The Forbidden Rose

Forty-one

“AND THEN?” MADAME STOOD ON THE STAIRS above her. She was dressed severely in black. Her hair was caught up with silver butterflies, on pins. She wore silver rings upon her hands.

Justine made her report concisely, as she had been taught. “He delivered the last of the papers to Tallien and to Vadier.”

“Who are great enemies of Robespierre.”

“C’est sûr.” Madame would find this amusing. “The so-clever Adrian took me with him for the last deliveries. He said if he did not, I would only follow him, and this would save us both a great deal of trouble.”

Madame smiled at her. “And did you discover what is in these papers?”

“Alas, no.” Really, these English were not trivial opponents. “I did not see them. I wheedled and cajoled and the boy was not moved in the least. I think these are matters of great gravity.”

Madame waited, her hand on the railing.

“The Gardener has told me to stay inside for the next days. I am on no account to go about in the city alone. He is afraid there will be riots.”

“Because of these letters. Someone is meddling with grave business indeed. The Gardener is not precisely a fool, so I shall second his orders. Be prudent, Justine. If you hear disorder, take care to be elsewhere.”

It is good to have someone to tell me to be careful. “The boy was hurt, delivering these letters. Attacked by someone. He was not candid about that, either.” She said the last part very quickly. “I have put him into my room for tonight. I hope you do not mind.”

Madame studied the rings upon her hand. They were heavy bands, intricately worked. “I have learned more about this Adrian since we last spoke. He is Hawker the Hand of London, a dangerous playmate for you. He has killed more men than you have hair ribbons.”

She had suspected something of the sort. There was that in his eyes sometimes that spoke of such things. “I do not underestimate him. I am not . . . I do not interest myself in him except for the de Fleurignac matter, you understand. I made a pallet for him upon the floor beside me in case he should develop a fever and need to be watched. Events will be complicated enough without that boy becoming ill.”

Madame coughed delicately. “They have a plan to rescue William Doyle from prison, then?”

“They do not speak of it to me. I will go tomorrow and insert myself into their affairs and tell you what is afoot. It will be interesting to see Marguerite de Fleurignac concocting one of her plans. I have admired them for years and will now see one from beginning to end. It is strange to assist in freeing an English spy from prison. Yet, next week you may send me to see him arrested again.”

“It is amusing beyond measure,” Madame said. “Life is an ever-laden table of delights, is it not?”

“Most certainly.”

Madame walked downward, past her, on the stairs. When they were level, she stopped. The silver butterflies she wore in her hair were on small springs. With every movement they vibrated, as if they were alive. “I do not forget how dangerous this is for you. Do not think for a moment that I do this lightly.”

“I do not mind danger.”

One brush of fingers on her cheek. She is careful never to touch because of what has been done to me. “Are you quite sure I cannot send you and your sister to safety? There is a school in Dresden run by good friends of mine. They have a house on the river . . . No? I am not entirely happy to send a young girl to do this work.”

But Madame’s own daughter was part of their work. Not a small player of the Game, either. Everyone knew she had been ordered to safety abroad and had refused to go. She was given dangerous assignments, even upon the battlefield. And she is younger than me. “I want to be here. To do this. I feel alive when I do this.”

One of the girls of the house had taken up a song. That was Péronette, who had a most lovely voice. Madame looked toward the sound and then back to Justine. “We are much alike, you and I.” She made a shooing motion. “Go tend your young spy. I will tell Babette to look at his wound. Yes, I know you are capable of caring for any injury short of a beheading, but we will indulge Babette by letting her cluck over your handsome boy.”

What was there to say? That lethal, sly boy was not hers, of course, but denial is always unconvincing. So she shook her head and tripped upstairs to see what searches he performed among her belongings.

“Justine.”

She turned back.

“The British Service brought him to Paris, but Adrian Hawkins is not theirs. He has no reason to be loyal to them and some small cause to hate them. Recruit him for France, if you can. He would be most useful to us.”

That would be interesting. “I shall attempt it.”