Hostage to Love Page 14

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Verity sighed. “Please remember, your presence in Paris could jeopardize your father’s life. Not to mention your own. You wouldn’t be able to help him if you’re thrown in prison too, now would you?”

  With a cry, Henrietta whirled, and flung out her arms. “I cannot stay in this cupboard a moment longer.”

  Verity raised an eyebrow. “Not what you are used to, I imagine.”

  Henrietta’s eyes widened. She rushed to take Verity’s hands. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. It’s just that I’m going mad here.”

  “Then play your part as my cousin who has no interest in the concerns of the Viscount Beaumont. Are you a good enough actress?”

  Henrietta’s eyes flashed. “I’m sure I am.”

  “You must be, for this is the most important part you will ever play.”

  “I’m aware of it.”

  “We’ll dress simply. There are linen caps in the trunk. No sense in drawing attention to ourselves. Don’t forget to pin on your cockade and bring your papers. We’ll walk, for those that ride everywhere in fiacres are looked upon with suspicion.”

  Despite a lowering sky and the threat of rain, the boulevards were busy with the poorly dressed who now walked confidently among the rich. On the north-eastern outskirts of the city, they hurried along a broad, tree-lined avenue.

  “This is the Boulevard du Temple where the theatre halls are.”

  They stood in front of The Gaite. “Theatre has become popular for people from all walks of life,” Verity said. “This is one of the largest. It’s renowned for its acrobats and buffoons, but they also put on plays.”

  Verity led Henrietta through the rear stage door. Henrietta peeked out from behind the curtain. Spectators stuffed the galleries to the rafters. A loud murmur of gossip from the boxes, coupled with quarrels in the pit, competed with the performance on stage. She wrinkled her nose at the smoke of hundreds of candles and the liberal use of perfume, which failed to disguise the rank odor of unwashed bodies.

  A sign on a stand told them the pantomime The Lover Entombed was playing. When two actors in Columbine and Harlequin costumes appeared on stage, they enthralled the audience into silence. A roar of laughter went up when an actor in flowing black robes, mistook Harlequin for a dog, and the dog spat in his face and snatched his purse.

  The audience clapped as Harlequin sniffed the man’s clothing and lifted his leg in the air, causing man to shake his gown hilariously.

  Henrietta was caught up along with the rest. For a moment she forgot the constant nagging worry about her father, and she longed, not to be in the audience, but up on the stage.

  “Henrietta!”

  “I’m coming.”

  ***

  The curtain dropped to hearty applause, as Verity introduced Henrietta to the proprietor, Monsieur Morel, a short man with a jowly chin. Henrietta made him a pretty curtsey, and his eyes warmed. He kissed her hand. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. You are as lovely as your cousin.” He stroked his chin. “In fact, …” He looked at each of them in turn. “I am keen to place you together on stage. Two blondes, one golden as sunlight, one pale as the moon. What a superb combination! We are now permitted to put on a Moliere play, and I plan to do L'école des femmes.”

  “How delightful to be a part of your next production, Monsieur Morel,” Verity said. “My first consideration is to locate Lord Beaumont. Where do they keep him? Have you discovered the prison?”

  “I am reliably informed that he is in a Paris asylum.”

  Henrietta spun away to examine a pile of costumes lying on a table.

  “They have converted many buildings into prisons I believe,” Morel continued, his eyes on Henrietta. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Most in their cells end up on the scaffold.”

  Verity glanced over at Henrietta, the girl did well to hold her tongue, wrapping a fox boa, she’d found, around her shoulders. “You have the address?”

  “This man, he is a lover of yours?”

  Verity nodded.

  “And you cannot bear to see him lose his head over anyone but you, non?” He chuckled as he wrote down the address.

  Verity took the paper from him. “I am most grateful to you, Monsieur Morel.”

  Henrietta smiled at him boldly. He raised his eyeglass, his gaze roaming her breasts and waist in her slim fitting bodice jacket. “You might repay me, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Are you available for a… liaison?”

