The Lady & the Panther~Chapter 12~A Mission of Mercy (PG-13)
The Lady & The Panther~Chapter 12~A Mission of Mercy
By fedoralady
In our last chapter, Guy paid a visit to his old friend and former lover Antoinette, now a viscountess in Paris, and shared his feelings about Lizzie with her. In the meantime, Lizzie was trying on her new gown for the upcoming ball and imagining seeing Guy appear there to sweep her off her feet . . . and we got another glimpse of a young Guy dealing with the aftermath of being tossed out of his fine London school-and ‘Toinette’s special ways of providing solace to her beautiful boy.
We return with Lizzie having anxious thoughts about her highwayman as the ball draws ever closer . . . this chapter rated PG-13.
~Chapter 12~
The ball was only two days away, and I had not heard again from Guy. Was he back in England, carrying out more robberies? Had he met with some misfortune?
‘Tis amazing what dire circumstances one’s imagination can create. Amazing-and maddening.
“My lady, there is a letter for you.” A chamber maid stood outside my dressing-room, where Amelia was attending to my hair. We were still trying to decide how I should wear it for the masquerade ball.
Whilst it would largely be hidden beneath a hood, I found myself hoping a certain gentleman would have an opportunity to glimpse more of it. More of-me.
I was absolutely aching to see my Panther again.
“Thank you, Mary.” Willing my hand not to tremble, I took the envelope and gave it a cursory inspection. It did not appear to be from Guy or my family, or any of my few friends.
Once Mary was out the door and out of earshot, Amelia’s eyes, glinting with much curiosity, met mine in the looking-glass. “Oh, my lady, is that another letter from-him?”
I shook my head, knitting my brows.“Not--unless he has changed his handwriting and started using violet ink.”
Raising the envelope to my nose, I sniffed it. “Not to mention violet scent.” Flipping the envelope over, I studied the seal.
“A coat of arms that I do not recognise . . .”
Amelia expelled a breath and impatiently waved the curling tongs in her hand.
“Oh, my lady--”
I bit back a smile. “Yes, yes, I know. ‘Open it, my lady,’” I said, doing a rather poor imitation of Amelia’s voice.
She gave me a rather sheepish smile and shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Beg pardon, my lady.”
“Happily granted, dear Amelia,” I said with a nod. Breaking the seal, I tugged the paper from the envelope. Unfolding it, I studied the words within.
“Who is it from, my lady?”
I lifted my head and looked up into Amelia’s eyes, my own eyes widening.
“From a French viscountess. An-old acquaintance--of Guy’s.”
*~*~*~*
How long has it been, exactly, Guy, since we have seen one another?”
‘Toinette and I had adjourned from her garden to her drawing room, enjoying an “early, but proper English tea” and more conversation. I had told her of my latest business dealings and what new developments had transpired in my search for my true family.
Taking a sip of my tea-heavy with milk and sugar, just as I liked-I pondered ‘Toinette’s question.
“I believe . . . five years? Or a little more.”
She nodded. “It must have been the spring of-1750? Just before I started tending to my ailing baron.” Antoinette expelled a breath and slowly shook her head.
“He was having an awful time of it with the gout. The dropsy had not yet come upon him.” Her mouth twisted as she looked heavenwards.
“Mon dieu, but he was a terrible patient. I sometimes thought I might cheerfully kill him if the ailments and the physicks from the doctors did not do it first.”
I smiled, studying her over the rim of my tea cup. “I would say he was most fortunate he had you.”
‘Toinette shrugged. “Eh bien, he had no-one else, since he never married. And that awful nephew and his haughty wife, all they cared for was inheriting the title and estate.” She sniffed and pressed a handkerchief to her dainty nose.
“The sooner my baron was dead, the better, as far as those petits rats were concerned.”
“The nephew must have been unhappy when he discovered the baron had provided you with a pension.”
A gleam appeared in her blue eyes as she gave me a distinctly feline smile.
“Mais oui, he was not pleased. However, there was nothing he could do about it. My baron was very clever with such matters. At least, I did not have to deal with a jealous widow . . . and I came back here to Paris.”
“And ultimately found a viscount.” I lifted my cup in a salute to her.
“You have done very well for yourself, ‘Toinette.”
She shrugged again as she took another sip of her tea.
“I have a comfortable life. We both know too many of my kind end up alone and penniless, cast off once they have lost their charms. The baron did not forget me. Armand is--very good to me.”
“And-you are happy?”
She replied in an offhand manner, her eyes not quite meeting mine. Tearing off a piece of her roll, she meticulously spread it with butter as she spoke.
“He is very good to me and I am content. What more need I ask or expect?”
Something in her manner made me want to query further. But the look in her eyes when she finally lifted them to meet mine kept me silent on the matter.
