Remi’s Adam’s apple bobbed, though he relaxed his grip on her arm only a few degrees. “I am surprised at you, d’Ushant. Since when does one woman evoke such a reaction from you when there are plenty more out there who are not so much trouble? Leave this one alone. She is mine.”
Julienne pulled on her arm. “I am not. I have never been, and I will never be!”
“You are.” His fingers dug in anew, and he wrenched her arm until she gasped.
Thwak. With lightning speed Isaac wielded the pistol as a club, drawing a line of spurting red onto Remi’s temple. The duc released Julienne and staggered back, shouting, “Henri!”
The fourth guard folded his arms across his chest. “Oui, monsieur?”
The glaze over Remi’s eyes looked to be half incredulity, half pain. He lifted a shaking hand to his head. “Do something. Kill him. Grab her.”
Not a muscle twitched but for one in the man’s face. “I think not, monsieur.”
Remi’s countenance contorted, though the rage looked futile in light of the trail of blood weeping down his cheek. “You think…not?”
Henri’s face went even more blank. “My family are all on your lands. Villeins, servants. They are starving. Starving, monsieur. And you do nothing. You cannot be bothered. You are too busy poisoning your wife so you might force this poor girl to wed you.”
The stick clattered to the ground as Mère covered her mouth with both hands. “Poison?”
Fury mottled Remi’s face and sent the blood dripping faster. He spewed curses at Henri that blistered Julienne’s ears, and then he moved into threats as to what would become of the man’s family now.
Isaac sighed, switched his pistol to his left hand, and shoved a fist into the duc’s face with enough force to render him immediately unconscious.
Henri moved to stand over him, staring down with stony face. “Go, monsieur. Take the ladies away. I will see to the duc.”
But Isaac lifted a brow. “What exactly do you mean by that, mon ami? You will hand him over to the authorities for the crimes of which you seem to have knowledge?”
The muscle pulsed again in Henri’s jaw. “If there is authority to be found in these times. Or perhaps I will take him to the H?tel de Ville and let the people confront him along with the mayor. Or better still, let him answer to his own people, in Remi.”
Isaac lowered his pistol but shook his head. “Deal mercifully with him.”
“Mercifully?” For the first time, emotion surged into the guard’s eyes. Bitterness and hurt. “He has never dealt mercifully with anyone.”
Isaac met it with calm regard. “True, but he is not ultimately the Master to whom you must answer.”
Julienne splayed a hand over her heart. The Lord had been smiling on her when he led this man to her side at the masquerade. For surely there was none better in all the world.
For a long moment Henri made no move. Then his face softened, and he leaned down to haul up Remi. “May you stay as safe as you are wise, monsieur. Now go, quickly, before my fellows awake.”
Mère turned quickly toward the house, from which the housekeeper even then rushed, a satchel in hand. “I received your missive, madame,” the woman declared, out of breath. “I had it all ready. Quickly.”
While her mother met the servant, Julienne turned gratefully into Isaac’s side. He touched a gentle finger to her lip, regret in his gaze. “He hurt you again.”
In that moment, the pain meant nothing. Not compared to the hope. “Non, mon amour. Nothing a kiss will not erase.”
London, England
August 1789
Fairchild nodded to the servant who had led him through the house and stepped out into the Earl of Poole’s picturesque back garden. Roses sent their sweet perfume into the air, butterflies flitted, and sunshine pooled upon the cobbled path. It was a picture of peace and promise.
If only it were so. If only it extended past his lordship’s orderly stone walls.
But he wouldn’t dwell now on the continuing tumult in France. Nay, that was talk for other days, other company. Not here, now, the first he’d managed to get back to Poole’s town home after seeing Julienne and her mother safely to him a fortnight prior.
“General Fairchild, good afternoon.”
Fairchild gave a smile to the earl’s younger son and reached out to clasp his hand when he drew near. The man, three years his junior, wore a crisp buff suit and a look of calculation in his eyes. That was Gates for you. “Mr. Gates, good day. I hope I am not intruding?”
“Not at all.” He motioned Fairchild off the back step and then waved a hand at the garden. “The others were taking a little promenade through the posies. It is good to see you. Have you heard the latest? That the National Assembly in France has abolished their feudal system? In a single day, all clergy and nobility lost their privileges.”