  “I should be pleased, monsieur,” Henrietta said, in a skillful interpretation of the French of the lower classes. “When I have recovered from my present… ailment.” She shook her head mischievously. “A bad choice of lover on my part.”

  He stroked his moustache. “Indeed, mademoiselle.” He shrugged.

  “We are eager to join your troupe,” Verity repeated. “When you have a place for us.”

  He rubbed his hands. “I’ll act quickly. I’d be stupid to let you slip through my fingers,” he said. “Your combined beauty will fill the seats in my humble theatre.” He jerked his head at the noise as the theatre filled for the next performance. “My theatre is popular, as you see.”

  They walked out onto the avenue. Verity cast a respectful glance at Henrietta. “How does a green girl learn such things?”

  “I overheard Cook talking to one of the maids.”

  “One of your maids had syphilis?”

  Henrietta looked shocked. “No. Scabies.”

  “Oh, Henrietta!” Verity shook her head. She examined the paper he’d given her. “Your father is in the Mont Pellier Asylum. Luck might be on our side. I know an actor who took a job there. Times are hard, he may still be there.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Henrietta said. “Let’s go now and see.”

  “We’ll have to take a fiacre. It will take us too long to walk.” Verity searched the busy avenue and found one for hire.

  “But can we afford it?” Henrietta followed Verity onto the muddy street.

  “I’ll negotiate the price,” Verity said. “It is expected.”

  After a brisk conversation, a price was agreed on. They climbed inside, and the fiacre lurched off, the wheels clattering over the cobbles. “I shall have to take Monsieur Morel up on his offer,” Verity said, fanning herself inside the stifling carriage. Dark clouds raced across the sky threatening rain. “Our pockets are almost empty.”

  “I’m willing,” Henrietta said.

  “You have no idea how difficult it can be. Men won’t treat you with respect. You saw evidence of that today.”

  “I thought I handled him quite well.” Henrietta frowned.

  Verity gazed anxiously out of the window. Heavy drops of rain began to patter on the carriage roof. “Monsieur Morel is a pussy cat. Not all men are. What would your father think of me leading you into such a life? Leave this to me. I’ll borrow some money enough, so you can return to England.”

  Henrietta scowled. “And leave my father locked up in prison? Are you mad?”

  At the mention of Anthony, Verity felt slightly ill. As the carriage slowly made its way through the Parisian streets, she watched a trail of thin, hungry people lining up at a bread shop. A hawker bellowed, trying to attract buyers for his wares.

  The asylum backed onto the Seine. She paid the fare, and they alighted. The stone building towered above them, impenetrable with narrow barred windows across the front.

  Three doors led off the foyer, and an iron gate shut off the corridor, beyond which were the stairs. Foul air rose from the dungeons along with unceasing mumbles of complaint. A sudden blood-curdling cry caused chills to climb Verity’s spine. She grabbed Henrietta’s arm.

  One of the doors opened, and a sallow-faced man emerged. “May I be of assistance, citizens?”

  Verity walked over to him. “We need information concerning a prisoner.”

  His eyebrows rose. “On whose authority?”

  “Monsieur Danton.”

 
; His eyebrows rose. “What is it Monsieur Danton requires?”

  “He has sent me on an important mission.”

  “You have papers?”

  Verity reached into her reticule and produced the letter.

  He took it and read it. “This authority requests you to travel to England in search of this man, Lord Beaumont.” He shoved it back at her.

  Verity ignored Henrietta’s loud gasp. “Which has brought me back to Paris in search of him.”

  The man’s jaw jutted. “Why should I believe you?”

  Verity’s eyes flashed, and she stamped her foot. “Do you wish me to contact Monsieur Danton? It will not go well for you.”

  Fear darkening his eyes. “No need for that! I’ll check the register.”

  They followed him deeper into the building. The groans grew louder and echoed around them as they entered his office.

  He opened the large register on his desk. Turned the pages and ran his finger down the lists. So many, thought Henrietta, her stomach churning.

