The Revolutionary and the Rogue Read online

  Open your eyes. The Scarlet Crest’s message shot to the forefront of his mind. Perrin narrowed his gaze, wondering if this enraged citizen could possibly know the sender of that message.

  “I’m suffering just listening to your lies.” The other man picked something out of his teeth and flung it to the street.

  “My companion here is right.” Chevalier swatted his hand toward Perrin in a lazy sweep. “Your lies mean nothing.”

  “I hadn’t realized it had gotten this bad.” Perrin winced, knowing he ought to have kept quiet and let the men go along on their way. Could he have spoken anything worse? He sounded exactly like the sort of rich, arrogant prig they accused him of being. Perhaps if he’d mustered the strength to leave his house months ago, he might have done something about the misery around him. Lord knew he had enough priceless paintings crowding his hallways.

  “Exactly my point.” Chevalier lifted his chin in defiance. “Your kind lavishes in comforts, eyes closed to the peril of others.”

  “That’s hardly fair. You’ve no idea what I’ve suffered.” Perrin bit his tongue before mentioning his lover had been unjustly guillotined. Perrin would only reveal himself to be tied to a traitor and therefore just as guilty as they’d accused Julien of being.

  Chevalier’s lip twitched, and he puffed out a heavy breath. “Yes, I’m sure your inability to procure affordable silk and satin is a mighty hardship.”

  “You cast slander against my attire like it’s a crime to wear fine clothes, yet our leaders dress quite well. Consider Robespierre and his fine silk stockings. I doubt those are easy to come by these days.”

  Chevalier’s lanky companion squawked. “Watch your words.”

  “Ah, but you didn’t counter my statement.” Perrin kept his gaze on Chevalier’s. “How can you respect one man clad in fancy garb yet shun another?”

  “Be careful, aristo. Madame Guillotine awaits you.” Chevalier’s friend cackled.

  Chevalier nodded in agreement. “Indeed. I’ve had enough of your insolent accusations. Your sort can’t be trusted. You squandered our country’s wealth while great men like Robespierre fought to earn it.”

  To Perrin’s disappointment, he wasn’t given a chance to respond. Chevalier, that self-righteous accuser, grabbed his companion’s arm and walked past him with dramatic huffs.

  Perrin opened his mouth to defend himself, then thought the better of it. There’d be no reasoning with a man like Chevalier.

  Resuming his trek to Crimson Rose, Perrin placed his hand over the missive inside his waistcoat pocket. Thank God it was still there.

  Open your eyes.

  …

  That arrogant, aristocratic, good-for-nothing rogue. Henri inhaled several shallow breaths, eager to purge the encounter on the street from his mind. Catching traitors—that was what mattered. Not hoity, fancifully dressed men with uncharacteristically wild hair. Wild hair? Non. He had a duty to focus on the task at hand.

  He narrowed his eyes and studied the red painted door before him but found his thoughts wandering back to that alluring aristo. Why had the man been wandering the streets alone at night?

  Henri rubbed his jaw in frustration. Tonight was bound to be an utter disaster. This Crimson Rose club might be harboring traitors within its cream plaster walls, yet Henri’s thoughts continued to drift.

  “This place hardly seems discreet.” His cohort, Luc, jabbed Henri’s arm with his pointy elbow. “Think that informant of yours gave us a valid passcode?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.” But Henri’s insides clenched out of fear he might have been handed poor information.

  The portal’s vibrant color glowed in the silver moonlight, as if calling passersby to take a closer look. But there weren’t any passersby, and he supposed the club’s secret passcode hindered unwanted guests from spying on its offerings.

  “Well, what is it?” Luc asked.

  “Hmm?” Henri blinked at him, wondering why they hadn’t knocked yet.

  “The passcode. What is it?”

  “Ah. Yes, of course.” Henri dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the tiny parchment. “I’m ready.” He raised his fist and knocked with a few tepid taps.

