Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
The Star of Versailles
ISBN # 978-1-78651-523-0
©Copyright Catherine Curzon and Willow Winsham 2017
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright January 2017
Edited by Sue Meadows
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2017 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
THE STAR OF VERSAILLES
As the Reign of Terror tears Paris apart, a dandy and a spy are thrown together on a desperate race through France.
In the darkest days of the Reign of Terror, rumors grow of the Star of Versailles, the most exquisite treasure ever owned by the doomed Marie Antoinette. For Vincent Tessier, the notorious Butcher of Orléans, this potent symbol of the ancien régime has become an obsession and he’ll stop at nothing to possess it.
When Alexandre Gaudet arrives in France to find his missing sister and nephew, the last thing he expects is to fall into Tessier’s hands. With Gaudet tortured and left for dead, salvation stumbles accidentally, if rather decorously, into his path.
For Viscount William Knowles, life as a spy isn’t the escape he had hoped for. Yet a long-held secret won’t let him rest, and the fires of Revolution seem like the easiest way to hide from a past that torments him at every turn.
Adrift in a world where love, family and honor are currencies to be traded, the world-weary Viscount Knowles and the scandalous Monsieur Gaudet have no choice but to try to get along if they want to survive. With Tessier in pursuit, they search for the clues that will lead them to the greatest treasure in revolutionary France—the Star of Versailles.
Dedication
CC— For Rick, the most rakish of all Colonial gents!
WW—For Debbie, there right from the start!
Chapter One
There was more than mud on the streets of Paris today, something other than earth drawing and sucking at the feet of the thousands who trod here, heads bowed and shoulders hunched against the summer rain. From the Place de la Révolution a roar erupted, louder than thunder and more violent than lightning, the sun disappearing behind a jet-black cloud in deference to the violence below.
Held fast in the grip of the Terror, the city trembled, and everyone, from the highest to the lowest, had their secrets. For some, like the residents of a fine house on the Rue Saint-Honoré, secrets had seen a father chained in the Conciergerie, awaiting his date with the National Razor, whilst for others they were currency, life itself.
Every morning William Knowles woke in his unassuming room and donned the identity of Yves Morel as other men might step into a favorite pair of comfortable shoes. For two months, he had existed under the name of a man feared from the south of the country to the north and that, he knew, meant that his time could only be running out.
Here in Paris, Morel was known as a figure of unflinching cruelty, those who could put a face to the name all safely occupied with the business of government hundreds of miles away. Yet one day, and he knew it must be soon, one of them would return to Paris. Before that happened he would be gone, vanished once more into a world of shadows and secrets.
Tomorrow, perhaps the day after that, the last surviving conspirator of the Rue Saint-Honoré would climb the steps to the scaffold and take with him the only hope William had of a successful completion to this most lucrative of missions. Valuable days had been lost on the journey to Paris in response to reports of Philippe Plamondon’s arrest, William expecting to find the man dead by the time of his arrival. Instead, he found him deep within the Conciergerie enjoying the special attentions of Vincent Tessier, the Butcher of Orléans who could, so rumor had it, convince a man to confess to any number of crimes, both real and imagined.
One chance, William told himself as he opened the window in an effort to dissipate the stifling heat.
One chance, then the last link to the Star of Versailles was gone forever.
A cheer rent the air and he shuddered. There came a second then a third explosion of approval from the distant crowd, each one louder than the last. As the day grew darker, he bowed his head and pictured the blade being hauled back to the skies, the shuffling feet on their way to the scaffold, the moment of silence before the razor edge fell and ten thousand spectators released their breath at once.
Then came the next soul, the clattering thunder of the guillotine and on and on it went until the blade grew dull and the crowd grew hungry for something more tangible than blood.
Another shudder ran through William and he drew the window down with a note of finality before picking up his coat as he crossed the bare boards to the door.
Sometimes, William reflected as he stepped out onto the landing, deep undercover work was boring, pointless hours spent reading dispatches and copying out messages. On other occasions, it was dangerous, dodging bullets and torture, and once in a while, deep undercover work, even as a revolutionary firebrand, meant traveling for a week to spend one hour with a man beyond rescue.
If he knew anything at all.
For all the excitement among the Academy’s members over recent developments, there was really nothing here but more rumor, nothing tangible whatsoever besides the usual anti-Revolution pamphleting and some ill-advised rabble-rousing.
Now and again, Professor Dee would send a dispatch to his agent and William would follow it to the letter, stealing from his bed to creep through the house as everyone slept and copy this paper or that missive. During these excursions, he had learned from experience that Tessier, his genial host, was given to sleeplessness. After midnight, he roamed the rooms, pacing the stairs up and down or sitting in his study staring at the darkness beyond the window, still as marble and just as cold.
Two evenings earlier Tessier had sat there as William, snooping just for the sake of snooping, pressed back into the wall and barely breathed. For long minutes, they’d shared the same space, William clutching the documents he had been reading by moonlight when the door handle had turned, his knuckles bleached white.