I glanced at the handsome pendulum clock on the mantel and set down my cup.
“Ah, I have imposed on you long enough, ‘Toinette. I thank you for your wisdom and kindness, as always,” I said, rising to my feet and walking over to take her hand, lifting it to my mouth for a kiss.
She smiled up at me, a hint of sadness in her countenance.
“Your time has gone by much too fast, mon coeur. Thank you for coming to see your old friend. It did me a great deal of good.”
Antoinette rose to her feet and placed her hand atop my hand.
“I wish you the best of fortune with your Lizzie, and with your search. And-take care in your adventures. That neck is too handsome to be tampered with.”
I laughed as I clapped my hat upon my head and then caught both her plump little hands in my own.
“I do always try to keep eyes and ears open, my weapons at the ready-and stay at least one step ahead of the nubbing-coves.”
A familiar twinkle came into her eyes.
“Ah, proper highwayman talk. I happen to know you can wield your weapons very well, my dearest Guy.” A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
I brushed back a loose tendril of hair and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek.
“As I said, ‘Toinette, I hope, somehow, you and Lizzie shall meet one day. I do believe you would get on very well together.”
A shadow flitted across her face, quickly replaced with that glorious smile.
I started to inquire once more about her well-being, when I heard a faint rustling. Antoinette craned her neck to see around me.
“Ayia-what is it?”
The Moor, standing in the door of the drawing room, made a gesture as if putting something in her mouth.
Her mistress gave a little sigh, gazing heavenwards again. “Ah, yes. Time for my physick.”
“Physick?” I frowned. “Have you been unwell, ‘Toinette? I thought you looked a little pale--”
“Mais non, mon coeur.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes comically as she gave an airy wave of her hand.
“‘Tis only an elderflower cordial. And Ayia is far too much of a fussbudget on my account.” She shot the ever-impassive servant a sharp sidelong glance and then playfully patted my chest.
“There is no need to concern yourself over me. Now--off with you, Monsieur Brouchard. Until we meet again.”
I was alone on the front steps, preparing to climb into the fiacre hailed for me, when I felt a tug on my sleeve.
I turned and looked into the dark eyes of Ayia.
“Wha--”
She scowled and shook her head, holding a finger to her mouth. Furtively, Ayia slipped a folded piece of paper into the pocket of my coat and then nodded towards it while pointing to the fiacre.
Mouthing two words, she squeezed my arm and waved me towards the carriage before retreating into the house.
As anxious as she had been to waylay me, Ayia now seemed just as anxious for my departure.
Frowning, I climbed into the fiacre and gave the driver directions. Sitting back, I pulled the note from my pocket, unfolding it to read as we rumbled along the Parisian streets.
After perusing the words contained within, I dropped my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, expelling a deep breath. “Oh, Antoinette. Why did you not tell me? We are old friends, after all.”
Grabbing my stick, I bumped the roof of the fiacre to get the driver’s attention and leaned out the window to give him a new address.
“It is half-way across Paris, monsieur,” he pronounced with a put-upon sigh.
“You will get a Louis d’or added to your payment if you make good time. I am assuming you have nothing else planned?”
I stuck my hand out the door of the coach, holding up the glittering coin and waving it to assure him.
His reply was considerably more enthusiastic. “Mais non, monsieur, I will be happy to take you there.”
The driver wasted no time using his whip as he bellowed, urging the horses on. I pitied the poor prances, but I needed to familiarize myself with the domicile of a certain denizen of the city. To be followed in the cover of night with a return visit.
~A delay, Mon Ange. But I promise I shall return to you as soon as I can~
I reached for the snuff box purloined from Lord Montrose himself.
~What an adventurous day-and night-that proved to be. I shall always think very fondly of the Chartreuse Bastard~
I scrutinized the elegant little box resting in my hand. Opening it, I took a strong pinch of snuff in each nostril and smiled rather grimly.
~And another adventure tonight. Oh, ‘Toinette. I never thought it of you~
*~*~*~*
I was dressed in full black from head to toe and swathed in a concealing cloak. A grey beard and mustache covered much of my face, the rest to be hidden later beneath a half-mask. My flintlock pistol was cleaned and ready, my small sword at my side.
I would not be holding up coaches on the roads to London that night. My orders to “stand and deliver” would come in a house in Paris.
I thought of Ayia’s silent words to me just a few hours earlier: “Help her.”
“Her,” of course, was Ayia’s mistress. I could not fail to heed such a plea.
Having raided my Parisian bolt-hole for the proper weapons, tools and attire, there I was, astride a hired prance. I was heading to the address I had already visited earlier in the day.
I had no certainty as to where the particular treasure I sought was secreted, although Ayia had shared as much as she had learned in her note, including the knowledge that the master of the house would be away that day.