  A nervous energy swept through his veins as a brisk breeze stung his cheeks. The crisp bite of November…or, as the new Republican calendar mandated they call the month, Brumaire…had settled upon Paris. At least the month was aptly named for the fog, given the impossible weather this time of year. He’d only been back in the city for a little over a month, and everything seemed to have changed. Decimal time? More minutes to track. New calendars? Longer work weeks.

  The names of months or length of weeks hardly mattered when he had more important things to worry about. Treasonous schemers plagued the city, aiming to restore the rule of the cruel aristocracy who’d bled their workers dry.

  He shivered from the memory of the godawful lettre de cache that had sealed his father’s fate six years ago. Having worked as a clerk under the employ of the Comte de Bertram, Henri’s father often went unpaid for lengthy periods of time. As if that weren’t awful enough, the comte had seduced Henri’s sister and cast her aside once she was with child. His payment to Henri’s father? A letter signed by the king that sent him to prison without so much as a trial. Such were the days of the ancien régime, when the aristos had controlled everything.

  Tonight, Henri aimed to catch another aristocratic villain. The former Marquis Duclos, a Crimson Rose club member, had recently sent numerous letters to acquaintances in England. Rumors hinted he was plotting to escape Paris so that he might rally foreign allies to raise an army against France.

  Further denouncements had claimed that under the guise of an artist, the former marquis used his apprentices to deliver encoded messages to known traitors who had been in contact with foreign enemies. Each person had fled the evening before they were slotted for arrest. Henri surmised it was likely that Duclos had helped coordinate the escapes. But the Committee of Public Safety still needed firm evidence against Duclos. As they stood now, they only had a series of denouncements against his apprentices and the Committee hadn’t gotten its hands on a single message.

  “What’s taking so long?” Henri’s partner, Luc Cyrille, coughed into his fist. “You didn’t knock hard enough.” He pounded on the door with a loud thud that caused Henri to jump. “Stop fidgeting, or they’ll see through our disguises. I’m not about to hold your hand.”

  Ah, so it hadn’t escaped Luc’s notice that Crimson Rose was frequented by men seeking the comfort of other men. Though Henri was well aware of the club’s clientele, he himself had never visited.

  When the door cracked open, Henri recited the passcode he’d pried from his former lover. “Brandy Time—er—Thief. Yes, sorry. Brandy Thief; that’s it.”

  Henri grimaced a lopsided smile, hoping the doorman wouldn’t notice his blunder. That mob had rattled his nerves.

  “Damn,” the doorman cursed under his breath before opening the crimson portal. “Er…damn, it’s cold outside.” The hitch in his words failed to mask an undercurrent of displeasure as he waved them inside.

  The doorman ushered them to a small lacquered table. Henri settled onto a wooden chair, half disappointed the thing wasn’t padded. Given the opulence surrounding them, he’d have thought the establishment might offer better seating. Not that he required comfort. Crinkling his nose, he snarled at the frivolous decor.

  Along the walls, thick scarlet drapes swept from ceiling to floor, hugging decadent carved-mahogany panels with gold-painted moldings. Gold trim, just like that aristo from the street and his haughty breeches.

  Henri tapped the polished wood table in staccato beats. Duclos. He needed to strategize the former Marquis Duclos’s capture.

  “Filthy aristo had better turn up. I’m tired of waiting.” Luc grumbled as he unfolded a parchment. With
a hiss, he jerked his finger back and frowned at a tiny droplet of blood.

  The unsettling image brought forth an acrid taste in Henri’s mouth. He clamped his hands into fists and set them on his lap. He’d not let his weakness win by fainting. Especially not in front of Luc Cyrille.

  Think of flowers blossoming in a countryside field. With leaping bunnies. Fluffy, happy bunnies.

  When Luc tucked the wound under a handkerchief, Henri exhaled.

  “You look a bit green, Chevalier.” Luc snickered as he stuffed the soiled linen in his pocket, and Henri wondered if the miscreant had nicked his finger on purpose.

  “I’m perfectly all right.” Not even Henri believed the miserable lie.

  Luc snapped his fingers and glanced over his shoulder. “Is there no service in this ghastly establishment?”