That had been the last time he’d searched the study after dark. Now he confined his efforts to the gray hours before dawn when the house had yet to wake. Where once these walls had echoed with the whispers of those who carried messages through Paris for Philippe Plamondon and his counter-revolutionaries and watched fleeing prisoners escape to a new life, now it was silent, Tessier’s thin voice the only sound that occasionally ended the quiet.
Not so long ago, the house had rung with a child’s laughter, with the gentle lullaby of Claudine Plamondon and the cheery greeting of her husband, but now those memories were as gossamer as a dream. The homely building was a shadow of its former self, picked apart by its new tenant, so consumed was he by his search for the illustrious treasure. Carpets and rugs were torn up until the floorboards themselves were pried apart, paper stripped from the walls and furniture dismantled to no avail. After two months in residence, Vincent Tessier was no closer to the prize, the jewel that half of Europe searched for proving utterly elusive.
At the top of the stairs William paused as something, he hardly knew what, stilled his tread.
Footsteps.
Somebody in Tessier’s study?
Finally convinced that there was, indeed, someone else in the house, William made his way along the landing with all the care he could muster in his heavy boots, taking each step with utmost delicacy.
For a moment, he peered at the bare floorboards where Philippe had been caught as he’d fled and where, local gossips had told him in the alehouses, ‘his spilled blood had stained the most beautiful rug you ever did see’.
‘It stank like a butcher’s slab. They had no choice but to burn it. You can still see the stain on the boards. That dark patch, that’s where they caught up with Monsieur Plamondon. That bonny wife and little François, well, they’ll catch up with them too one day and it’ll be all the worse when they do.’
‘Such a lovely family…’
And with each telling the tale grew more grotesque, the violence more bloody and the stain deeper and darker than before.
‘That house has seen its share of sadness—we used to have such lovely times with Madame Plamondon and the little one, and what do we have now?’
‘Men talking politics from dawn until dusk, paddling mud and blood and Lord knows what across the rugs and up the stairs.’
‘Mark me, there’s more than one stain in this house.’
Once word had gotten around as to who they were addressing the gossips fell silent and William stopped frequenting the alehouses, marked out as the man in Robespierre’s pocket. It was a compliment of sorts, he supposed, that he could be so convincing as a monster to whom betrayal and punishment were second nature.
Though Vincent Tessier makes Yves Morel seem like an amateur.
As he trod lightly, William realized that the gossips were right. The house was pockmarked with the scars of battle and the dark stain of Philippe’s blood on the board was the most tangible of them all. William stilled before the door and breathed in the atmosphere of damp that lingered about the place when the rain fell. It felt heavy, twisting his stomach for no more than a second.
As the door swung open beneath his hand William stepped over the threshold, his eyes fixed on the man who stood with his back to him. The intruder was beside Tessier’s desk, head bowed low. William found his attention drawn by the stranger’s vibrant blue outfit, more suited to the opera than a filthy day in Paris. As William watched, the man spun to face the door, one hand held up in surrender.
“Alexandre Gaudet?” William asked, momentarily wrong-footed by the unexpected appearance of the toast of London theater here in this fetid city. It made sense, of course, yet he would never have expected a dandified playwright, more used to perfume and silk than muck and politics, to make such a dangerous trip. With that thought in his head William lowered his voice and asked, “You’re looking for your sister?”
“Claudine,” Gaudet confirmed, searching William’s face with green eyes. His voice was almost convincing but there was just a trace of a wobble, a small break that betrayed his fears. “This was her home—”
A veil of realization descended over his face then his gaze dropped to William’s hands in a search for the leather gloves, Vincent Tessier’s trademark.
“You’re Morel,” Gaudet breathed after a moment, taking an involuntary step backward. “Please—”
A hundred possibilities presented themselves then, chief among them being the fact that this man, this pampered society darling, was the last free link to the Star of Versailles. If indeed it had left Paris with Claudine Plamondon when her husband had been dragged to the Conciergerie, then might Alexandre Gaudet be able to find her? Wouldn’t a brother know the mind of his sister, the places she might hide herself?
“Trust me—” William began, the words silenced by the sound of a slamming door and voices from below. There came the heavy thud of damp boots crossing the stripped, bare floorboards of the entrance hall and William whispered, “Say nothing.”
He knew that the words were wasted as the feet continued on and up the staircase. Praying that they would pass by, William weighed up his choices, not sure what he could do to help this possibly God-sent new arrival without giving away his own subterfuge.
Gaudet made a run for the door. The force with which he hit William sent him careening into the dresser. The intruder wrenched the door open, seeking escape and, instead, came face to face with Vincent Tessier. Behind him, three men were clustered and, anticipating nothing more thrilling than an afternoon of politics and debate, they were quick to respond to this unexpected excitement.
As William recovered his footing, Gaudet was dragged from the room and William followed, too late to witness anything but a commotion of feet on the stairs. He knew that the intruder’s efforts to escape would be hopeless—Tessier would not allow Alexandre Gaudet to leave the house a free man.
