Fairchild's Lady (Culper Ring Series) (9 page)

“And you are sure
that
was the pretense?”

“
Oui
. Very sure.”

But to think of the danger they had both been in, and of how it had thrown their plans into chaos…Julienne squeezed her eyes shut, but she felt her mother’s hand smoothing her hair back. Heard her mother’s shaky breath. “Isaac Fairchild aside, we must get you away from the duc. It will not be easy now. His guards are more loyal than the king’s. But I will speak with your grandfather and with this Englishman you have such faith in, and we will find a way.”

Julienne opened her eyes again, though Mère’s image was blurry. “We will go to England? To my father?”

No tears could obscure the light of hope in her mother’s smile. “
Oui
. To your father. He is most anxious for us to come.”

Julienne laced her fingers through her mother’s and held on tight. “You still love him.”

Her smile went wistful. “I thought myself long since past such foolishness. But the moment I saw his script upon that page… Well, I cannot say what the future may bring for him and me, but he deserves to meet his daughter. We will go,
ma fille
. The very first moment we can arrange it, we will go.”

If only they knew when that would be. Julienne swallowed and glanced again toward the window. “I am sorry it is so difficult now. This is my fault.”

Her mother leaned close until their foreheads touched. “It is Remi’s fault, ultimately. You were only acting the part of a love-struck fool.” She pulled back again and gave her a crooked smile. “That embrace had better have been worth it.”

The smile that tickled Julienne’s lips just proved that even the darkest nights had a sprinkling of starlit hope. “Oh, it was, Maman. It was.”

Y
ou are
imbéciles
, all of you.” Jean-Paul then muttered something unintelligible, but no doubt just as insulting, under his breath as he repositioned his hat.

Fairchild wavered between a grin at his friend’s discomfort and a scowl at the fact that he feared him to be right. Five days they had watched, waited, and plotted. Five days of an unlikely alliance with the marquis de Valence, his daughter, and a handful of servants the marquis trusted implicitly.

Five days to pull his nerves so taut Fairchild imagined they would fray and snap at any moment. He glanced over his shoulder at the silver-haired marquis, whose face bore no emotion. But he felt it, clearly. All of them did. All of them loved her, otherwise they would never take such a risk for her happiness.

Lady Poole slid to Fairchild’s side, her eyes set upon the window at which Julienne sat. “We must move quickly. All is ready?”

“
Oui
, madame. The horses are hitched to the carriage and all is packed. As soon as we bring her out, we will be away and in Paris by this afternoon.” Though that made his shoulders tense. The detour to Paris felt like a bad idea to him, but the countess had insisted. Their home there was where she had left her remembrances of England, and she swore that returning to her husband without them was impossible.

“Very well. Père?”

The marquis shot Fairchild a steady look. They had already had an hours-long discussion on his intentions toward Julienne, his prospects, his knowledge of the Earl of Poole and his family, and how he had become entangled in the youngest Gates’s work because of his resemblance to d’Ushant. Without question, the man approved neither of Fairchild nor of Lord Poole, but he approved even less of the duc treating Julienne as he had and threatening the very lives of those he held most dear.

A classic case of one’s enemy’s enemy, really, but Fairchild would take it.

The marquis nodded. “I am ready. Let us get this over with.”

The group exited the cover of the hedge, and the servants, all dressed in clothes befitting nobles, took up the planned nonsensical chatter. One of the maids wore a hat so ridiculous in its styling that the eye could not help but be drawn to it. And to make the group even more chaotic, they all kept stepping in front of each other to exchange a word with someone else before spinning back to their previous companion.

Perfect. Fairchild offered his elbow to Lady Poole, who tucked her hand into its crook just as they had planned. She said nothing at first, but once they entered the building that housed the duc’s apartments, she took up her planned prattle about the ball that night.

Fairchild repositioned his overcoat as they mounted the stairs, needing to reassure himself that his weapons were in place. As a supposed noble, he was entitled to the sword now strapped to his side, but he would just as soon keep the pistol, borrowed from the marquis, hidden.

His heart may have wanted to speed up at the thought of seeing Julienne again, but he kept himself in check, his training at the fore. Kept his breathing even, his senses on alert. Each person they passed was a possible enemy combatant. The guards standing outside the duc’s doors were the officers he intended to pick off.

Ah yes, he had learned a little something from the Americans when fighting against them. That sometimes the battle was already lost if you had to take to the field. Better to win beforehand, by wit and wile.

Their gaggle drew the attention of the guards, but in the way they
had expected. With a roll of the eyes and shake of the head, the one Lady Poole had said would be in command stepped forward. “Madame,
bonjour
. May I be of service?”

Lady Poole looked up as if surprised to find the guards there and withdrew her hand from Fairchild’s arm. “
Oui
. You may open the door.”

While the commander sighed and focused on the countess, Fairchild slipped behind one of the maids and moved toward the second guard. His attention was also on the crowd, whose volume seemed louder than ever in the corridor, allowing Fairchild to slide up behind him.

“Madame,
s’il vous plaît
. You know I cannot allow everyone in, only you and your father. The rest must wait here for you.”