  He looked up. “Oui, Lord Beaumont is here. He was brought in with Baron St André.”

  “Merci,” Verity said. “Monsieur Danton will be pleased to learn of this. I trust Lord Beaumont has been treated well.” To her ears, she sounded remarkably composed.

  The man hooked a finger under his neck cloth. “Well, er… he will go to the guillotine in good condition.”

  “Expect an inspection in a few days,” Verity said. Henrietta stood stiffly beside her. The building seemed impregnable. Was it a hopeless task to rescue Anthony? They had to try. “Does Jean-Paul Aubrac work here?” Verity smiled flirtatiously. “I hoped to see him.”

  “Oui. He works the night shift this week.”

  “We worked together in a play. What time does he start?”

  “He will be here at six of the clock.” He brightened. “You were in a play together, mademoiselle? Monsieur Aubrac never thought to mention it. I am much enamored of the theatre.”

  Verity smiled. “Mademoiselle and I are soon to perform at the Gaite.”

  The man ran his gaze over Henrietta. “I shall come to see it. Please inform Monsieur Danton that Lord Beaumont enjoys the best accommodation we can offer.” He bowed them out the asylum door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Traitor!”

  Verity didn’t answer. She took Henrietta’s arm and led her away down the street.

  Outraged, Henrietta pulled away. She stood on the wet cobbled street the sound of her heartbeat thrashing in her ears and stared at the actress. Danton had sent Verity to London to meet her father. For what reason? To bring him to Paris? Was Verity’s interest in this affair merely to suit her own ends? Henrietta had placed her trust in this traitorous deceiver. A dreadful sinking feeling settled in her stomach. She was afraid she’d be sick.

  Her fingers coiled into her palms. She wanted to slap Verity, but held back aware of the curious looks from those walking past. “You work for Danton,” she hissed as she backed away.

  Verity drew her off the street as a carriage rattled past. “We will talk, Henrietta, but not here.”

  Henrietta shrugged her off. “How can I believe anything you say?”

  Verity blinked as rain began to fall. “You have no choice,” she said, in an edgy tone.

  Henrietta put her hands on her hips. “Don’t I? I can go to the British authorities, or throw myself on the mercy of the National Assembly.”

  “Try that and you’ll end up in prison. The British consul has withdrawn from Paris.” She shook her head. “I have an idea of how to rescue your father. Are you with me or not?”

  Henrietta angrily swiped her eyes flooding with rain and tears. “I’ll stay, because you are my only hope of rescuing him. If that is truly your intention. But I will be watching your every move.”

  “Why else would I be putting myself though all this?” Verity asked. “I might be enjoying a coffee with friends instead of standing here arguing with you in the rain. Come away, before we are completely soaked.”

  Numb, Henrietta stumbled after her. Why did Verity care that her father was imprisoned in Paris? She could walk away having done what Danton asked of her. Why did Verity agree to it in the first place? Could Henrietta believe anything she said?

  There was nothing to do but follow Verity’s lead. Once the plan to free him from this prison succeeded, not only would she never trust the Frenchwoman again, she would work against her.

  Verity’s was searching for a fiacre. “I have little confidence the man will keep his word and treat them well.” Verity said. “We must come back tonight.”

  Finally, an empty fiacre rattled down the avenue. Once settled inside, Verity turned to her. “I am not responsible for your father’s plight, but it’s true, Danton did send me to London. He has had my father thrown into prison but promised to release him if I obeyed his order.” She spoke with passionate urgency, but Henrietta didn’t feel inclined to believe her. She eyed the Frenchwoman as if she was confronted by a snake. “Oh? Where is your father?”

  Verity’s face crumbled. She sucked in air. “In the Conciergerie dungeons, which is part of the Palais de Justice. Prisoners there await the guillotine. I am not allowed to see him, and I can’t find out if he still lives.”

  The pain and sadness in Verity’s eyes had to be genuine, actress or not. Watching her, Henrietta suffered an unwelcome tug of compassion. “I’m sorry. Your plight seems as bad as mine. What is the plan?”