That’s if he even leaves it alive.
William descended the stairs quickly, reaching the hallway in time to see Gaudet being hauled toward the door. His arms were pulled back at a painful angle and a thick loop of rope encircled his wrists, tight enough to draw a thin streak of crimson that just made its way down the pale skin of his hand.
Tessier looked to William with malice glittering in his eyes and told him brightly, “I owe you a debt for this, Morel—a valuable head.”
In the seconds before he was pushed into the street and taken away, Alexandre Gaudet glanced over his shoulder at William. For a moment, their eyes met and he recognized in Gaudet’s gaze the flare of hatred that the name of Yves Morel always provoked.
William decided that he would not remain in this skin for long, bowing his head and turning back to the stairs.
Soon it will be time to travel on.
Chapter Two
“Hand,” Sylvie Dupire commanded, folding her arms across her chest and waiting for the child to comply. “Bastien, hand.”
He shook his head, clenching his fist even more tightly for a moment before she said, “Now, Master Dupire.”
Another moment passed before Bastien puffed up his cheeks and let the air escape in a long sigh of annoyance, each finger of the fist slowly uncurling itself. As a couple of dull coins were revealed, Sylvie held out her own hand until he dropped his bounty onto her palm.
“Who did you steal this from?”
“I didn’t steal it.” He shrugged. “I found it.”
“Found it how?” Sylvie offered her son the opportunity to tell something that at least resembled the truth. “By dipping into the pockets of passers-by?”
Bastien furrowed his smooth brow at the accusation of theft before he let out another sigh of disappointment and shook his head slowly, switching expertly from chastised son to wounded innocent.
“My hand may have slipped on occasion.”
“Bastien!” Sylvie threw her hands up, voice clipped when she said, “You’re going to end up getting us all in big trouble, young man.”
“A few coins…”
“A few coins.” Sylvie leaned forward then and jabbed a finger at him, Bastien fighting his desire to take a step back. “‘A few coins’ has put boys on the scaffold!”
“So I’m not getting it back, then?” Bastien asked, the unspoken disdain turning to annoyance when she returned to the ragged clothes she had been examining without replying. “But I’ve been all over the city for that!”
“Consider it your board.”
“What bloody son pays his ma to live in a filthy hole like this?”
“Deliver milk, you keep the money,” she explained calmly, tucking the coins into her apron. “Dip into pockets and pay board. Your choice, Bastien.”
Bastien stared at her for as long as he could before the need to blink overcame the need to at least attempt to make his mother feel guilty. Only then did he climb onto the table to sit beside the pile of rags, picking up a frock coat and examining the tattered finery absent-mindedly.
Here and there were still traces of the rich deep green it had been, a tantalizing suggestion of gleaming gold on the mud-soaked frogging, the woolen frock having once warmed and cocooned someone on the cold Parisian evenings. Now it was rags, the back stained black and stiffened with blood. Used to the routine, Bastien pulled at the tarnished brass buttons that still remained and added them to the growing pile on the table.
“What you reckon?” He held out one of the frock’s dirty sleeves and Sylvie closed her hand around it, her eyes narrowing as she rubbed the fabric between her fingertips as though it was the finest silk.
She paused to chew her bottom lip, frowning before she lifted the other sleeve and examined it closely. Finally, an almost conspiratorial smile spread across her face and she asked, “Do you think anyone told this poor bugger where he was headed? From the state of this, he’d dressed for a summer ball, not the scaffold!”
“If they did it to me, I’d take my britches off,” Bastien announced with a nod of satisfaction, raising his head to peer down his nose as he adopted more aristocratic tones. “You can chop off my head, my good man, but here’s my arse to kiss while you’re doing it.”
“Watch that mouth.” His mother laughed, picking up a shawl that was more holes than fabric. “I’m not having people say I brought you up to swear.”
“That Sylvie Dupire,” he replied, still in his theatrically plummy tones, “has brought her son up to say ‘arse’—what a bloody scandal.”
Sylvie shot him a warning glance, pointing in his direction momentarily, and he went back to the task in hand, tearing the sleeves from the frock and throwing them to the pile of so-called ‘good’ rags. He dismembered the garment expertly and dropped the panels onto the various piles, ready for his mother to take with her when she went out selling, building her meagre empire.
Here on the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine, safe in the house and heart of Thierry Charron, Sylvie and Bastien no longer slept in the gutter. As Charron spent his days in the cabinet workshop downstairs, she made the apartments comfortable, kept her lover and her son well cared for and finally gave up sleeping with one eye open and a knife in her hand.
‘Always have a way out,’ she’d told Bastien more than once. ‘Put a bit of money away and don’t be beholden to nobody, they’re all bastards in the end.’
That’s fair enough, Bastien thought, but you just took mine off me, so how can I tuck it away?
They worked in silence for a while, sifting and sorting through the rags until he slid down from his perch on the table and went to the window, looking out into the glaring sun.
“You off?” Sylvie asked, not glancing up. “If you’re going to pinch, make it worthwhile.”
