Read Online Minuet by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A

Mérigot. “Which way is it?” she asked, carefully excluding Degan.
    “It’s this way,” Degan told her, taking her elbow in his hand, thus showing clearly he considered himself one of the party. If old John had turned fool, it was incumbent on him to protect the girl from making a scandal of herself.
    She was deeply chagrined to have to include him. She frowned her displeasure to Mérigot, who hunched his shoulders in a silent Gallic acceptance of fate and took her other arm.
    The place was as unpleasant to Degan as it was delightful to Sally. She felt very much at home with the atmosphere echoing French accents, an odor of garlic hanging on the air, an easy camaraderie never found in a polite English coffee room. This was the regular meeting place of those Frenchmen fortunate enough to have escaped the Terror. Here they met to lament the past, arrange the present and dream of the future. The clientele was composed almost entirely of gentlemen, every one of whom seemed to be on terms with Mérigot, and eager to be on terms with Lady Céleste. There were laughing jokes about the casual use of the title “Lady.”
    “Call me Citoyenne Sally,” she suggested readily.
    “You are in England now, mam’selle,” one spoke up. “Miss Sally would be better.”
    “But I am half French, monsieur. Disons Mademoiselle Sally,” she countered, and within minutes the name had firmly attached itself to her. Degan sat itching to take her by the arm and drag her forcibly away from this rabble, which he considered rabble in spite of the introduction of several comtes, vicomtes and even a duc. They all appropriated a title the minute they set foot on English soil.
    With only one Englishman in the crowd, the talk was in French, and he had to use every bit of attention to make the least sense of it. He understood the name Belhomme easily enough, thought they were talking about plans to storm it, to spirit the Harlocks from the country. Sally, with absolutely no discretion, was soon entertaining them, a roomful of strangers, with tales of her adventures.
    He glowered at her, glanced at his watch, suggested at two-minute intervals that they leave, but she sat on, enjoying herself immensely, and suggesting as often as he mentioned going that he need not feel compelled to stay. Still, he felt it was only his own presence that kept back her stories of dancing with the gypsies and sleeping in hayricks, and he sat it out to the end, hating every minute.
    She drew out the carte civile of Agnès Maillard and gave it to one of the men, the plan being that he would see about getting duplicates made up in various names by a friend of his who had turned forger. Another knew a French woman who would knit up the long red toques. Sally pointed out to them that all this was en dernier ressort. First Lord Harlock would attempt diplomatic channels. But with France and England at war it was well to have an alternative plan.
    Sally listened closely to their advice. Her father, she knew, wished to help, but with the best will in the world, he had not the grasp of the situation that her own countrymen who had been there had. For a full hour Degan made up a quiet part of the crowd, then he overrode all objections and insisted that Lady Céleste must go home. He escorted her to Mérigot’s carriage, which was so full of parcels that it made a good excuse to take her home in his own. His real aim was to conceal her appearance in the closed vehicle. As Henri must go along to the house with her parcels and she knew she would see him then, she accepted this arrangement.
    “It was unwise of you to talk so freely in front of those Frenchmen,” he told her as soon as they were alone.
    “Henri knows them all. They are friends. Their being French does not disturb me. Au contraire. They would not be here if they were sans-culottes. You heard how eager they are to help me. Do you think it true Papa will have no luck going through diplomatic channels?”
    “He