to wipe his cheeks. Then he rushed to the chamber pot to vomit helplessly, mostly the scotch whiskey he’d been drinking since the funeral yesterday.
When would the nightmares stop? He had been incarcerated for three months and six days; he had been released in time to attend Danton’s trial, as he had prepared to leave Paris for London. In the last year, Georges Danton had become a moderate and a voice of reason, but that had only incited Robespierre, and it had, in the end, ensured his bloody death.
He did not want to recall standing helplessly in the crowd, pretending to applaud the execution, when he was so sickened he could barely prevent himself from retching.
Afterward, the Jacobin had bought him a glass of wine at a nearby inn, telling him how pleased he was that “Henri Jourdan” was departing for London. The timing could not be better, he said. The Allied line ran west to east from Ypres to Valenciennes and then to the Meuse River, Namur and Trier. The French were expecting an invasion of Belgium, soon. And Lafleur had slipped a list into his hand. “These are your London contacts.”
Simon had gone back to his flat for the very last time—only to find one of Warlock’s couriers there. For one moment, he had thought he had been uncovered, but instead, he had been told that his wife was dead....
Simon stood unsteadily—he was still very foxed. And that suited him very well. He walked over to a handsome sideboard and poured another scotch. The baby kept crying and he cursed.
He had enough problems without that damned child. He hated that bastard, but not as much as he hated himself.
But he had escaped the guillotine. How many French political prisoners could claim that?
He thought of his relations in Lyons, none of whom he’d ever met, all of whom were now deceased, a part of the vengeance wreaked upon Lyons when le Comité had ordered the rebel city destroyed. His cousin, the true Henri Jourdan, was among the dead.
He was acutely aware he was on a tightrope.
One misstep and he would fall, either into the clutches of his French masters or those of Warlock.
The Earl of St. Just was well-known. When he met with his Jacobin contacts, he would have to be very careful that no one would recognize him. He would have to manage some sort of disguise—a growth of beard, his natural hair, impoverished clothes. Perhaps he could even use chalk or lime to add a false scar to his face.
His stomach churned anew. If Lafleur ever learned he was Simon Grenville, not Henri Jourdan, he would be in imminent danger—and so would his sons.
He had no delusions about the lengths to which the radicals would go. He had seen children sent to the guillotine, because their fathers were disloyal to La Patrie. Last fall, an assassin had tried to murder Bedford, right outside his own house. In January, an attempt had been made on the War Secretary, as he was getting into his carriage outside of the Parliament. There were émigrés in Britain now who were in hiding, fearing for their lives. Why should he think his sons safe?
Everyone knew that London was filled with agents and spies, and soon it would have another one.
The reach of the Terror was vast. The vengeful serpent was inside Great Britain now.
Simon downed half the whiskey. He did not know how long he could play this double-edged game without losing his own head. Lafleur wanted information about the Allied war effort as swiftly as possible—before the anticipated invasion of Flanders. And that meant he would have to return to London immediately, as he would not learn any valuable state secrets in Cornwall.
But he was a patriot. He had to be very careful not to give away any information that was truly important for the Allied war effort. And at the very same time, Warlock wanted him to uncover what French secrets he could. He might even want Simon to return to Paris. It was a tightrope, indeed. But in the end, he would do what he had to do—because he was determined
When would the nightmares stop? He had been incarcerated for three months and six days; he had been released in time to attend Danton’s trial, as he had prepared to leave Paris for London. In the last year, Georges Danton had become a moderate and a voice of reason, but that had only incited Robespierre, and it had, in the end, ensured his bloody death.
He did not want to recall standing helplessly in the crowd, pretending to applaud the execution, when he was so sickened he could barely prevent himself from retching.
Afterward, the Jacobin had bought him a glass of wine at a nearby inn, telling him how pleased he was that “Henri Jourdan” was departing for London. The timing could not be better, he said. The Allied line ran west to east from Ypres to Valenciennes and then to the Meuse River, Namur and Trier. The French were expecting an invasion of Belgium, soon. And Lafleur had slipped a list into his hand. “These are your London contacts.”
Simon had gone back to his flat for the very last time—only to find one of Warlock’s couriers there. For one moment, he had thought he had been uncovered, but instead, he had been told that his wife was dead....
Simon stood unsteadily—he was still very foxed. And that suited him very well. He walked over to a handsome sideboard and poured another scotch. The baby kept crying and he cursed.
He had enough problems without that damned child. He hated that bastard, but not as much as he hated himself.
But he had escaped the guillotine. How many French political prisoners could claim that?
He thought of his relations in Lyons, none of whom he’d ever met, all of whom were now deceased, a part of the vengeance wreaked upon Lyons when le Comité had ordered the rebel city destroyed. His cousin, the true Henri Jourdan, was among the dead.
He was acutely aware he was on a tightrope.
One misstep and he would fall, either into the clutches of his French masters or those of Warlock.
The Earl of St. Just was well-known. When he met with his Jacobin contacts, he would have to be very careful that no one would recognize him. He would have to manage some sort of disguise—a growth of beard, his natural hair, impoverished clothes. Perhaps he could even use chalk or lime to add a false scar to his face.
His stomach churned anew. If Lafleur ever learned he was Simon Grenville, not Henri Jourdan, he would be in imminent danger—and so would his sons.
He had no delusions about the lengths to which the radicals would go. He had seen children sent to the guillotine, because their fathers were disloyal to La Patrie. Last fall, an assassin had tried to murder Bedford, right outside his own house. In January, an attempt had been made on the War Secretary, as he was getting into his carriage outside of the Parliament. There were émigrés in Britain now who were in hiding, fearing for their lives. Why should he think his sons safe?
Everyone knew that London was filled with agents and spies, and soon it would have another one.
The reach of the Terror was vast. The vengeful serpent was inside Great Britain now.
Simon downed half the whiskey. He did not know how long he could play this double-edged game without losing his own head. Lafleur wanted information about the Allied war effort as swiftly as possible—before the anticipated invasion of Flanders. And that meant he would have to return to London immediately, as he would not learn any valuable state secrets in Cornwall.
But he was a patriot. He had to be very careful not to give away any information that was truly important for the Allied war effort. And at the very same time, Warlock wanted him to uncover what French secrets he could. He might even want Simon to return to Paris. It was a tightrope, indeed. But in the end, he would do what he had to do—because he was determined
Similar Books