Bastien gave a sullen nod then, with a quick peck at Sylvie’s cheek, darted from the kitchen and onto the landing. He took the stairs two at a time, pausing to shout a passing farewell to Charron, who called, “Keep away from the square, your mother doesn’t like it!”
The boy pulled open the door and ran into the street, swept up in the tide of people. Even if the rain had finally stopped after what seemed like endless days and nights of deluge, the ground was still a bog, sucking and dark. Where others did their best to edge around the quagmires as though they were bottomless pits, Bastien darted through gaps in the thickening crowd without any care for the mud that splattered his feet and legs.
By the time he reached the Rue Saint-Honoré, the jeering spectators were virtually at a standstill, their catcalls and whistles echoing through the street and drowning out the rumble of wheels and the sound of hooves. As the tumbrel rolled into view, he peered at the two men aboard, one carelessly holding the reins whilst the other was stooped, an old man who seemed ready for his grave. A stern-faced priest followed as he had a hundred times before.
“Who is it?” Bastien looked up at the old woman beside him, her hand raised to jab furiously at the sky. “Oi!”
“Plamondon.” At the word, his eyes widened in surprise. Philippe Plamondon was a man in his thirties, tall and confident who shared Charron’s air of unshakeable solidity. Could the Conciergerie really have transformed him into a man more than twice his years, small and frail on his way to the scaffold?
Seized by the need to see if this really was Plamondon, Bastien crouched as he ran along the line of dark-uniformed soldiers who separated the crowd from the street. Within seconds, he had drawn level with the tumbrel and recognized the man who had kept so many late-night appointments in the cellar of Charron’s workshop. They thought Bastien ignorant of their politics, of course, believed that he had slept whilst they had plotted, but though he might not have known what they had been saying, he knew what they were about.
News of Plamondon’s arrest had shaken Charron and Sylvie to the core. If their fear went unspoken, their eyes told him all, the starts and jumps every time there was a knock at the door or a sound in the street. Vincent Tessier had taken Plamondon and now they expected him to come for them, to round up those who had joined the meetings in the cellars and carry them all off to face the blade.
Yet nobody came.
Eventually, his mother seemed less tired and Charron spent more time working rather than haunting the windows, back to his cabinets and hearth. Soon enough, life returned to normal, even if the meetings in the cellar seemed to occur with less frequency.
Plamondon’s arrest was big news on the streets, of course, because his wife and son had been nowhere to be seen by the time Tessier’s men had come knocking.
And now Vincent Tessier lives in your house.
As they passed the building, Plamondon lifted his head to look at the place that had been his home, and in eyes that had once been full of life, there was nothing but despair. Bastien followed his gaze and caught sight of Yves Morel in a lower window, his face a shadow on the glass. He had seen Morel about the streets since his arrival from the south and was always struck by the man’s strong features, more adventurer than bureaucratic torturer. He was a commanding figure, tall and broad in a way that the men of the Convention never seemed to be, lacking their fastidious neatness or the studied chaos of Danton. He was a solitary one, too, even setting himself apart when he was in the company of others.
As Morel turned away from the glass, Bastien dashed along the grim procession to where Vincent Tessier rode at the head of the column on a sleek black horse, no emotion showing on his face. Behind him came another man who Bastien didn’t recognize, stumbling along uncertainly with his wrists fastened behind his back and a soldier flanking him on either side.
Whoever this was, his fine clothes suggested that he hadn’t been a prisoner for long, though his left eye was swollen shut, ashen skin blooming black and purple. If Philippe Plamondon seemed broken then this stranger was lost, good eye darting back and forth as he took in the baying figures that hemmed them in on either side. In his eleven years, Bastien Dupire had seen everyone from beggars to monarchs make this trip to the Place de la Révolution and none of them had appeared as bewildered as this well-dressed stranger.
Beats thinking about what’s up ahead, I suppose, Bastien decided as he walked alongside the procession. Not a bad turnout for the merchant Plamondon.
Still, nothing surprised him as much as Vincent Tessier.
The so-called Butcher of Orléans enjoyed a reputation so fierce, so horrifying that Bastien had expected much more. He had imagined a bear of a man, a figure whose physical appearance would match the stories of titanic cruelty that had arrived in Paris long before he had. Yet where there should have been the devil there was just, as Charron observed, a bloodless provincial clerk.
But make no mistake, there’s blood on that man’s hands. It doesn’t matter what he dresses like.
For now, Tessier seemed to be exactly what he was, the man in charge. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead and he was a pale shadow all in black, the bright silver buttons on his coat catching the afternoon sunlight to spark like flint on tinder. One gloved hand held the reins and the other rested on the pommel of the sabre he wore, while his face was a white mask, thin lips set in a dead straight line. There was a sharpness to his features, a suggestion of cruelty in the hard lines of his face that made Bastien instinctively dislike him.
