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EIGHT

P hilippe Andreas arrived early the next morning, white-faced, sober, and infinitely relieved when Jean Marc told him Catherine and Juliette had escaped the massacre at the abbey.

“You’re right to be angry, Jean Marc,” Philippe said miserably. “When I heard of the massacre as I entered the city I felt—you can’t blame me any more than I blame myself.”

“You’re damned right I can. Mother of God, what the hell delayed you?”

Philippe flushed as his teeth sank into his lower lip.

Jean Marc gazed at him in astonishment. “A woman?”

“One of the pickers. She was…I didn’t think it would matter. It was only two nights…”

Jean Marc laughed mirthlessly. “Christ, I hope you found your dalliance with a flower picker worth what happened to Catherine.” Jean Marc’s lips tightened. “You can’t simply say you’re sorry and walk away from this, Philippe. My God, why the hell didn’t you do what I told you to do?”

“I didn’t believe this could happen,” Philippe said simply. “You know how it is at Vasaro. The war and revolution seem not to exist there.”

“Damn you, I told you to leave at once and—” Jean Marc broke off as he saw Philippe’s forlorn expression.

Why was he shouting at Philippe? Jean Marc was the one who should have gone directly to the abbey.

Philippe was so far removed from the turmoil of the revolution in his Garden of Eden that undoubtedly he had been blind to the harm his delay could do.

Jean Marc had no such excuse. He’d had experience with the fanatics and the money grubbers of the assembly, and the mobs of starving rabble roaming city streets and country roads.

He straightened and relaxed his clenched fists. “All right, it’s done. Now let’s try to repair the damage. Juliette told me they were helped by a man named Francois Etchelet who is in league with Georges Jacques Danton. I want to see him. Go find him and bring him here.”

“Do you think that’s wise? Danton has publicly stated he approves of the massacres.”

“We need help and Etchelet has a reason for giving it.”

Philippe turned to go and then hesitated. “May I go up and see Catherine first? I want to tell her how much I regret—”

“I don’t think she’ll want to see you.” Juliette stood in the doorway, gazing accusingly at him. “I remember you. You’re Philippe. I’m Juliette de Clement.”

Philippe nodded and bowed. “I recall you as well, Mademoiselle. I can’t tell—”

“Why, by all the saints, didn’t you come for her?”

He flushed. “I was…delayed.”

“And Catherine was raped.”

“Jean Marc told me. I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“Go, Philippe,” Jean Marc said. “I want Etchelet here before dinner.”

Philippe bowed again to Juliette and quickly escaped from the room.

Juliette turned to Jean Marc. “You sent for Etchelet? Good. Why didn’t you—What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“Do I have a smudge on my face?” She lifted a hand to her cheek. “I was scrubbing the floor of the foyer this morning and—”

“Scrubbing?”

“Why not? Robert and Marie are no longer in their first youth, and we must not bring any other servants into the house. I’m very good at scrubbing floors. I did it all the time at the abbey.” Her hand fell away from her cheek. “I can wash it off later. One smudge doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t matter.” Jean Marc doubted he would have noticed if she was as painted as the savages brought back from the wilds of America.

He had always loved her skin, roses and cream with a texture glowing as if burnished by a loving hand.

The night before in the candlelight she had been all tumbled shining curls and curious brown eyes, brave and impatient in her white, high-necked, long-sleeved gown.

This morning the strong sunlight streaming through the windows revealed a Juliette of enticing beauty.

The shabby brown wool gown she wore hugged her small waist and fitted snugly over the slight swell of her breasts.

She was of medium height but appeared taller, for she carried herself boldly, proudly, and with a grace at once impetuous and defiant.

Christ, he could feel himself harden just looking at her. So much for her shield of innocence and dependence.

Her gaze as she lifted her head to face him was as defiant as her bearing. “You should have listened to me last night, you know.”

“I make it a practice never to give attention when it’s demanded of me. I react much more kindly to requests.” He smiled faintly. “You should have said, ‘Jean Marc, s’il vous pla?t,’ or ‘Jean Marc, would you be so kind?’ Then I’m sure I’d never have been able to resist hearing what you had to say.”

To his amazement, her cheeks turned scarlet. “Don’t be ridiculous. Perhaps your mistresses speak to you with s’il vous plaits , but you’ll never hear from me.”

“No?” He lifted his brow. “How unfortunate. Then I fear you’ll get far less than you would like from me.”