“Nonsense.” The countess waved a hand at the crowd. “They are needed for the planning of the wedding. We will be only a few moments, but we must speak with my daughter at once so we can proceed.”

With a silent prayer, Fairchild covered the mouth of the second guard with one hand, and with the other pushed hard upon the pressure point on his neck. The man flailed, but the movement of the crowd kept that from view until finally he went lax. One of the marquis’s menservants slid over to take the limp figure, pulling him into an alcove to gag him and bind his hands and feet.

Fairchild headed for the one in charge.

“…not possible. You know, madame, how strict were the duc’s instructions. No one else may enter. Not even for a moment.”

Lady Poole huffed. “That is absurd!”

Before the man’s attention could shift from her to him, Fairchild stepped into range and leveled a well-aimed punch at his nose. Eyes glazing, the guard opened his mouth…and then crumpled before he could make a sound.

“Well, you
are
handy to have around.” The countess grinned at him and pulled opened the door, the females moving en masse with her through it. No one needed a reminder to move quickly.

Another of the men had caught the first guard and made to pull him off to join his compatriot, but Fairchild shook his head and positioned himself against the door frame, listening. Sure enough, the
interior guards asked a question at the women, and Lady Poole insisted the doormen had given their approval.

Careful to stay out of sight, Fairchild lifted the guard’s arm and gave it a little shake to make it look as though he were waving his agreement.

“Fine, fine. But be quick.”

A sigh of relief wanted to well up within him, but he didn’t dare release it. Instead, he eased the door mostly closed and handed off the unconscious man to the waiting servant. From within the apartment he could hear the incessant chatter and laughter of the ladies, nothing within it to grab any particular attention.

Not until he heard the words he had been waiting for, rising above the rest. “Hush, ladies. Let us leave my daughter to nap. You get your rest,
ma chérie
, and that headache will leave you. I shall return to check on you in a few hours.”

The click of an interior door sounded, and then there was a chorus of whispers—the kind that would require young women to put their heads together and so obscure their faces with the brims of their hats.

Fairchild pushed the door all the way open for the group, each heartbeat a prayer that the men inside would not bark out a sudden, “
Arrêtez!
” That they would not notice there were now seven young ladies instead of six, two in a neutral cream dress rather than one.

But they all exited without garnering such a command, and the marquis pulled the door closed with visible relief.

Fairchild scarcely noticed the crowd. His gaze homed directly in on the new addition, even as those unforgettable glacier eyes lifted and found him. Only when he felt her fingers in his did he realize he had stretched out a hand. But once he held hers, he saw no reason to let go. Nay, rather he lifted it so he might kiss her knuckles even as he pulled her down the hallway. “We must hurry.”

As soon as they gained the out of doors, the maid who matched Julienne separated from them and headed back for Lady Poole’s rooms. The rest headed for the stables, where the marquis’s carriage waited.

Julienne squeezed his hand a little tighter with each step. She, like him, must fear that at any moment the duc or his men would jump from the shadows with a gun aimed at her heart. But they made it to the carriage with no surprises.

One of the servants opened the door for them and helped Julienne up. Her mother quickly followed, and Fairchild took the seat across from them.

Lady Poole leaned out, her brows drawn. “Père, are you certain you will not join us? Please. I fear the duc will know you helped us.”

The marquis smirked. “I imagine he will. And I imagine he knows there are some yet in the court he cannot touch, lest he lose all the power he holds so dear. I am safe from him,
ma chérie
. I’m only sorry I have not better kept my two most precious ones safe as well.”

“Promise.” A tremble quivered her lips. “Promise you will visit us.”

“I will try,
ma fille
, if the king can spare me.” His eyes, only a shade darker than Julienne’s, moved to Fairchild—and hardened. “If a hair on their heads is harmed, I will kill you myself.”

He sent the man a rueful smile. “If a hair on their heads is harmed, monsieur, it will be because someone else has already beaten you to it.”

“We will be well, Grandpère.” Julienne leaned over her mother to press a kiss to the man’s weathered cheek. “
Je t’aime
.”

“
Je t’aime, ma fifille
.” The marquis turned away, but not before Fairchild saw a telltale shimmer in his eye.

His chest tightened. Why must one family be broken for another to be reunited? Why must there always be loss for there to be gain? But there was no choice, not now with the duc as an enemy. Their hope would have to be that the marquis’s missing them would outweigh his loyalty to Louis. And that being forewarned, he could avoid the danger Fairchild felt certain was brewing.

The door closed, and the driver clicked up the horses. Lady Poole stared out the window at the world passing them by, but Julienne shifted to the seat beside him and turned her face into his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut.

He put his arm around her and anchored her to his side. And his mind flew back a decade, to another trio escaping imminent danger, another face he loved turned into a solid shoulder. Not his, not that time. He had been only an observer when Winter, Ben, and Freeman fled the City of New York. An enemy, really.

One who could not bear to see his friends come to harm.

Never had an ounce of regret plagued him for helping them leave with their lives, despite the fact that General Arnold would have
had him drawn and quartered had he learned of it. Some things transcended politics, just as this did. No matter if France had long been the enemy of England. The heart knew no such claims.

But man—man did. And if the wrong men caught them anytime between here and when their ship eventually reached England…

Fairchild squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.