At the sound of a bang, Bastien jumped back into the present and looked over at the tumbrel to see that the driver was huddled low, one hand holding his hat on his head as rocks rained down on the prisoner, the priest spattered by mud and worse. Even now, Plamondon was unmoving, and Bastien wondered whether he even knew where he was, what was happening.
It’s better that way.
At the Place de la Révolution the crowds pressed in even more tightly and Bastien dropped almost to his knees. There, low to the ground, he moved through the sea of skirts and breeches. The smell was acrid and a couple of times he found himself coming up for air, stomach lurching at the metallic tang that stung his nostrils and burned the back of his throat as he neared the heavy wooden scaffold. On days with smaller crowds, he would climb as high as he dared on Liberté, but today the spectators were too tight to move back so instead he pressed forward, closer and closer to the platform.
Tessier dismounted his horse and climbed the steps, gesturing for the manacled man to follow. The prisoner stumbled after him and, as he stood before the guillotine, Bastien almost saw him snap into the present, his wits returning in the shadow of the National Razor.
The man with the black eye turned in a full circle and took in the scene, stepping back to get a glimpse of the instrument of punishment before him. His mouth fell open, slack and terrified. He spoke then, and though his words were lost in the racket, Bastien saw very clearly what he had said.
‘My God.’
If one of the soldiers hadn’t made a grab for the prisoner’s arm, Bastien was sure he would have fallen, but instead he was wrenched upright and a rope was lashed through the chain of the manacles and knotted tightly to the rail on the side of the scaffold. Only then did Philippe Plamondon make his way up the steps, eyes downcast yet he walked to the bascule without any sign of struggle or emotion. A buzz of expectation passed through the spectators as the straps were fastened. Bastien leaned closer, swallowing hard.
“You’re Charron’s messenger?”
“Bloody hell!” Bastien started, twisting to look up at the new arrival. He found his efforts frustrated by the press of the crowd, the man’s heavy-collared coat and large hat incongruous in the summer heat.
“Give this to your master.” He passed a sealed letter to Bastien, a hand on the boy’s shoulder keeping him staring straight ahead. “Tell him it is from the ninth Scholar.”
Bastien kept his eyes on the scaffold. He pushed the letter into his sleeve with a nod, the mention of the Scholar leaving him in no doubt that this was a man to be obeyed. Bastien swallowed hard and shuffled to keep his footing, the crowd pushing forward just slightly to watch the bascule being moved into place, securing Plamondon beneath the blade.
“People of Paris, let this be a lesson to all of you,” Tessier announced, clasping his hands behind his back as he trod the scaffold. “Enemies of the Republic will never be tolerated, no matter how much wealth and influence they believe themselves to wield.”
“They call me the Butcher of Orléans, and make no mistake, I will become the Butcher of Paris if the Republic demands it of me. Today we witness the execution of Philippe Plamondon, a man who is an enemy to us all—a man who has brought into our country a spy in the pay of the British crown.”
“My brother-in-law has had no trial.” The man who had seemed so lost protested uselessly, blinking as if waking from a nightmare. “Have we no rights?”
“You gave up your rights, sir, when you entered France as a spy.” Tessier gestured to the well-dressed prisoner. “See how the celebrated Gaudet returns to Paris! I deduce no reason for a playwright to come to this city, sir, but I see every reason for a spy to do so.”
Gaudet stared at Tessier, his mouth opening slightly as though he meant to speak, then he looked wildly about himself, tugging once more at the rope that bound him. Whatever he said was lost to the wind and Bastien edged forward. Now he was so close to the scaffold that he was virtually among the furies, the man’s hand on his shoulder carrying him along, too.
Many years ago, his mother had taken him to watch a carnival and he thought of it now, remembering the way the audience had whooped and cheered, and the atmosphere of a party about the gathering. He had only felt that in one other place and it was here in the Place de la Révolution when the condemned stood before the great guillotine and the thousands who gathered here became one great colossus, a surging, amorphous beast that bayed for blood from the pit of its stomach.
And here I am at the head of it.
I am its eyes today.
“So welcome home to Paris, Monsieur!” Tessier went on, warming to his performance. “Your public is glad to have you back!”
“You cannot do this,” Gaudet reasoned, as though that could do any good when faced with the righteous fury of Vincent Tessier. “Think of his wife and child!”
Tessier shook off the pleas with a toss of his head. The words were evidently nothing but the buzzing of an irritating fly. Then he crossed the scaffold to the guillotine and stooped to peer at Plamondon. For a moment, the prosecutor regarded his prisoner with all the fascination of a man watching a new species of exotic insect, a second before he stamped on it with his boot. “Have you anything to say, Monsieur Plamondon?”
The crowd took in a breath as one, listening intently as the man on the bascule licked his cracked lips and turned his eyes to the figure who stood beside him.
“The Star of Versailles will never be yours.”
Tessier leaned forward to listen to Plamandon’s words.
“You have already lost, Monsieur Tessier.”
“A pity,” Tessier replied, “that you will not live to see my victory.”