  Henri scratched his thigh, the coarse wool fabric burning his skin. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before Duclos appeared with the rumored delivery. The moment Henri had learned that Duclos aimed to perform the deed himself, rather than task one of his apprentices, Henri had pounced at the opportunity to catch him. Tonight’s delivery likely held something so damning Duclos didn’t trust it in the hands of his helpers.

  An unnerving quiet spread across the room. Henri glanced over his shoulder, and his breath caught. Merde, why couldn’t it have been the former Marquis Duclos? Or any other person? Just his luck—in strolled the pest he’d mistakenly saved on the street. What was that bastard aristo doing here? And why did Henri’s insides flutter with excitement? Non. Not excitement. Anger.

  It hardly mattered that the man had an alluring angular jaw. And that dreadful, fleshy grimace wasn’t worth kissing. Those mournful viridian eyes hardly swept Henri’s heart into a twirl. Twirl?

  Henri wiped his brow. A damp sheen of sweat coated his skin.

  Incroyable. The man wasn’t desirable in the slightest. The atrocious frivolity of the man’s suit brought the texture of dried bread to Henri’s mouth. How could he have thought for a decimal second that an aristo, of all people, was handsome?

  The worst part of it was, a miniscule granule of guilt lodged itself in the depths of his throat. He regretted, a bit, that he’d spat at him.

  Whether or not the man was an aristo, Henri held no evidence he’d ever committed a crime. If he’d learned one thing from his father’s death, it was that all people deserved the right to defend themselves against an accusation.

  Other than rousing Henri’s protective drive—among other things—the only act the aristo was guilty of was reminding Henri of his loneliness.

  “You there. I’m in need of a drink.” Luc scooted his chair from the table and clapped his hands, startling a server who happened to be passing by.

  Henri swallowed back the bile that tainted his tongue. An aristo. Lord only knew what Henri’s father would have thought of this unfounded attraction.

  Chapter Two

  Perrin’s nostrils flared at the familiar scent of brandy and smoke. He braced his feet on the uneven planks of the club’s main room, one of the few indications that Crimson Rose’s lavish interior was a mere facade over an aged structure. From the low amber light to the stagnant air, this place chilled his bones with haunted reminders of happier days past, as if he’d summoned Julien’s ghost.

  Perrin glanced around the room again and, upon recognizing two figures, walked toward them.

  “La, there he is.” Aquila Fitzroy wiggled his flaxen brows, and a rosy, mischievous grin curled across his powdered face. The subtle makeup and trilling laughter did little to hide the pain that darkened his gray eyes. “We were worried about you.”

  “Quill, do be quiet. Do you want the whole establishment to hear?” Philippe tugged Quill’s sleeve, the ornately embroidered attire shimmering with each pull.

  A partial smile cracked at the corner of Perrin’s mouth—more of a quirk of the lips, really. A tickle that resembled happiness warmed his chest.

  “You see! I think that was a smile. He needs us.” Quill closed the distance between them, poking Perrin’s stomach. The lilt of his voice teased glimmers of memories that Perrin had long ignored.

  “Philippe, you planned this? Brought Quill all the way from London?” Perrin gaped, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. “You little schemer.”

  “I might have played a role.” Philippe shrugged. “You’ve hidden yourself from the world long enough.”

  “When Philippe sent word, I had to come. Of course, Kit would have been here as well if he weren’t terrified of facing our dear actor friend, Ashford… My point is, the members of Crimson Rose are always here for one another. Let’s not forget you once saved me from my own misery, back when I thought I’d never recover from Jasper the jilter’s betrayal.”

  Perrin offered a saddened nod at the mention of Quill’s former lover. The two had been poorly matched from the beginning, but Quill had refused to listen to his friends’ concerns. Later, it had taken a great many trips to several tailors to ease his broken heart. Perrin chuckled, remembering Quill’s expression upon receipt of the bills for said attire.

  Perrin turned to his insubordinate manservant. “And Philippe, did you follow me here as well? After I left the house?” Perrin should have known his devoted friend would offer his protection on the streets, whether he’d asked for it or not.

  “Of course, my lord. When we lost sight of you in that mob…” Philippe’s slender lips drew into a tight line.