  Verity sighed, closed her eyes for a moment. “My friend, Jean-Paul Aubrac might help us. But I intend to spend what’s left of the day inquiring after my father. You can wait at my home. I advise you to rest.”

  “Rest? I’m not in my dotage,” Henrietta said. “I’ll come with you.”

  “You needn’t.”

  “But I want to.” She didn’t intend to let Mademoiselle Verity out of her sight.

  Verity tapped the roof of the carriage. “First, we will eat luncheon. We must keep up our strength.”

  They left the carriage and entered a gallery of shops. In a corner café with red check curtains, they ate bread and soup and drank coffee they could ill afford, while ignoring the provocative glances of the men at the bar and sitting at the tables.

  “Are you in love with my father?”

  Verity frowned. “That is a private thing between your father and me.”

  Henrietta flushed and fell silent.

  * * *

  They had the cell to themselves now. Anthony worried about where they’d taken Josette and how she was treated. He knew Phillip did too, but he said nothing. It had begun to rain. Anthony leapt up and held onto the bars. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he stared out from the high window. Below them the brown waters of the River Seine swirled away through Paris. He struggled painfully to hold the small bowl out between the bars. Rainwater splashed onto his face and ran down his arm, soaking his filthy shirt. He hung there until his arm gave way then dropped back to the floor. After drinking from the bowl, he repeated the action.

  Anthony knelt at Philippe’s side. Philippe drank a little water from the bowl then pushed it away. His eyes were half closed, and he shook his head. “You must drink it, Anthony. I’m not going to make it.” He was flushed and sweaty, his wound inflamed.

  Philippe was right. He wouldn’t last long in this cursed place. But it was unlikely that either of them would be spared. Anthony was surprised they hadn’t come for them. They were fed disgusting scraps a pig would reject. But he ate every bit, and he insisted Philippe eat too.

  Anthony stretched out his legs, leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes to wait for something to happen, even if it meant a trip to the Place de la Revolution. Surely there’d be a tribunal held before they sent an English lord to the scaffold?

  The cell door opened and crashed back against the wall. A soldier stood there, pointing his gun at Anthony, his eyes blank and disinterested. “You are both to come.”

  So, this was it. Anthony straighten
ed his shoulders. “I demand to have my say at the Revolutionary Tribunal.”

  “Silence!” The guard leaned over and prodded at Philippe with his bayonet. “On your feet!”

  “Stop! I’ll assist him.” Anthony bent and heaved the barely conscious Philippe to his feet. He steadied himself and then lifted his brother-in-law up. He slowly mounted the stairs with the guard nudging them from behind.

  * * *

  Christian Hartley stood on the wharf at Calais. The traumatized family was now safe aboard a boat bound for Dover. They had little money, no lands or home, all were confiscated, but they were alive. Christian wished them well in their new country. They might be able to return to France in the future, but they would be wise not to count on it.

  The trap had been driven away by a fellow collaborator. With a final wave to the baron and his wife, Christian climbed into a carriage hired to take him back to Paris. His fears for Henrietta settled on his shoulders like a mantle on an ox. He straightened the brown wig and the hat which formed part of his new disguise, the clothes of a lower member of the first estate. He was now a parish priest who had denounced his religion on his way to visit his mother in Paris. Christian had broken one of his cardinal rules by returning to Paris with no time to alert his contacts. He was on his own, and despite the added moustache, his face might be remembered.

  The carriage took off down the road. Exhausted, he leaned against the squabs and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He’d had precious little sleep for days and expected that to continue. But he’d learned to snatch a few hours where he could, and despite the jolting of the carriage he drifted off, his chin resting on his chest.

  * * *

  Henrietta shivered and rubbed her arms. Mist swirled over the river and enveloped them like a shroud. The asylum loomed above them like an evil portent. “Do you think we’ve missed him?” she asked Verity.

  They’d arrived by carriage half an hour ago and waited in the narrow street. Dressed in dark cloaks, they still drew curious glances.