There was no executioner, Bastien realized, even as Tessier reached up a gloved hand and seized the déclic. When the blade thundered down, Gaudet started forward and let out a cry of protest, his words lost on the riotous exuberance from the mob that seemed to go on forever. Bastien couldn’t turn away from the sight of the body that stiffened and grew still, the spray of crimson blood that painted the wood a darker shade, as fascinating now as the circus had been in his infancy. Even the pain he’d felt when the Scholar had squeezed his shoulder did nothing to tear his attention from the sight.
“People of Paris, take this as your warning! Enemies of the Republic are not welcome in our city,” Tessier bellowed in triumph.
As the crowd cheered, he stooped to retrieve Philippe Plamondon’s head from the basket where it had come to rest, blood still pumping from beneath the fallen blade. He twined his fingers in hair that was matted with filth and held the head up as a macabre trophy, keeping it at arm’s length to avoid the blood that dripped from the raw neck.
“Vive la République!”
With that proclamation, Tessier swung his arm and hurled the decapitated head into the mob. Bastien flinched away from the scrum that erupted a couple of hundred feet away. When he turned to ask the Scholar for a few coins for the delivery, he was not surprised to find that the man was gone.
Chapter Three
William sat before his bedroom window and stared out into the darkness, replaying the moment when the blade had fallen again and again, even when his eyes remained open. He remembered the final spark of defiance that had lit up Philippe Plamondon’s face, heard the tone of triumph in Tessier’s words and the thud of the head as it had hit the basket, but beyond any of that, he couldn’t escape the look of terror in Alexandre Gaudet’s eyes.
Gaudet hadn’t been watching him, of course, his was just one face amid thousands. Yet in all his adventures, all the horrors he had witnessed, he had never seen anyone look so afraid, so hopeless. How could so many be in rapture when one was so petrified?
Because there is no humanity in the mob.
And we can all lose ourselves as a part of something bigger.
Behind the closed doors of his home, Tessier was a quiet man, considered and studious, yet up on the scaffold before the ravening faces he was a ringmaster, assured and flamboyant.
A monster.
What does Alexandre Gaudet know? he wondered, gazing at the moonlight beyond the glass. With the arrest of Plamondon, the last hope of recovering the Star had seemed lost, yet was it renewed in the shape of the playwright from Rouen, newly arrived in Paris from his London liaisons?
No man would travel into the heart of the Terror to save his sister, surely, but a diamond more valuable than a king’s ransom? Well, that was something worth putting oneself in danger for.
Sisters can take care of themselves.
Since that evening, Tessier’s chambers had been secured day and night. From behind the locked door came the familiar sound of floorboards being lifted, wallpaper being torn away in the ceaseless search for something, the same something that Gaudet must have been searching for, too.
Tomorrow things would be clearer, William decided—he would make contact with Thierry Charron and what was left of Plamondon’s network. If the fates smiled, he might finally hear from Professor Dee and perhaps even receive some measure of guidance in this most directionless mission.
With that thought in his mind William rose to his feet, letting out a sigh as he stretched his aching arms and pressed his hands into the small of his back for a second. He walked across the bare boards and slipped beneath the blankets, hoping that sleep wouldn’t continue to evade him tonight.
* * * *
When William opened his eyes again, the gray light of dawn was creeping across the room, the street outside seemingly already bustling. With the sun came a new sense of optimism and he sprang from the bed. He dressed quickly with the intention of heading straight for the cabinetmaker’s workshop where Thierry Charron plied his seemingly innocent trade.
A knock sounded at the door just before he reached it and one of the maids who toiled to keep the house running called, “Monsieur Tessier begs an audience in his study, sir.”
Damn the man and his timing. He kept the less than gracious thought to himself though, opening the door to tell the girl, “I will be with him directly.”
It was no more than a minute before William rapped at the door of Tessier’s study, the inhabitant already speaking as he entered.
“The city is restless.”
As William stepped into the room, Tessier rose from behind the enormous desk, one of the few ornamental pieces he had kept when he’d taken over the home of the Plamondon family. He was more bureaucrat than butcher now, hands clasped behind his back and his plain gray coat a world away from the jet-black frock he had worn for the execution. Gone was the glint of furious excitement that had sparked in his eyes, and instead, he was almost placid, his voice measured and quiet.
“Monsieur Morel.” He gestured for William to sit, waiting until he obeyed. “I am sorry you could not join us on the scaffold yesterday—you apprehended Gaudet, after all.”
William bowed his head in acknowledgement, telling Tessier, “One cannot put personal pleasure before the greater good, Monsieur.”
“I had hoped that the sight of his brother-in-law on the scaffold might focus Gaudet’s mind somewhat.” Tessier resumed his seat. “But it did not. Today I intend to move onto more rigorous methods of persuasion—might you be free to accompany me to the Conciergerie?”
William felt his heart quicken at the invitation, the thought of setting foot inside the prison one he had not dared to anticipate. Accompanying Tessier in the interrogation of Alexandre Gaudet was something he’d neither expected nor relished, and he realized now what that meant, how far he might have to take his role today.
