In Paris, they called it Le Terroir. There was nothing like the sight of the gendarmerie leading the accused in shackles to the guillotine, the crowds in the street cheering. There was nothing like the sight of that street running red with blood. He would never survive discovery and arrest.
But he was being very careful. If all went according to plan, he would recover from his wound and simply leave. He would be journeying to London to plan for the resupplying of La Vendée by the War Office, but Julianne would assume he had gone back to France, to resume his command in the French army.
It was so ironic.
She was interrupting him, he thought. She was interrupting because this was a game, not a real flirtation. He was not her French army officer, eager to share tea, but a British agent who needed to get to London—and then return to France. He estimated it would be another week before he was ready to leave the manor and travel to London. It was at least a two-day carriage ride. But in a few more days or even a week, he could steal a horse or a carriage and go to St. Just. Even if Grenville were not in residence, as he most likely would not be, his staff would leap to obey his every command once he made it clear who he was.
Their time together was very limited now. He would leave on the pretext that he was returning to France. His cover would not be compromised; Julianne would remember him as her war hero, while her brothers would assume him to be a smuggler whose life they had saved.
The solution was ideal.
“You are staring,” she said softly.
He smiled at her. “I am sorry. You are easy to stare at.” It was the truth, so he softly added, “I enjoy looking at you, Julianne, very much so.”
She no longer blushed at his every word, but he knew his flattery pleased her. “You can be impossible, Charles.” Her stare was direct. “I also enjoy looking at you.”
Julianne sat opposite him and began to pour the tea, trembling. He wanted her, but she was so innocent. Yet he wouldn’t think twice about taking that innocence if she were infatuated with the man he actually was. He would enjoy having such a woman as his mistress, both on his arm and in his bed. He would like showing her the finer things in life or taking her about London. But that would never happen.
“You are so thoughtful today,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. “Are you thinking about your family?”
“You are very astute,” he lied.
“You must miss them,” she added, her gaze on his. “Do you realize that you have asked me dozens of questions, while I have not asked you anything at all?”
“Really?” He feigned surprise. “You can ask me anything you desire, Julianne.” Outwardly he was casual, but inwardly he was entirely alert.
“Who is Nadine?”
He started. How did she know about Nadine? What had he said in his delirium? He avoided thinking about his fiancée. He would never forget the months he had spent frantically trying to locate her—and then, eventually, his only choice had been to conclude what had been her fate. “Did I speak of her when I was delirious?”
She nodded. “You mistook me for her, Charles.”
It was always best to stay as close to the truth as possible. “Nadine was my fiancée,” he said. “She got caught up in a riot in Paris and she did not survive it.”
Julianne cried out. “I am so sorry!”
“Paris isn’t even safe for the sans-culottes,” he said, referring to the unemployed and the homeless. “Unfortunately, the mobs are incited to violence more often than not.” He spoke calmly. “Nadine was knocked down when she tried to navigate the crowd.” That was true. He had known Nadine since childhood and their engagement had not surprised anyone. Nadine’s ancestral home was outside Nantes, just down the road from his mother’s chateau. Her family had fled France shortly after her death.
He had imagined her death in the riot many times; he was careful not to do so now. He was careful not to really think about what he was saying. He was careful not to feel. “You do not want to know the rest.”
It was a long moment before Julianne spoke. When she did, her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I thought that the mobs were protesting the lack of employment and the high prices. Everyone deserves employment, a good wage and a decent price of bread. The poor cannot feed their families or even shelter them!”
Spoken like a true radical, he thought grimly. “Their distress is inflamed by the politicians,” he said, meaning it. “Yes, everyone should have employment and a wage, but the radicals—the Jacobins—deliberately incite crowds to violence. Fear rules the streets—the people. There is power for those who can cause the fear. And the innocent like Nadine are caught up in the violence and are its victims.” He knew he must stop, but he hadn’t actually said anything amiss. After all, any man would speak as he just had if his beloved fiancée had been murdered in a mob.
Julianne hesitated. “What happened to your fiancée is terrible, Charles. But really, if you were starving and without means, or if your employer paid you pennies for your labor while living in the lap of luxury, wouldn’t you take to the streets to protest? I would not need direction. And why would the Jacobins or anyone incite such extreme violence? I know they cherish human life—they hardly wish to cause innocent bystanders to die.”
She was so wrong, he thought grimly. She did not understand how power corrupted even the greatest cause. “I’m afraid I am not fond of politicians, not even radical ones.” He managed to soften, thinking it time to withdraw from the conversation.
But she was taken aback. “You almost sound like my brother Lucas. He favors reform, not revolution. He despises the mobs. He has accused the radicals in Paris of the same kinds of actions as you have. And Lucas fears violence here, at home.”
“Reform can be kinder and violence should always be feared.”
Her eyes widened. “The French nobility—the French king—would have never given the country a constitution without great pressure, Charles. The kind that comes from the rising up of hundreds of oppressed people.”
He smiled at her, knowing that she truly believed her words. But the pressure she spoke of had caused the execution of King Louis. Because of “pressure,” there was no constitutional monarchy now. Thousands of French noblemen had fled—and they would never return. Their lands had been taken away, or even destroyed. Why couldn’t she see the terrible loss that this was? Why didn’t she realize how savage and murderous the mobs were—and how many innocent men, women and children had died because of them? Would she still insist that this was liberty? Equality?
“I am against oppression. Who isn’t? But the violence in France is not justifiable. There are different ways one can achieve the same end, Julianne,” he finally said.
She stared at him, shocked. “Were you conscripted?” she finally asked.
He knew he must backtrack now. “I volunteered,” he said flatly. “There is no conscription in France. I am not against the revolution, Julianne, obviously. But I would have preferred a different means—a different beginning. But the convening of the Third Assembly has led us to this point in time, and there is no going back. Innocent men have died in my arms. Innocent men—and boys—will continue to die. I suppose I am glad you do not understand the reality.”
“I do understand,” she whispered, covering his hand with hers. “And I am so sorry for those you have lost. I am so sorry you have suffered so much pain.”
She did not understand at all, he thought. “I will fight to the death for my cause—the cause of freedom.” For him, freedom meant being able to live in the Loire Valley without fear of reprisal—without fear of having his home taken from him. Just then, his family and friends were fighting for that very freedom in le Loire, yet they were running out of arms and food.
“You are frightening me.”
He looked