So, in the guise of an old acquaintance (and using one of my cards imprinted with a false identity), I had visited the house, where I questioned the servants. Surreptitiously, I also paid careful attention to the doors, windows and balconies of the structure, as I would hardly be welcomed in the front door on my evening visit.
My jaw tightened as I urged the prance onward through the shadowy streets.
~Why did Antoinette not tell me of her difficulties, instead of pretending everything was fine? Does she not know I would do anything within my power to assist her? I am nothing if not loyal to those who have given me aid and shown me kindness . . .~
An image flashed through my mind: Lizzie, standing beside her bed, eyes shining and colour in those pale cheeks, urging me to hide within its curtains whilst she dealt with her husband and Barkley and his men. A formidable woman in her own way for whom I felt so much . . . tenderness. Passion.
Love.
~ Ah, the women of my heart are not making my life easy~
I sighed.
~I hope this blasted Monsieur Favreau will not be-difficult. I have no desire for more complications at present~
*~*~*~*
It was nigh to two o’clock in the morning. Moonlight threaded through dark clouds scudding across the sky. Enough light, but not too much.
The house was still and quiet, as was the street. All the better. After tethering my horse, I slid the mask into place.
The first floor balcony-which, I believed, led into the master of the house’s bedchamber--would be my route into the Favreau manse.
Taking out the rope that had been hidden beneath my cloak, I attached the grappling hook I had brought along and, with a twirl of my wrist, tossed it up to catch one of the balustrades.
Climbing up the brick wall, I hoisted myself over the railing. The twin doors opening to the balcony were locked, as expected. I had the tools to take care of that nuisance.
The lock defeated, I eased the door open, slipping into the darkened chamber. I heard a faint snore coming from the bed, which was shrouded in heavy curtains. Moving to the hearth, I took a candle from it to light, shifting to the right-hand side of the bed and placing the candle on the stand.
Parting the curtains ever so slowly, my flintlock pistol trained on the lump in the center of the bed, I spoke French in guttural tones.
“Monsieur, levez-vous.”
The figure in the bed stirred, grunting, and then turned on his side facing me. I could see his features in the flicker of the candlelight. A man close to my own age; broad, smooth forehead, narrow, high-bridged nose and a full, dissolute mouth, his closed eyes fringed in thick, pale lashes. The very image of the portrait I had glimpsed earlier in the day.
Handsome enough if you liked that sort of thing, I suppose.
“Monsieur Favreau.” I raised my gruff voice a little louder. Smirking, I reached down and tapped his feet through the bedclothes.
With a gasp, he bolted upright in the bed.
“Who-wha--” The man, squinting in my direction, ran his fingers through a thick thatch of fair curls and fumbled for something beneath his pillow.
“Non, non.” I rumbled, moving swiftly and almost silently to his side. I quickly removed the small flintlock from the reach of his fingertips, whilst training my own weapon at the center of his face.
His eyes widened as his face blanched.
I hissed through my bearded mouth. “This close, monsieur, I would undoubtedly do your handsome face a great deal of damage.” I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes behind the mask.
“And that is how you make your fortune, n’est-ce pas? Using your looks and charm and flattery to take advantage of vulnerable females . . .” I made a “tsking” sound and shook my head disapprovingly.
“So if you wish to keep it intact, I suggest you listen carefully to what I want and do exactly as I say.”
He licked his full lips nervously, his eyes darting furtively from side to side. “I-I could yell and summon help.”
I gave a low chuckle. “You could, but you would also end up with a nasty hole in your head and I would be out the door and away before anyone could answer your cries. Believe me when I say I am no rank amateur as this sort of game. If you play against me, you will lose.”
I moved the flintlock to full-cock position. His pale blue eyes widened as the Adams-apple bobbed in his throat.
“And now, monsieur, you will slowly and carefully climb out of the bed with your hands elevated and lead me to where you have the letters of Vicomtess de LaMare hidden away.”
His mouth contorted into a most unattractive smirk. “So-the fat little whore has you doing her bidding? Afraid her vicomte will learn the tru--”
The slap I delivered to the side of his head with his own pistol caught him off-guard. I can’t say I was not pleased to hear him whimper in pain, the miserable cur.
“Perhaps you were not fully awake when I gave you those instructions. Are you awake now, monsieur?”
Favreau mumbled a few words.
“I fear I did not understand you, monsieur.” I raised the pistol again.
Favreau cupped his hand over his injured ear, trying not to cringe.
“Yes, yes, damn you--I am awake.”
“Very well,” I nodded slowly, giving him a semblance of a smile as I leaned in very close to his face.
“Then I must remember you to keep a civil tongue in your head--or you will NOT live to regret it,” I said.
Wincing as he rubbed his head, Favreau nervously licked his lips again. “You--you need me alive in order to get what you came for, monsieur.”