“It would be an honor,” he told Tessier carefully.
“You are aware of the Star of Versailles?” Tessier did not wait for a response before he went on. “I believe it was taken by Madame Plamondon when she fled Paris. Her brother, I am sure, holds the key to her whereabouts.”
“A woman.” He sniffed, even as he watched the other man. “You think she would be capable of such a thing?”
“Oh, Monsieur Morel, I am surprised at such…small-mindedness.” Tessier held William’s gaze. “The Star represents largesse, the obscenity of monarchy…all that we have toiled so hard to overcome. The widow Capet taunted me with it until the very morning of her death and I will not see it pass to another over-privileged, ermine-clad poodle.”
“So, we must track the woman down”—William returned the look unflinchingly—“and Gaudet must be made to speak.”
At that, Tessier drew in a breath. “I intend to ensure it is kept in Paris for the people.”
William smiled, nodding even as his mind drifted back to the guaranteed buyer waiting in England, though the Prince of Wales’s own depleted coffers might make the transaction interesting.
Dee’s problem, not mine.
“Then we shall make a visit to Alexandre Gaudet,” Tessier decided, “and see if we cannot convince him that he would be happier if he unburdened himself.”
* * * *
Within the hour, the two men were in Tessier’s carriage en route for the fortress on the Seine. It did not escape William’s attention that his companion had changed into a black suit once more, the scars hidden beneath supple leather gloves. As they traveled in silence he studied Tessier, as he had so many times, taking in the narrow face and thin lips, the pale skin that seemed as though it had never seen the rays of the sun. He was tall and almost painfully thin, yet when he headed the procession to the guillotine or strode the platform in the midst of his Revolutionary fervor, Tessier seemed an enormous figure. After all, a reputation like his was not won on words alone.
Nor were scars like those that wrecked his flesh.
The noise and bustle of Paris did not diminish on their approach to the glowering building, but the place seemed infected by despair, a malaise that hung heavy in the air itself. Those who shuffled here kept their heads down, the children scurrying around the carriage and the stench stronger than ever.
There was no question of detaining this most important of visitors and, without any preamble, Tessier and William were admitted to the prison. Despite all that he had seen, the adventures he had known, William was unprepared for the scene that greeted him. The fortress buzzed with life, prisoners and guards sharing the same space in air so fetid it turned his stomach.
It was utterly repulsive, everything he hated most about mankind crammed into this heaving, stinking space, but he kept his expression clear of it all, face remaining closed, impassive. The smell was breathtaking, a stink that burned the back of the throat, and William found himself momentarily stilled by it. Tessier pressed on, the guards clearing a space for him as he went, William following in his wake. It occurred to him that a man with the wealth of Gaudet must have been able to, at least, buy himself some moderate comfort away from the rabble. Yet, as they descended deeper into the fortress and the air grew heavier, all sunlight fading into a dirty haze, William wondered if their next stop would be Hell itself.
Tessier hardly stopped speaking for the duration of their walk, warning that Gaudet was a man of extraordinary intelligence and fortitude, that William would do well to watch for him. This was in marked contrast to his knowledge of the man who was the toast of London light theater. Gaudet’s plays were not exactly noted for their challenging intellectual content.
In fact, as William well knew, the man Tessier sought was not Dee at all, because that estimable character was safely concealed in a farmhouse some miles from the prison. Whatever Alexandre Gaudet may or may not know, he was simply a man in the wrong place at the worst possible time. No matter what William might wish, what heroics others might believe he should perform, there was nothing to be done to save Gaudet now.
“What,” he asked Tessier, “are your intentions?”
“That the spymaster will give up his secrets.” After rounding a final corner they stopped before a heavy door. “And here we are.”
The guard who had led the way through the prison produced a heavy bunch of keys and selected one, knocking at the door in a mockery of manners before he called, “Visitors to the salon, Monsieur Gaudet!”
“Dignity,” Tessier said with a sharpness in his tone that surprised William. “We are not here to torment, Jacquet.”
“Monsieur,” he said, bobbing his head in a gesture of apology.
“Morel,” Tessier introduced William to the guard, who regarded him with a nod, “is here to speak to our playwright.”
“He’s having a look at life from the other side—those who had nothing have made good, those who had it all are in the sewer,” Jacquet explained with a sly smile. “A few years ago, my son scraped for a coin, but when the widow left the Conciergerie on her way to meet her maker, he was the person watching the gate. The last few years have brought opportunities for some that they wouldn’t have known otherwise.”
“And he behaves meek as a mouse.” Tessier smiled indulgently. “Our spymaster.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Jacquet assured him. “He knows better than to upset Jacquet, unless he likes the taste of his own teeth.”
With that he turned the key in the lock and the door opened on the private cell in which Alexandre Gaudet now rested, a world away from the fine salons of London that had been his home since his departure from France half a decade earlier.
