The Forbidden Rose

Twice they passed small troops of gardes marching in formation.

Maggie stalked along, keeping an eye on the streets, listening, but not panicked. He had to remember she’d been in this city through four years of violent revolution. She was a veteran of riot.

“Papa picks this moment to come out of hiding,” she fumed. “Paris is a powder keg and a thousand men have fuses in their pockets. I have told him Victor is our enemy. So today, he goes home. When I am through strangling Victor, I will strangle Papa.”

A new sound prickled the air when they turned onto Rue Palmier. Someone was playing Bach. The Italian Concerto. Fine playing. It was very fine playing indeed. “That would be your father.”

She nodded brusquely and speeded up. “Papa’s there. He would play Bach at the world’s ending.”

De Fleurignac has all his fingers working. At least we’re not going to walk in on a corpse.

“In case you’re wondering,” she stopped at her door, “I don’t play like that.”

He didn’t have to knock. The majordomo, Janvier, threw the door open before they got to it. “Thank God you’ve come. He’s going to send the master to the asylum at Charenton.”

“Who? Victor?” Maggie swept ahead of him, past the steward, into the foyer. “I will not allow Victor to send Papa to a madhouse. Why is Papa here? Did he say?”

“He came to challenge Victor to a duel.”

She growled, a deep, feline, impatient sound. “Papa will not be permitted to kill Victor, either. They will lock him away if he begins killing people.”

Janvier said, “I hid his swords in the kitchen, behind the brooms.”

The entry hall was empty. No voices anywhere in the house. No footsteps. Nothing to hear but music and distant gunfire. Janvier had got the servants out of the way. Good. He took hold of Maggie’s arm before she went charging into the salon. “Not yet. Your father duels?”

“He’s a brilliant swordsman.” Whenever she talked about her father she got a little crease between her eyes. “I’ve kept him from slicing up any number of rival mathematicians over the years. And political philosophers. And a few poets.”

“I don’t kill people. Not unless I have to. I generally don’t have to.” You’ll never have to worry about me, the way you worry about your father. You’ll see.

Hawker and Pax did a little cross-and-jostle work over who’d go through the door first. Hawker won that round. Once in, they separated just as far as the entry hall would let them and stood glaring at each other.

“There has been no duel. Monsieur Victor said he would not fight with a madman.” Janvier closed the door softly. “They argued loudly, all up and down the house. Madame Sophie retired to her rooms, discomposed. And your father began to play the pianoforte, as you hear. Angrily. Victor sent for his two men, the canailles who do his bidding about town. They have just arrived. Mademoiselle, they have brought pistols.”

That would be their old friends, the Jacobins who’d chased them across Normandy. The ones who’d hauled him off to prison. And they were armed. It just kept getting better and better.

“I hid the master’s gun in the pantry. I can bring it to you, mademoiselle. Or to you, monsieur.”

Doyle had his own gun. That was why he was wearing this damned uncomfortable coat.

I don’t want to kill a man in front of Maggie.

“Let’s play this a different way.” He waved Pax close.

“Section headquarters. You know it?” Pax nodded. “They’ll have some pack of gardes milling around. Tell them Robespierre’s man, Deputy Victor de Fleurignac, is here, in this house.”

Maggie said sharply, “No.”

Pax hesitated.

“Go,” he told him. “Do it.”

Pax yanked the door open and pounded out into the street, already running.

He watched Maggie take hold of anger in both hands and wrestle it down. The air shimmered around her. “I will decide what is done to my cousin Victor.”

But they both knew what had to be done. “He plans to kill your father. That’s why he sent for his jackals. His men are here to say your father went mad and attacked.”

Her throat worked. “We are safe while Papa is playing. It demonstrates that his hands are occupied with the music and not with strangling Victor.”

“He’ll come to the end of this piece in five or six minutes. I have to be in there when he finishes.”

“We will both go in. Victor won’t kill Papa if I’m here to accuse him. And he does not dare kill all of us.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. Can I convince you to wait out here?”

“No.” She stared, unblinking, at the salon door. “I understand why you sent for the gardes. You think Victor must die and you want our hands clean. You think he’ll try again to kill Papa, if he fails today.”

“Your father. You. Me. Your friends in La Flèche. Probably some other folks along the way. He’s got a taste for it now. He’s not going to stop.” When a dog goes bad, it has to be put down. Anybody in sheep country could tell you that.

“I have known Victor all my life. All my cousins, even the most distant ones, are gone. He is the last of the de Fleurignacs.” She breathed deeply, painfully. “Family is everything. I will tell him the Garde is coming to arrest him. I will give him a chance to escape.” Even as she spoke, she shook her head. “It will not save him. He will not run. You heard what your Paxton said. Fouché was here this morning. It must be that Victor has made some pact between them and changed sides yet again. He will trust Fouché and Fouché will betray him. When Robespierre is arrested, Victor will follow him to the guillotine. We will be his death, you and I.”

“If he stays after you warn him, he’s made his own death. Some men, even you can’t save. Let’s go.” He turned to Janvier. “Keep the servants away. Don’t let her aunt come down, whatever happens.”

Janvier’s half bow acknowledged authority. “Oui, monsieur. Madame Sophie has taken sleeping powders and—”

Maggie stopped. “Mon Dieu. Aunt Sophie.”

“One thing at a time, love. Let’s deal with Victor. Maybe he’ll take off for Kiev and save us all some trouble.”

The doors to the salon opened smoothly. Maggie walked in beside him. Hawker fell into step behind, soundless, a stoppered bottle of excitement, his hands a twitch away from his knives. Hawker didn’t need to be told to protect Maggie. He’d just do it.

Four men waited for them in the salon. Maggie’s father was bent over the pianoforte, oblivious, deep in the final chords of the third movement. Victor stood by the hearth, pretending he was in control of the situation, looking as menacing as a man can when he’s standing next to a gaggle of china shepherds and woolly lambs. He wasn’t carrying any obvious weapons. The two henchmen were off to the side, both armed. The one Maggie had slashed across the face was going to be fairly grotesque even when the scar healed.

That is a man who wants revenge. I’ll get rid of him first.

Hawker slipped into place between Maggie and the pistol scarface was bringing up to point. He did it so smoothly, it looked accidental.

Bach wound to a conclusion. Maggie’s father set his hands on his knees, shook himself, and took note of what was going on. “What are you doing here, Marguerite? No. Never mind. It’s not important. Run and fetch me my swords, girl. I am going to skewer your cousin like a suckling pig.”

“We have discussed this, Papa.” Ignoring guns, ignoring Victor, she stood over her father and put her hands on her hips. “There will be no more dueling. Why did you come here? Victor is trying to kill us, for heaven’s sake.”

“I am not,” Victor snapped.

She ignored that, too. “You have walked into his hands. Do you have any least vestige of a reason for doing this?”

“I’d be a poor father if I didn’t gut him for you. He won’t duel, though. My brother’s child, and there’s no honor in him.”

“Of course there is no honor in him. A man of honor does not feed me poison in my evening tea. He does not