“I don’t want anything from—” She stopped and drew a deep breath. “I know you’re mocking me. You like to play with words, to thrust and then step back and watch, don’t you?”

“Do I?” At the moment the only thrusting he was interested in had nothing to do with words. He wished she looked less challenging and more vulnerable. He found it difficult to remember her recent suffering when he was experiencing his own immediate painful physical response.

“I think so.” Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. “I can’t read you. I’m not sure what you’re thinking. It’s even worse than when we were at the inn.”

“A mirror. I think that’s what you once called me.” He tilted his head. “No, I believe it was an entire gallery of mirrors. I suppose I should be grateful you granted me a multiplicity of images.”

“You’re laughing at me.” She lifted her chin. “You see, I’m learning. I’ll find a way to know you.”

“I could suggest a number of fascinating ways to accomplish that goal, but until such a felicitous time I suggest you try ‘s’il vous pla?t , Jean Marc.’”

She looked hurriedly away. “No, I couldn’t—” She broke off as she looked back at him and found him still watching her intently. She drew a deep breath and then slowly let it out. “What are you going to do about Catherine?”

He was suddenly filled with self-disgust. What was wrong with him? Danger existed all around them and he could think only of his pleasure in rutting with her. His mocking smile vanished. “I’ll get Catherine out of Paris as soon as possible. She’ll be safe at Vasaro.”

He had spoken only of Catherine, he realized at once. Merde , he couldn’t actually be thinking of keeping Juliette in Paris, where she would be in constant danger, just because he lusted after her.

“I’m not sure she’ll ever be safe.” Juliette shivered. “You don’t know Dupree.”

“No, I’ve seen him a time or two at the H?tel de Ville with Marat, but we’ve never been introduced.” Jean Marc’s gaze narrowed on her face. “But you clearly know him very well indeed. What happened at the Abbaye de la Reine, Juliette?”

“You know. I told you about Catherine.”

“But not about Juliette.”

Her glance slid away. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“I believe there may be a great deal to tell.”

“Why are you asking me these questions? It’s Catherine who’s important.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jean Marc paused. “All right, let’s talk about Catherine. You’re worried that Dupree might pursue her to Vasaro?”

“If he finds out she’s one of the students from the abbey. He wants no witnesses to refute the charges against the nuns.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure he doesn’t find out. As soon as it’s safe, she’ll go to Vasaro.”

“I want her to leave right away. She needs to get away from everything that could remind her of the abbey. You don’t understand.

” Juliette’s teeth pressed hard into her lower lip.

“I’m afraid for her here. For the last two days she’s been like a spirit, walking around in a dream.

She shuts me out. She shuts everyone out. ”

“She’ll recover in time. I have no intention of sending her through the barriers until it’s safe.”

“And what will make it safe?”

Jean Marc grimaced and shook his head. “I have no idea. I’ll have to explore the situation and then think about it.”

“Think? Do something.”

“I’ve already done something. I’ve sent for Etchelet.”

She hesitated and then gave up the battle. “Call me when he arrives. I have to go to Catherine. She didn’t touch her breakfast again this morning, and I must coax her to eat something.” She turned away and then abruptly whirled again to face him. “Why did you keep it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My painting of the Wind Dancer.” She gestured to the corner of the salon, where the painting hung. “Oh, not that it isn’t excellent, but it lacks the mastery of the other paintings in this room.”

His gaze went to the painting across the room. “I like it. It pleases me to see it here whenever I come to Paris.”

“Because it’s a painting of the Wind Dancer?”

“Perhaps.” He smiled faintly. “Maybe beneath my ‘mirror’ I’m as sentimental as my father regarding the family treasures.”

She looked at him skeptically.

“You don’t believe I have a sentimental soul?”

She ignored the question and moved across the salon to stand before the painting. “Where is it now?”

“The statue? No one knows. It disappeared mysteriously the day the royal family was forced by the mob to quit Versailles for Paris. Rumor has it the queen hid it somewhere in the palace or on the grounds rather than have it fall into the hands of the revolutionaries.”

“Well, why shouldn’t she?” Juliette demanded. “It belonged to the queen. They took everything else from her. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to keep the Wind Dancer?”

“Let’s say, it didn’t improve her position in the eyes of the assembly. I understand some of those good gentlemen wished to use the Wind Dancer as a symbol of the revolution.”

“They have enough symbols. She has nothing now.”

“Still loyal to the monarchy?” His smile faded. “That, too, is a dangerous position today. I’d reconsider if I were you.”