“True enough.” I bared my teeth at him, willing my eyes to turn their iciest. He grew even paler, if that was possible.
“So you had better lead me to those letters with haste, so that I do not truly lose my temper and leave you here without a face, monsieur.”
My eyes briefly flickered downward. I smirked. “Or--missing some other portion of your body, perhaps? It would not kill you, but-it would make certain activities-rather impossible.” I let my voice drop into a very deep, sibilant whisper.
The briefest look of terror flashed across Favreau’s face before he composed himself, sniffing as he lifted his chin.
“That will not be necessary, Monsieur.” Favreau started to reach for the bed linens.
I shook my head.
“Non, merci. Keep your hands up, monsieur. Use your feet to push back the linens-slowly--and come towards me on your knees, if you please. Yes, like that, thank you.”
“My, what good manners you have, for a thief. Almost like a person of quality,” Favreau muttered darkly as he awkwardly shifted himself across and out of the bed.
“You would be surprised at the pedigree of many a miscreant, monsieur,” I said grimly. Tucking his pistol in my belt, I picked up the candle, keeping one eye and my flintlock trained on Favreau.
“Now, where do you have the letters?”
Favreau sighed and jerked his head in the direction of a large, elaborately carved oak wardrobe.
“They are hidden in a secret compartment in the armoire over there . . .”
I raised a supercilious brow, allowing the faintest of sneers in my voice. “How very--original.”
Favreau gave another indignant sniff. “You would never know it was there, I can assure you. The craftsman who made it does superb work.”
I motioned towards the armoire with a nod of my head.
“Then, by all means, let me see this wondrous craftsmanship, monsieur. The quicker, the better.”
“I will require the keys,” Favreau said, folding his arms and squaring his shoulders, as if attempting to look taller and more forbidding.
Considering I was a head taller than Favreau, a man clearly inclined to run to fat in a few years, his efforts were quite futile.
“Retrieve your keys, slowly, please-keep the other hand up,” I warned.
As it turned out, the keys were hidden inside the false bottom of a scent flask on the gentleman’s dressing-table-a table so crowded with powder, paint, patches and pomades I might have thought I had invaded a lady’s boudoir rather than a single gentleman’s abode.
“Ah, in a scent bottle. That is necessary, I suppose, to cover the stench of your foul behavior, monsieur?”
Favreau gave me a surly look. “At least I am no common thief.”
“Neither am I, monsieur.” I purred before baring my teeth.
“The letters, if you please . . .”
With ill grace, he padded over to the armoire and unlocked it.
Bending down, Favreau pulled out a drawer as I stood over him, holding up the candle for light, the flintlock aimed at his head.
Removing the linen shirts stored within it, Favreau held up the now-empty drawer , turning it around in his hands with a triumphant look on his face as he showed it off to me.
“Do you see? It appears perfectly ordinary, does it not?”
I shrugged, turning the corners of my mouth down. “Very impressive. And now-the letters?”
He gave another sigh. Moving his hands across the bottom of the drawer, Favreau pressed against it. The secret compartment flew open and a cache of letter bundles tied in ribbons appeared.
“It appears you have been busy, monsieur,” I said, raising a single brow.
He smirked. “There are a great many people with secrets to hide, monsieur. Perhaps even-you.”
I longed to slap the smug expression from his face, to throttle him for the pain he had caused my ‘Toinette and the blasted inconvenience he had caused me.
~Steady, Guy, you know well enough how important it is to keep your temper. ‘Toinette taught you that~
“Show me her letters.”
Favreau pawed through the bundles and held up one of them.
I studied the writing on the top envelope. It was in ‘Toinette’s hand, written in her favourite violet ink. There were half-a-dozen letters in the bundle, it appeared.
I sighed and motioned with my flintlock. “Empty them out, all of them, on the floor.”
“Su-surely you are just interested in the vicomtess’s letters?”
I bared my teeth at him in a mirthless grin. “ALL of them, monsieur. And then-back to bed with you. So pretty a fellow as you needs his rest.”
He emptied out the false compartment, eyes narrowed, his dissolute mouth twisted into a most unhappy expression.
~Not nearly so handsome now~
Bending down, I set the pile of bundles alight with the candle, feeling considerable satisfaction to watch them go up in flames.
And then I felt pain shoot through the back of my skull . . .
Most inconvenient, do you not think?
*~*~*~*
Author’s note: “Prance” is highwayman speak for horse; “nubbing-cove” is their word for hangman.
Next chapter (it should be a long one): the rest of Guy’s (mis)adventures in Paris (how badly was that handsome head hurt?!),‘Toinette’s letter to Lizzie, the story behind her blackmailer, and the long-awaited masquerade ball. Will our favourite highwayman make an appearance there? Will he and Lizzie enjoy another amorous escapade? Who else might make an appearance at the gala event . . .