  “Fear not, friend. A guardian of sorts stumbled upon me, and he…” Perrin’s cheeks warmed at the memory of Chevalier’s firm hold. “I was rescued.”

  “A guardian?” Philippe’s brows knitted.

  Quill clapped his hands excitedly. “Sounds thrilling. Was he strong and beautiful?”

  “It was nothing.” Perrin dragged his fingers over his windblown hair, instantly regretting the confession.

  “You dreadful liar. Your cheeks are flushed. You wanted him; admit it,” Quill continued his teasing.

  Perrin groaned, neither able to deny nor explain his reaction to Chevalier. “Perhaps…a little. Yes. Fine. He was handsome.” Before Quill could gloat, Perrin turned to Philippe. “Were the two of you responsible for that letter as well? The one signed by the Scarlet Crest?”

  “Scarlet Crest?” Philippe lowered his voice. “As I told you this morning, my lord, I’ve no knowledge as to that letter’s origins. The messenger was but a mere lad—scurried off before I could question him. And I highly doubt Quill knows.” Philippe frowned and turned to Quill.

  “I assure you, I’ve no idea what the both of you are on about. We’re here. We’re safe. Tonight, we honor Julien’s memory.” Quill tickled Perrin’s shoulder with light, feathery taps, as if he could cast the worries of the world aside with a gentle flick.

  Julien. The reminder struck like a bolt of lightning across Perrin’s skin. He clasped his hand over his heart, sickened with guilt. One year since that fateful drop of the blade. One year without Julien’s laughter or tender kisses. And Perrin had found himself dwelling on another man tonight. Chevalier.

  “Come.” Philippe urged him deeper into the club’s haze. Crimson Rose had once promised an escape from the dismal world; perhaps it might do so again tonight.

  “Our old table’s still here.” Quill patted the plush velvet that adorned a curved corner bench.

  “It’s perfect.”

  Quill swiftly retrieved a decanter from the center of the table. “La, it appears someone has left this for us.” He plucked the stopper from the slender crystal neck, releasing the sharp scent of brandy.

  While Quill poured the drinks, Perrin spotted a folded parchment on the table. A single sentence floated across the center in a delicate script.

  How far are you willing to go to fight for humanity?

  “What’s this?” Perrin handed the parchment to Philippe, who nearly bum
ped his forehead against Quill’s as they leaned forward to read it.

  “It must have come with the brandy.” Quill nibbled on his finger.

  “What could it mean? And who’s it from?” Perrin glanced around the club but found no clue as to the sender’s identity. Though the handwriting differed from the note in his pocket, a pesky notion told him this was also from the elusive Scarlet Crest, whoever they were.

  “I’m sure someone’s only having a bit of fun with us. Never question free brandy.” Quill stretched his arm across the table and straightened the lace that poked out of Perrin’s cuff in uneven lengths.

  Perrin swatted his friend’s delicate fingers aside. “Cease your foolery. This is serious.”

  “Sorry.” Quill bit his lip and lowered his trembling hand to his glass. “I can’t help myself sometimes.” His porcelain cheeks flushed.

  Perrin could see he’d crushed his fragile friend. Disguised beneath the glamour was a wounded soul. An only child, Quill had clung to the members of Crimson Rose after Jasper the jilter had run off with some muscular fellow.

  With a subtle sniff, Quill offered a perfectly sculpted smile. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of a bit of gold trim and lace.” He trailed a finger over the decorative fabric. “This look suits you.”

  “Don’t let its sparkle deceive you.” Perrin glanced down at the metal spangles, and a mixture of heartache and humor threaded together around his heart. “Julien adored it…but I only wore it on one occasion.” Perrin dragged his sleeve across his waistcoat until the spangled gold trim snagged on the colorful satin-stitched flowers. Once his arm was thoroughly snared by the threading, he erupted into an unexpected laugh. He tugged several times, demonstrating the embroidery’s firm grip. “Julien made a game of it, counting the number of times my arms got caught on the stitching. It was a complete disaster. I’d vowed never to wear the thing again…” Until tonight.