time than you would think.” Almost as little time as it took to destroy a reputation. One false move, and it would be his head on the guillotine, Gabrielle and Pierre-André abandoned to the vagaries of an uncaring world. “You should have come more quickly.”
Had that been a noise from the dining room?
Laclos hung his head. “That cart . . .”
His partner stepped in. “We weren’t told you would be here, sir.”
André stared him down, letting him know what he thought of that piece of impertinence. “Do you always expect to be apprised of your superiors’ comings and goings?” Having made his point, he deliberately adopted a more matter-of-fact tone. “I only arrived here a few moments before you. The premises appear to be unspoiled.” André allowed his lip to curl. “Although, in these conditions, it is hard to tell.”
Laclos obediently guffawed. His laugh turned into an embarrassed cough as he saw that André wasn’t laughing and neither was his partner. Maugret cast him a disgusted look.
“We will have our work cut out for us, searching through this sty,” said André, making a show of pacing the parameters of the far end of the room. “Monsieur Delaroche should have sent more people.”
“He asked for them, sir,” said Laclos eagerly, “but everyone else was on other assignments. Or at home,” he added wistfully.
So it was Delaroche who had sent them. Had Delaroche reported to Fouché yet? Or to the Prefecture? Or was he biding his time, hoping for more sensational discoveries before he alerted his superiors?
A prince of the blood would be a coup indeed.
He had to get de Berry and the governess out of the way. If he could persuade Laclos and Maugret to remain out front, he could shoo the others down the back stairs. De Berry might not be a genius of subtlety, but he could be trusted to get Mlle. Griscogne back to the Hôtel de Bac and to keep watch on her while there. If she was an agent of Delaroche, they couldn’t risk giving her the chance to get a message out.
André’s mind shied away from the possibility. Why was it so hard for him to believe that she was Delaroche’s creature? Because her mother wrote love poetry? Because he admired her nerve? Because she had seemed to him, for a moment, like a little girl lost in the woods, trying to keep the wolves at bay?
Sentiment had no place in espionage, at least not if one hoped to survive. All the evidence said she was danger. And danger meant Delaroche.
André surveyed the two constables. “The traitor Daubier undoubtedly has confederates,” he said, thinking quickly. “As soon as they hear of his plight, they’ll be here, eager to destroy the evidence. Maugret!”—he pointed to the more difficult of the two—“I want you to go to the square. Find someplace where you can see the front entrance. Take note of anyone who approaches. As for you, Laclos, station yourself hard by the door. Make sure you are well hidden. Be prepared to take into custody anyone who tries to enter.”
Laclos nodded eagerly. “No one will get past.”
André clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. As for me, I will wait here. With the candles out,” he added. “They won’t come if they think someone is here.”
And it would be easier to smuggle de Berry and Mlle. Griscogne out without the candlelight silhouetting them against the windows.
“If we lay our trap properly,” André declared grandiloquently, “we will catch our mice.”
It was a perfectly ridiculous statement, worthy of Delaroche at his best, but it appeared to make sense, even to the skeptical Maugret.
“Yes, sir,” the man said.
André felt a weakening flush of relief. He had them convinced, he could tell. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but they had a shot. If he could just get de Berry to move quickly and quietly . . . If Mlle. Griscogne didn’t give them away . . . André nodded brusquely to Laclos and Maugret, motioning them on their way, giving no sign of the turmoil of thought going on beneath his stern countenance.
A crash resonated from the other room. Porcelain, splintering.
André could feel it vibrating throughout his body, as though it were his own bones being dashed to pieces rather than one of Daubier’s Chinese vases.
Maugret, the more acute of the two, jerked sharply towards the dining-room door. “What was that?”
“Something breaking?” volunteered Laclos.
Maugret cast Laclos a look of contempt. “It came from there, sir,” he said to André, pointing to the door. “Shall I go in?”
Too bad that sword on the wall was pasteboard. It might come down to that fight that de Berry had so eagerly desired. André cursed, silently and violently. He cursed de Berry for foolishness; Cadoudal for overreaching; and himself for too many reasons to count, although the primary one involved a woman with a penchant for gray.
André flung up a hand, halting the constable’s progress. “Maugret!” The other man stopped abruptly. André lowered his voice. “There is a back door, if I recall. Whoever it is might try to escape out back. I want you to—”
He never finished his order. The dining-room door swung open.