By fedoralady
In our last chapter, Guy paid a visit to his old friend and former lover Antoinette, now a viscountess in Paris, and shared his feelings about Lizzie with her. In the meantime, Lizzie was trying on her new gown for the upcoming ball and imagining seeing Guy appear there to sweep her off her feet . . . and we got another glimpse of a young Guy dealing with the aftermath of being tossed out of his fine London school-and ‘Toinette’s special ways of providing solace to her beautiful boy.
We return with Lizzie having anxious thoughts about her highwayman as the ball draws ever closer . . . this chapter rated PG-13.
~Chapter 12~
The ball was only two days away, and I had not heard again from Guy. Was he back in England, carrying out more robberies? Had he met with some misfortune?
‘Tis amazing what dire circumstances one’s imagination can create. Amazing-and maddening.
“My lady, there is a letter for you.” A chamber maid stood outside my dressing-room, where Amelia was attending to my hair. We were still trying to decide how I should wear it for the masquerade ball.
Whilst it would largely be hidden beneath a hood, I found myself hoping a certain gentleman would have an opportunity to glimpse more of it. More of-me.
I was absolutely aching to see my Panther again.
“Thank you, Mary.” Willing my hand not to tremble, I took the envelope and gave it a cursory inspection. It did not appear to be from Guy or my family, or any of my few friends.
Once Mary was out the door and out of earshot, Amelia’s eyes, glinting with much curiosity, met mine in the looking-glass. “Oh, my lady, is that another letter from-him?”
I shook my head, knitting my brows.“Not--unless he has changed his handwriting and started using violet ink.”
Raising the envelope to my nose, I sniffed it. “Not to mention violet scent.” Flipping the envelope over, I studied the seal.
“A coat of arms that I do not recognise . . .”
Amelia expelled a breath and impatiently waved the curling tongs in her hand.
“Oh, my lady--”
I bit back a smile. “Yes, yes, I know. ‘Open it, my lady,’” I said, doing a rather poor imitation of Amelia’s voice.
She gave me a rather sheepish smile and shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Beg pardon, my lady.”
“Happily granted, dear Amelia,” I said with a nod. Breaking the seal, I tugged the paper from the envelope. Unfolding it, I studied the words within.
“Who is it from, my lady?”
I lifted my head and looked up into Amelia’s eyes, my own eyes widening.
“From a French viscountess. An-old acquaintance--of Guy’s.”
*~*~*~*
How long has it been, exactly, Guy, since we have seen one another?”
‘Toinette and I had adjourned from her garden to her drawing room, enjoying an “early, but proper English tea” and more conversation. I had told her of my latest business dealings and what new developments had transpired in my search for my true family.
Taking a sip of my tea-heavy with milk and sugar, just as I liked-I pondered ‘Toinette’s question.
“I believe . . . five years? Or a little more.”
She nodded. “It must have been the spring of-1750? Just before I started tending to my ailing baron.” Antoinette expelled a breath and slowly shook her head.
“He was having an awful time of it with the gout. The dropsy had not yet come upon him.” Her mouth twisted as she looked heavenwards.
“Mon dieu, but he was a terrible patient. I sometimes thought I might cheerfully kill him if the ailments and the physicks from the doctors did not do it first.”
I smiled, studying her over the rim of my tea cup. “I would say he was most fortunate he had you.”
‘Toinette shrugged. “Eh bien, he had no-one else, since he never married. And that awful nephew and his haughty wife, all they cared for was inheriting the title and estate.” She sniffed and pressed a handkerchief to her dainty nose.
“The sooner my baron was dead, the better, as far as those petits rats were concerned.”
“The nephew must have been unhappy when he discovered the baron had provided you with a pension.”
A gleam appeared in her blue eyes as she gave me a distinctly feline smile.
“Mais oui, he was not pleased. However, there was nothing he could do about it. My baron was very clever with such matters. At least, I did not have to deal with a jealous widow . . . and I came back here to Paris.”
“And ultimately found a viscount.” I lifted my cup in a salute to her.
“You have done very well for yourself, ‘Toinette.”
She shrugged again as she took another sip of her tea.
“I have a comfortable life. We both know too many of my kind end up alone and penniless, cast off once they have lost their charms. The baron did not forget me. Armand is--very good to me.”
“And-you are happy?”
She replied in an offhand manner, her eyes not quite meeting mine. Tearing off a piece of her roll, she meticulously spread it with butter as she spoke.
“He is very good to me and I am content. What more need I ask or expect?”
Something in her manner made me want to query further. But the look in her eyes when she finally lifted them to meet mine kept me silent on the matter.
I glanced at the handsome pendulum clock on the mantel and set down my cup.
