Chapter Nine

 

 

 

Gaudet watched Charron silently, the burly man working with utmost care as he applied another layer of polish to the small jewelry box he was making, every spare moment spent on the gift for Sylvie. He had a remarkably delicate touch for one so bullish and if he seemed ill at ease in conversation, in the workshop he was a master.

The physical injuries that Tessier had inflicted were healing well and, weeks since his escape, Gaudet was growing restless in his convalescence. In England, he was used to tailored clothes and evenings at the theater, late nights at Ranelagh or Vauxhall, dancing through the lamps with someone or other on his arm and through all of it, he’d never given this a second thought. As he’d squired actresses and debs, mollies and sailors, even the occasional duke or two, it had never crossed his mind that this could have been happening in the country of his birth, that the land he loved was cracking open at the roots.

When news had begun to cross the Channel of the problems in France, Claudine had still been at Versailles as lady in waiting to the queen. Of course, there had never been any real doubt that she would come to England. Why would she not?

Then came the first letter.

My loyalty is to my lady and where she goes, I will follow.

So many letters had followed that, each more horrifying than the last, yet still Claudine had told him not to find her, that Philippe had work in Paris and she was traveling with the royal family, that they would find safety in Austria, that there was still hope.

I cannot risk a sea voyage, but when the little one is born, we shall come to join you in England.

Then there had come the dreadful news across the water, stories of arrest and trial and finally, execution.

My lady is dead, all hope is lost. We have business in Paris. Pray for us, pray for François and with God’s grace, we will be with you before the first snow falls.

That was when the silence had fallen and he’d pranced merrily into Paris to retrieve his lost sister, little wondering what fate awaited him.

The night before Gaudet had left England had been riotous and, as he sipped a glass of brandy, he allowed himself a slight smile, remembering the tenor who had perched on his lap at the Theatre Royal and tilted a glass of claret to his lips, his free arm snaked around Gaudet’s neck as the chap had put his mouth to his ear and robbed him of any interest in the drama. As midnight rang out he’d danced in Cavendish Square until the Duke of Devonshire had raised merry hell and there had been a moonlit swim in the Serpentine with someone who may or may not have been engaged to a minor European prince.

As though he could read Gaudet’s mind, Charron straightened up and looked at him, annoyance clearly fighting a losing battle with loathing before he returned to his work.

“Is it Sylvie’s birthday?” Gaudet asked lightly, craning to examine the small trinket box that Charron was fashioning from walnut. It was an undoubted work of art and one that Charron seemed as devoted to as he was to the woman and child who shared his home. “Or gift for the sake of a gift?”

“The latter,” Charron said, not glancing at him again.

Gaudet winced at the craftsman’s exaggerated sigh, half-expecting Charron to be angry. Instead, he seemed resigned to being disrupted and folded his arms, leaning back against the work table.

“Sylvie’s worked and struggled all her life,” he explained and Gaudet recognized the unspoken sentiment of not that you would understand. “And she’s never lost her spirit, never done anything but the best for Bastien. Now she sorts through rags and lives with a man who harbors fugitives for a few measly livres—she deserves something special, something that hasn’t belonged to someone else.”

“It’s a nice piece,” Gaudet replied, setting down his glass and clasping his hands together. “At my house in London, I have a lacquered Chinese—”

“Excuse me,” Charron cut him off and Gaudet frowned, annoyed at his interruption. “This needs concentration.”

A long sigh escaped Gaudet’s lips and he stood to pace across the workshop to the window, where he rubbed his hand through the grime and peered out into the street at the world passing by.

“Get away from there!”

At Charron’s snapped warning, he stepped back, then went forward again to pick up the meagre bits of rouge and powder Sylvie had supplied him with.

“I am away,” he told Charron haughtily, “to put on my face!”

At that moment, there came a knock at the door, the sound repeated a moment later, in what seemed to Gaudet a precise pattern of knocks, and had the grumbling Charron moving quickly to answer. Shrinking into the shadows of the staircase, he watched as the man he had known as Morel stepped into the house and the men exchanged low murmurs. Ears straining, Gaudet chanced to descend a couple of steps, yet still he was unable to pick up anything of the conversation until Morel shook his head and gave an exclamation.

“Well!” Morel declared as Charron departed back to his work. “Well!”

“Sir,” Gaudet said cheerily, setting the makeup on the stairs before he descended. “I trust I look a little brighter to you today.”

“You will need to be.” Morel regarded him with narrowed eyes. “For you and I are to take a trip together.”

