Napoleon Bonaparte had begun the restoration of this square twenty years ago, and it was now a vast, open plaza ringed with new buildings. Once called the Place Royale and adorned with a statue of the Sun King, it was now officially Place Bonaparte, though most I spoke to still referred to it as the Place Royale. With another Louis back on the throne, it seemed safe once more to use the old name.
The din came from a throng of people chasing a woman and two sturdy male servants, all three of whom sprinted for a waiting carriage. The woman’s fine frock and cloak fluttered as she ran, the mob closing in fast.
The coachman couldn’t pull nearer to the lady and her protectors because another knot of people caught at the horses. The coachman stood on his box and plied his whip without mercy to those reaching for the reins, but even so, his conveyance could not move.
I and my inquisitive friends halted at the edge of the square while the horde of pursuers swept past. I saw, caught up in the mob and striving to leave it, another of the Deveres.
This was Fernand, one of Emile’s uncles. Emile had three of those, all on his father’s side. I’d met two thus far—Fernand and Giraud—plus Emile’s father Auguste, a quiet man who spoke little English.
Fernand spoke it fairly fluently, and also German, as he sometimes went to London or Stuttgart to meet with those who sold the goods the Deveres turned out in their factory.
I stepped into the crowd, seized Fernand, and pulled him from the melee.
Fernand struggled before he recognized me, then he slumped in relief and let me tow him to safety. We caught our breaths beside a sun-drenched wall on the edge of the square, me leaning heavily on my walking stick.
“What on earth is happening?” I asked him. “Who are they chasing?”
Fernand, who stood a foot shorter than me and sported a soft belly from eating many a fine supper, rested his hands on his knees as he wheezed.
“Signora Ruggeri,” he said when he could. “The most hated woman in Lyon.”
“Signora?” I repeated, my brows rising.
“She is from Padua, or claims to be.” Fernand straightened as his breath became steadier. “She is the mistress of the Comte Lejeune.”
I had heard Donata mention the name—she seemed to know every highborn family in Lyon—but I’d never met the man.
Signora Ruggeri had by now managed to reach the carriage, but the crowd closed in as she wrenched open its door. The signora screamed as hands reached to drag her from the coach’s step.
I started forward, unwilling to stand by and watch a woman be beaten to death. There was a sword inside the walking stick’s sheath, which I could use to warn people out of my way.
Fernand caught my arm before I could take two steps.
“No, mon ami. Her coachman was a prizefighter and ferocious enough to protect her. You see?”
The coachman continued to apply his whip without remorse to the men and women surrounding him. He discouraged enough of her pursuers to allow the two muscular servants to shove the lady into the carriage and slam the door.
The servants leapt onto the back of the coach as the coachman urged his team forward, scattering those who tried to stop him. The large vehicle hurtled out of the plaza and into one of the narrow streets beyond.
Some pursued, but as the carriage gained speed, they drifted back to the square, disgruntled and muttering.
“Never lift a finger to help that woman,” Fernand advised me. “Else you become the most hated man in Lyon.”
“Good Lord, what has she done that is so horrible? All I saw was a lady trying to reach her carriage and a crowd ready to murder her.”
“What hasn’t she done?” Fernand answered, shaking his head. “Come, we will sit, and I will tell you the tale.”
Chapter 2
Fernand and I left the square and made for the lane from which I’d emerged. A glance at the market street showed Gabriella still browsing the stalls, oblivious to the angry violence in the plaza.
We entered Beaumont’s shop, where my unfinished breakfast still waited. The older men I and the others had left behind still reposed at their usual tables, as they apparently had done all through the siege of Lyon, the reprisals afterward, and Bonaparte’s subsequent arrival.
I asked for a coffee for my friend, which was promptly brought. Beaumont set it down carefully before Fernand, clearly in awe that a Devere had come into his tavern.
“What has this signora done that is so heinous?” I asked once Beaumont had retreated. “Many aristocrats take mistresses, and have done since time immemorial.”
Fernand enjoyed a sip of coffee, then he shook his head as he set down his cup.