“Ah, I have imposed on you long enough, ‘Toinette. I thank you for your wisdom and kindness, as always,” I said, rising to my feet and walking over to take her hand, lifting it to my mouth for a kiss.
She smiled up at me, a hint of sadness in her countenance.
“Your time has gone by much too fast, mon coeur. Thank you for coming to see your old friend. It did me a great deal of good.”
Antoinette rose to her feet and placed her hand atop my hand.
“I wish you the best of fortune with your Lizzie, and with your search. And-take care in your adventures. That neck is too handsome to be tampered with.”
I laughed as I clapped my hat upon my head and then caught both her plump little hands in my own.
“I do always try to keep eyes and ears open, my weapons at the ready-and stay at least one step ahead of the nubbing-coves.”
A familiar twinkle came into her eyes.
“Ah, proper highwayman talk. I happen to know you can wield your weapons very well, my dearest Guy.” A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
I brushed back a loose tendril of hair and pressed a tender kiss to her cheek.
“As I said, ‘Toinette, I hope, somehow, you and Lizzie shall meet one day. I do believe you would get on very well together.”
A shadow flitted across her face, quickly replaced with that glorious smile.
I started to inquire once more about her well-being, when I heard a faint rustling. Antoinette craned her neck to see around me.
“Ayia-what is it?”
The Moor, standing in the door of the drawing room, made a gesture as if putting something in her mouth.
Her mistress gave a little sigh, gazing heavenwards again. “Ah, yes. Time for my physick.”
“Physick?” I frowned. “Have you been unwell, ‘Toinette? I thought you looked a little pale--”
“Mais non, mon coeur.” She shrugged and rolled her eyes comically as she gave an airy wave of her hand.
“‘Tis only an elderflower cordial. And Ayia is far too much of a fussbudget on my account.” She shot the ever-impassive servant a sharp sidelong glance and then playfully patted my chest.
“There is no need to concern yourself over me. Now--off with you, Monsieur Brouchard. Until we meet again.”
I was alone on the front steps, preparing to climb into the fiacre hailed for me, when I felt a tug on my sleeve.
I turned and looked into the dark eyes of Ayia.
“Wha--”
She scowled and shook her head, holding a finger to her mouth. Furtively, Ayia slipped a folded piece of paper into the pocket of my coat and then nodded towards it while pointing to the fiacre.
Mouthing two words, she squeezed my arm and waved me towards the carriage before retreating into the house.
As anxious as she had been to waylay me, Ayia now seemed just as anxious for my departure.
Frowning, I climbed into the fiacre and gave the driver directions. Sitting back, I pulled the note from my pocket, unfolding it to read as we rumbled along the Parisian streets.
After perusing the words contained within, I dropped my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, expelling a deep breath. “Oh, Antoinette. Why did you not tell me? We are old friends, after all.”
Grabbing my stick, I bumped the roof of the fiacre to get the driver’s attention and leaned out the window to give him a new address.
“It is half-way across Paris, monsieur,” he pronounced with a put-upon sigh.
“You will get a Louis d’or added to your payment if you make good time. I am assuming you have nothing else planned?”
I stuck my hand out the door of the coach, holding up the glittering coin and waving it to assure him.
His reply was considerably more enthusiastic. “Mais non, monsieur, I will be happy to take you there.”
The driver wasted no time using his whip as he bellowed, urging the horses on. I pitied the poor prances, but I needed to familiarize myself with the domicile of a certain denizen of the city. To be followed in the cover of night with a return visit.
~A delay, Mon Ange. But I promise I shall return to you as soon as I can~
I reached for the snuff box purloined from Lord Montrose himself.
~What an adventurous day-and night-that proved to be. I shall always think very fondly of the Chartreuse Bastard~
I scrutinized the elegant little box resting in my hand. Opening it, I took a strong pinch of snuff in each nostril and smiled rather grimly.
~And another adventure tonight. Oh, ‘Toinette. I never thought it of you~
*~*~*~*
I was dressed in full black from head to toe and swathed in a concealing cloak. A grey beard and mustache covered much of my face, the rest to be hidden later beneath a half-mask. My flintlock pistol was cleaned and ready, my small sword at my side.
I would not be holding up coaches on the roads to London that night. My orders to “stand and deliver” would come in a house in Paris.
I thought of Ayia’s silent words to me just a few hours earlier: “Help her.”
“Her,” of course, was Ayia’s mistress. I could not fail to heed such a plea.
Having raided my Parisian bolt-hole for the proper weapons, tools and attire, there I was, astride a hired prance. I was heading to the address I had already visited earlier in the day.
I had no certainty as to where the particular treasure I sought was secreted, although Ayia had shared as much as she had learned in her note, including the knowledge that the master of the house would be away that day.