“To a tailor, I hope.” Gaudet gestured to the plain breeches and shirt he wore. “And I will go nowhere without my girl.”

“There is no time for talk of clothes, sir.” There was a pause, a shadow of consternation flickering across Morel’s face. “And nor for whatever lady friend you have cause to think of either.”

“She is but two years old.” Gaudet’s lower lip quivered at the thought of the beloved little girl. “I cannot leave her here alone.”

“You—” His companion was clearly having difficulty, closing his eyes briefly as he pinched his nose. “I was not told of this.”

“I will not go without Papillon,” Gaudet said, folding his arms petulantly. “I would rather die.”

“That can be arranged…”

“Charron.” Gaudet bristled. “Summon the tall fellow with the blue eyes. I will not travel without Papillon and my life has been threatened.”

“Your life is threatened every moment you remain in this city,” Morel pointed out with a long-suffering sigh. “Where is this ‘Papillon’ to be found?”

“She is with Monsieur Abel on the rue de la Harpe,” Gaudet told him. Seeing a chance for an extra something, he added, “Along with four suits Abel was making alterations to, perhaps you might collect those, too?”

“Suits?” The eyebrows raised even farther. “You left her with a suit maker?”

“No.” Gaudet sighed, thinking this gentleman might not be as worthy of a lead role as he had hoped. “I left her with a gentleman who happens to be able to do marvelous things with fabric. He has girls of his own. They are practically cousins.”

“Then would she not be better off remaining with them? Our journey is likely to be fraught with danger, Monsieur…”

The thought of it sent a jolt through Gaudet, eyes growing wide as he imagined life without Papillon, never knowing what became of her, let alone how a girl who was virtually a princess would manage in a Parisian backstreet.

“A girl”—Gaudet blinked away tears at the very thought of it—“should be with her father.”

“Then what do you propose?” Morel threw up his hands in an almost comical fashion.

“We shall go tonight after dark and collect my girl.”

“Just the girl,” came the wary response. “No suits. Nothing else.”

“If we are there, anyway…” Gaudet sucked in his cheeks, pursing his lips for a moment. “It would be absurd to abandon my suits.”

“We are going to be fugitives,” his increasingly irritated companion declared. “One suit and your girl.”

“There are four suits, sir, and I will take them all,” Gaudet decided haughtily. “What name am I to call you by?”

“Have you never heard of the concept of compromise?” The man he had known as Morel peered at him as if trying to make some sense of the situation. “Of course you haven’t, you’re French.”

“Are you not French?” Gaudet frowned, peering closer. “Something is afoot here.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” the man peered back. “No wonder the country is in the state it is.”

“I am not sure I trust you.” He pouted. “I wish to travel with the one with the blue eyes, I believe he is trustworthy—you are somewhat roguish.”

Morel’s rolled his hazel eyes, a murmur that might have been a petition to the heavens following a moment later. “The ‘one with the blue eyes’ has charged me with the godforsaken task of getting your derriere and the rest of you safely out of Paris—I like it no more than you, sir, but we shall have to make the best of it.”

“Then what do I call you?” Gaudet set his hands on his hips. “You are far less amenable when one is not being tortured, sir. If you do not give me a name, I shall call you…chérie.”

“Bobbins,” came the unimpressed response. “You can call me Bobbins.”

“You are English!” Gaudet’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “I am not going anywhere with an Englishman with an English name. We will be dead within the week.”

“Then make it sound French,” the man retorted. “I am your only chance of getting out of here alive, sir, and you’d do well to remember that.”

“I have many followers in England. It is hardly surprising someone has charged you with rescuing me,” Gaudet said confidently, flattered that one of his many patrons had done so. “Tonight, we collect the suits and my girl, tomorrow we leave to collect my sister…”

“You have had news of her whereabouts?” The man who was now Bobbins grew serious. “Where is she hiding?”

“I should have to see the one with the eyes before I could tell you that.”

At that, Charron turned from his work and said grumpily, “This man is your savior, Gaudet. Your late brother-in-law and sister were as family to me and you may trust Bobbins, or whatever you are calling him, with your life.”

“There.” Bobbins’ expression was one of relief. “Anything you know, anything at all, you must tell me.”

“Le Havre,” Gaudet said finally, sure that Charron would not lie. “Where, I do not know, but in Le Havre.”

“Then we are heading for Le Havre,” Bobbins said firmly, “as soon as our errand here is completed.”

“I shall go and assemble my things,” Gaudet told this odd Bobbins character, who he remembered being far more chivalrous when he’d been in Tessier’s custody. “And put on a little powder.”