William had expected that Gaudet’s wealth might have bought him some comfort, yet in this dim cell, with its small barred window set high into the wall, he saw no such thing. As if on cue, a rat scampered over his boot and through the door, leaving the confined, festering room as soon as the opportunity arose. There was no shred of gentility in the place where William now found himself, just a thin covering of straw on a floor that swam with the filth of innumerable previous occupants. Manacles hung on the damp wall and, despite the heat, he shivered, forcing himself not to jump when the door slammed shut behind them.
Alexandre Gaudet sat on a chair toward the back of the room, hidden in shadow. From the angle of the playwright’s shoulders William could see that his wrists were bound. His head hung forward until his chin almost touched his chest, the only movement the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“Monsieur Gaudet.” Tessier’s voice was as bright as though he were visiting an old friend. “I have brought another illustrious visitor. Yesterday Robespierre, today Citizen Yves Morel, visiting from the south.”
When Gaudet gave no signal that he had heard, Tessier went on, “You would do well to consider him a man deserving of your full attention—not a village is left standing after he passes through it, nor a man left breathing that ever crossed him.”
“Perhaps,” Tessier said when Gaudet still did not speak, careful to keep any hint of emotion from his voice, “Monsieur Gaudet is not receiving visitors today?”
When William could no longer avoid it, he let his eyes settle on the prisoner, hardly recognizing him as the richly dressed character he had encountered just days earlier. The flamboyant coat and waistcoat were long gone, a once crisp white shirt filthy and torn, stained with blood here and there. His feet were bare, bright blue breeches muddied with dirt, and dark bruises bloomed wherever his skin was exposed
“He won’t eat,” Jacquet informed them. “Won’t do anything.”
“Why will you not eat?” Tessier leaned close to Gaudet, who raised his head, peering at them through the blackened eye. After a moment, he let his eyes slide across to William, holding his gaze until Tessier told him, “Then you can starve, sir, it is of no concern to me.”
“And neither should it be.” William found that he had to glance away for just a moment, Gaudet’s gaze too haunting. “He will talk, either way.”
Tessier reached into his waistcoat for a key and slid it into the lock that held the manacles. As soon as they fell to the ground Jacquet dragged Gaudet from the chair and flung him onto the floor. Clearly already used to this, the playwright curled into a ball. Tessier advanced on him, landing a kick to his spine as he said, “Tell me where I might find your sister, Gaudet.”
The playwright said nothing, body curling tighter in response, and Tessier said, “This, Gaudet, is nothing but the beginning.”
Chapter Four
There was a time not so long ago when Paris had meant something to Alexandre Gaudet. For a young man with money and celebrity it was a playground of hedonistic delights, of days lost to drink and nights abandoned to beauty, sights that he would never forget and scenes that he wished he could remember, and all of it, seemingly, lost to another lifetime.
Where he had once known pleasure he now saw nothing but terror, swift and deadly as Robespierre had promised, and uncompromising as time itself.
How had he ended up here, where the sunlight couldn’t shine and the air itself felt damp, where a cloying darkness gnawed at him through his every waking moment, where men told him he was a spy?
A spy?
The very thought of it would be laughable if the consequences weren’t so serious. After all, Alexandre Gaudet’s private life was anything but—he had reveled in scandal, had enjoyed the favors of the finest gentlemen London could offer. Had dressed in the most flamboyant fabrics and had been found at a different dance every evening and a different salon every day, had been able to light up even the dullest party with his presence and always had a story to tell that was guaranteed to entertain and, even better, to shock.
And yet they think it possible that I, a man who can’t keep even his own secrets, could trade those of the very nation where he was born?
Not in this lifetime.
He would say all of this if he could form the words, if he weren’t so preoccupied with the pain in his shoulders and the weals on his wrists, or if his throat weren’t lined with sand and broken glass.
He didn’t know what time it was, or even how long Tessier had been standing before him, silent and still in the hours since the man he called Morel had left them. The few strands of light that pierced the bars had all but disappeared and a flickering candle threw dancing shadows onto the wall. Each passing hour was lost to him and a deep shudder ran through his body as he heard Tessier shift from one foot to the other, leather boots creaking.
Just speak, he wanted to scream but he couldn’t muster the energy—say something, please.
Don’t just stand there watching me as though I’m some sort of animal.
“You came into my home,” Tessier said eventually, his voice as quiet and steady as ever. “And you will not eat—is this what passes for gentlemanly behavior in England?”
“Is this really your idea of hospitality?” Gaudet asked, eyes still closed.
“I have treated you very well, sir,” Tessier told him quietly. “Believe me.”
“You have blackened my eye—”
“You broke into my house and resisted arrest.”
“And kept me without sleep for three days,” Gaudet reminded him. “The best you can offer me now is food not fit for a dog and ‘hospitality’ in the form of imprisonment.”
“Life in France has grown harder since you left for England—your kind don’t belong here,” Tessier explained as though the reasoning should’ve been be obvious. “This isn’t your country anymore.”
“You are killing our land,” Gaudet murmured, lifting his head to watch Tessier, who responded with a bloodless smile that didn’t extend to his eyes. “You and your kind.”