So, in the guise of an old acquaintance (and using one of my cards imprinted with a false identity), I had visited the house, where I questioned the servants. Surreptitiously, I also paid careful attention to the doors, windows and balconies of the structure, as I would hardly be welcomed in the front door on my evening visit.
My jaw tightened as I urged the prance onward through the shadowy streets.
~Why did Antoinette not tell me of her difficulties, instead of pretending everything was fine? Does she not know I would do anything within my power to assist her? I am nothing if not loyal to those who have given me aid and shown me kindness . . .~
An image flashed through my mind: Lizzie, standing beside her bed, eyes shining and colour in those pale cheeks, urging me to hide within its curtains whilst she dealt with her husband and Barkley and his men. A formidable woman in her own way for whom I felt so much . . . tenderness. Passion.
Love.
~ Ah, the women of my heart are not making my life easy~
I sighed.
~I hope this blasted Monsieur Favreau will not be-difficult. I have no desire for more complications at present~
*~*~*~*
It was nigh to two o’clock in the morning. Moonlight threaded through dark clouds scudding across the sky. Enough light, but not too much.
The house was still and quiet, as was the street. All the better. After tethering my horse, I slid the mask into place.
The first floor balcony-which, I believed, led into the master of the house’s bedchamber--would be my route into the Favreau manse.
Taking out the rope that had been hidden beneath my cloak, I attached the grappling hook I had brought along and, with a twirl of my wrist, tossed it up to catch one of the balustrades.
Climbing up the brick wall, I hoisted myself over the railing. The twin doors opening to the balcony were locked, as expected. I had the tools to take care of that nuisance.
The lock defeated, I eased the door open, slipping into the darkened chamber. I heard a faint snore coming from the bed, which was shrouded in heavy curtains. Moving to the hearth, I took a candle from it to light, shifting to the right-hand side of the bed and placing the candle on the stand.
Parting the curtains ever so slowly, my flintlock pistol trained on the lump in the center of the bed, I spoke French in guttural tones.
“Monsieur, levez-vous.”
The figure in the bed stirred, grunting, and then turned on his side facing me. I could see his features in the flicker of the candlelight. A man close to my own age; broad, smooth forehead, narrow, high-bridged nose and a full, dissolute mouth, his closed eyes fringed in thick, pale lashes. The very image of the portrait I had glimpsed earlier in the day.
Handsome enough if you liked that sort of thing, I suppose.
“Monsieur Favreau.” I raised my gruff voice a little louder. Smirking, I reached down and tapped his feet through the bedclothes.
With a gasp, he bolted upright in the bed.
“Who-wha--” The man, squinting in my direction, ran his fingers through a thick thatch of fair curls and fumbled for something beneath his pillow.
“Non, non.” I rumbled, moving swiftly and almost silently to his side. I quickly removed the small flintlock from the reach of his fingertips, whilst training my own weapon at the center of his face.
His eyes widened as his face blanched.
I hissed through my bearded mouth. “This close, monsieur, I would undoubtedly do your handsome face a great deal of damage.” I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes behind the mask.
“And that is how you make your fortune, n’est-ce pas? Using your looks and charm and flattery to take advantage of vulnerable females . . .” I made a “tsking” sound and shook my head disapprovingly.
“So if you wish to keep it intact, I suggest you listen carefully to what I want and do exactly as I say.”
He licked his full lips nervously, his eyes darting furtively from side to side. “I-I could yell and summon help.”
I gave a low chuckle. “You could, but you would also end up with a nasty hole in your head and I would be out the door and away before anyone could answer your cries. Believe me when I say I am no rank amateur as this sort of game. If you play against me, you will lose.”
I moved the flintlock to full-cock position. His pale blue eyes widened as the Adams-apple bobbed in his throat.
“And now, monsieur, you will slowly and carefully climb out of the bed with your hands elevated and lead me to where you have the letters of Vicomtess de LaMare hidden away.”
His mouth contorted into a most unattractive smirk. “So-the fat little whore has you doing her bidding? Afraid her vicomte will learn the tru--”
The slap I delivered to the side of his head with his own pistol caught him off-guard. I can’t say I was not pleased to hear him whimper in pain, the miserable cur.
“Perhaps you were not fully awake when I gave you those instructions. Are you awake now, monsieur?”
Favreau mumbled a few words.
“I fear I did not understand you, monsieur.” I raised the pistol again.
Favreau cupped his hand over his injured ear, trying not to cringe.
“Yes, yes, damn you--I am awake.”
“Very well,” I nodded slowly, giving him a semblance of a smile as I leaned in very close to his face.
“Then I must remember you to keep a civil tongue in your head--or you will NOT live to regret it,” I said.
Wincing as he rubbed his head, Favreau nervously licked his lips again. “You--you need me alive in order to get what you came for, monsieur.”
