Chapter Nineteen
In Paris, the smell of death was thick in the air, and the news people on the streets relayed to Verity in hushed voices, unbelievably grim. The power-hungry Girondins were filled with blood-lust. She cringed at the sight of bodies left to molder in the streets, stripped of their boots and coats. Anyone accused of being an aristocrat was run through with a pike or rounded up and sent to the guillotine. She was stopped twice by sans culottes demanding her papers as her fear for her father’s fate increased.
Verity walked over the bridge to the Île de la Cité. She shuddered at the sight of the medieval walls of the Conciergerie prison where all prisoners condemned to death, waited. The clock on the corner tower of the Palais de Justice struck twelve as she crossed the Pont au Change.
She steeled herself and entered the office of the newly appointed Minister of Justice. Danton’s big head bowed over papers on his desk. “And to whom do we thank for your return to Paris, citizeness?”
She clasped her hands tightly in front to hide their shaking. “I’m afraid Beaumont was not as enamored of me as you hoped. Once he held left London for his country estate, I saw no reason to remain.”
He stared at her. “You didn’t feel it judicious to await my instructions?”
“What possible good would it do for me to stay there? The English actors resented me. I wanted to return to work in a Paris theatre. And my father is here somewhere.”
With an indifferent glance he returned to his papers. “You look travel weary, mademoiselle. Not as appealing as usual.”
“I apologize for my appearance. My life lacks the elegance I once enjoyed.” She spread her hands. “My first thought was for my father.”
“You have no knowledge of Beaumont’s whereabouts?”
“Non. Please, is my father well? Where is he?”
He looked down at his desk. Shuffled papers. “I’ll make inquiries.”
She should have gone home and changed. She lost her bargaining power dressed like this. She looked like a washerwoman. “I did my best to carry out your wishes. Surely you intend to keep your word.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’ve failed with the viscount, mademoiselle. He has come to France of his own accord.”
She widened her eyes. “He is in Paris?”
“He has just escaped from a Paris prison!” he thundered, thumping his fist on the desk. Papers jumped, and pens were sent sliding.
His sudden violence, made her tremble. Verity inhaled sharply. Raised her chin. “Escape from prison? Unbelievable.”
“Nevertheless, he did. He came to France to rescue his brother-in-law. But I will find him. I will find them both! They cannot leave the country without my learning of it.”
“I’m sure you will, Monsieur Danton. You never fail. You’ve built a wonderful network which is of great credit to you.”
He looked mollified as he straightened his pens. Her flattery had calmed him, but she risked upsetting him again. “If Beaumont has spoken out against your cause in the English Parliament, then so have many others. Why is he so important to you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Beaumont is one of the Englishmen who’ve joined with the émigrés to form an army which will move against France. His head upon a pike will be a deterrent.”
“Lord Beaumont is involved in such exploits? It does not fit with the man I met.”
“You slept with him did you not? You learned nothing from bed talk?”
She flushed. “He spends most of his time on his estate. He made no mention of an army. I don’t believe it.”
“Whether you do or not, is of no interest to me.”
“I still don’t understand why you’ve singled out Beaumont.”
His demeanor changed. A soft light entered his eyes, and he gazed beyond her into the distance. “Beaumont’s wife was the woman I planned to marry, when I had risen high enough in the government to woo her. He snatched her away from France. Removed her from her family, her country. Anna St André was an exquisite woman. Any man would have been most fortunate to have her as his wife.”
Stunned, Verity listened as he expressed passionate feelings for Beaumont’s dead wife. He could never have married an aristocrat’s daughter. “Lady Beaumont died some years ago.”
He shrugged. “There is a daughter from the union. I’m told she is the image of her mother.”
Danton was married. Did this madman believe his powerful position would open all doors for him in revolutionary France? That he could take Henrietta for his mistress? Anthony had got the better of Danton all those years ago. This was pure revenge, and he’d harbored it for a very long time. A shiver ran down Verity spine, horrified that while Henrietta remained on French soil she was vulnerable, especially when Danton had spies in every corner of France.