“True enough.” I bared my teeth at him, willing my eyes to turn their iciest. He grew even paler, if that was possible.
“So you had better lead me to those letters with haste, so that I do not truly lose my temper and leave you here without a face, monsieur.”
My eyes briefly flickered downward. I smirked. “Or--missing some other portion of your body, perhaps? It would not kill you, but-it would make certain activities-rather impossible.” I let my voice drop into a very deep, sibilant whisper.
The briefest look of terror flashed across Favreau’s face before he composed himself, sniffing as he lifted his chin.
“That will not be necessary, Monsieur.” Favreau started to reach for the bed linens.
I shook my head.
“Non, merci. Keep your hands up, monsieur. Use your feet to push back the linens-slowly--and come towards me on your knees, if you please. Yes, like that, thank you.”
“My, what good manners you have, for a thief. Almost like a person of quality,” Favreau muttered darkly as he awkwardly shifted himself across and out of the bed.
“You would be surprised at the pedigree of many a miscreant, monsieur,” I said grimly. Tucking his pistol in my belt, I picked up the candle, keeping one eye and my flintlock trained on Favreau.
“Now, where do you have the letters?”
Favreau sighed and jerked his head in the direction of a large, elaborately carved oak wardrobe.
“They are hidden in a secret compartment in the armoire over there . . .”
I raised a supercilious brow, allowing the faintest of sneers in my voice. “How very--original.”
Favreau gave another indignant sniff. “You would never know it was there, I can assure you. The craftsman who made it does superb work.”
I motioned towards the armoire with a nod of my head.
“Then, by all means, let me see this wondrous craftsmanship, monsieur. The quicker, the better.”
“I will require the keys,” Favreau said, folding his arms and squaring his shoulders, as if attempting to look taller and more forbidding.
Considering I was a head taller than Favreau, a man clearly inclined to run to fat in a few years, his efforts were quite futile.
“Retrieve your keys, slowly, please-keep the other hand up,” I warned.
As it turned out, the keys were hidden inside the false bottom of a scent flask on the gentleman’s dressing-table-a table so crowded with powder, paint, patches and pomades I might have thought I had invaded a lady’s boudoir rather than a single gentleman’s abode.
“Ah, in a scent bottle. That is necessary, I suppose, to cover the stench of your foul behavior, monsieur?”
Favreau gave me a surly look. “At least I am no common thief.”
“Neither am I, monsieur.” I purred before baring my teeth.
“The letters, if you please . . .”
With ill grace, he padded over to the armoire and unlocked it.
Bending down, Favreau pulled out a drawer as I stood over him, holding up the candle for light, the flintlock aimed at his head.
Removing the linen shirts stored within it, Favreau held up the now-empty drawer , turning it around in his hands with a triumphant look on his face as he showed it off to me.
“Do you see? It appears perfectly ordinary, does it not?”
I shrugged, turning the corners of my mouth down. “Very impressive. And now-the letters?”
He gave another sigh. Moving his hands across the bottom of the drawer, Favreau pressed against it. The secret compartment flew open and a cache of letter bundles tied in ribbons appeared.
“It appears you have been busy, monsieur,” I said, raising a single brow.
He smirked. “There are a great many people with secrets to hide, monsieur. Perhaps even-you.”
I longed to slap the smug expression from his face, to throttle him for the pain he had caused my ‘Toinette and the blasted inconvenience he had caused me.
~Steady, Guy, you know well enough how important it is to keep your temper. ‘Toinette taught you that~
“Show me her letters.”
Favreau pawed through the bundles and held up one of them.
I studied the writing on the top envelope. It was in ‘Toinette’s hand, written in her favourite violet ink. There were half-a-dozen letters in the bundle, it appeared.
I sighed and motioned with my flintlock. “Empty them out, all of them, on the floor.”
“Su-surely you are just interested in the vicomtess’s letters?”
I bared my teeth at him in a mirthless grin. “ALL of them, monsieur. And then-back to bed with you. So pretty a fellow as you needs his rest.”
He emptied out the false compartment, eyes narrowed, his dissolute mouth twisted into a most unhappy expression.
~Not nearly so handsome now~
Bending down, I set the pile of bundles alight with the candle, feeling considerable satisfaction to watch them go up in flames.
And then I felt pain shoot through the back of my skull . . .
Most inconvenient, do you not think?
*~*~*~*
Author’s note: “Prance” is highwayman speak for horse; “nubbing-cove” is their word for hangman.
Next chapter (it should be a long one): the rest of Guy’s (mis)adventures in Paris (how badly was that handsome head hurt?!),‘Toinette’s letter to Lizzie, the story behind her blackmailer, and the long-awaited masquerade ball. Will our favourite highwayman make an appearance there? Will he and Lizzie enjoy another amorous escapade? Who else might make an appearance at the gala event . . .