were louder now.
His insides shrank. The fear was cloying. Would he live to see another day?
The cell stank. Whoever had inhabited it before him, they had urinated, defecated and vomited within its confines. There was dried blood on the floors and the pallet, upon which he refused to lie. The cell’s previous inhabitants had been beaten, tortured. Of course they had—they had been enemies of la Patrie.
Even the air flowing into the cell from its single, barred window was fetid. La Place de la Révolution was just meters below the prison’s walls. Hundreds—no, thousands—had been sent to the guillotine there. The blood of the guilty—and the innocent—tainted the very air.
He could hear their voices now.
He inhaled, sick with fear.
Ninety-six days had passed since he had been ambushed outside the offices where he clerked at the Commune. Ambushed, shackled, a hood thrown over his head. “Traitor,” a familiar voice had spat as he was heaved onto the bed of a wagon. An hour later, the hood had been ripped from his head and he had found himself standing in the midst of this cell. He was being accused, the guard said, of crimes against the Republic. And everyone knew what that meant....
He had never seen the man who had spoken, yet he was fairly certain that he was Jean Lafleur, one of the most radical officials of the city’s government.
Images danced in his head. His two sons were small, handsome, innocent boys. He had been very careful, but not careful enough, when he had left France in order to visit his sons. They had been in London. It had been William’s birthday. He had missed him—and John—terribly. He hadn’t stayed in London very long; he hadn’t dared linger, for fear of discovery. No one, outside of the family, had known he was in town. But with his departure hanging over him, it had been a bittersweet reunion.
And from the moment he had returned to French shores, he had felt that he was being watched. He had never caught anyone following him, but he was certain he was being pursued. Like most Frenchmen and women, he had begun to live in constant fear. Every shadow made him jump. At night, he would awaken, thinking he had heard that dreaded knock upon his door. When they knocked at midnight, it meant they were coming for you....
As they were coming for him now. The footsteps had become louder.
He inhaled, fighting his panic. If they sensed his fear, it would be over. His fear would be the equivalent of a confession—for them. For that was how it was now in Paris, and even in the countryside.
He seized the cell bars. His time had just run out. Either he would be added to the Liste Générale des Condamnés, and he would await trial and then execution for his crimes, or he would walk out of the prison, a free man....
Finding courage was the hardest act of his life.
The light of a torch was ahead. It approached, illuminating the dank stone walls of the prison. And finally, he saw the outlines of the men. They were silent.
His heart thundered. Otherwise, he did not move.
The prison guard came into view, leering with anticipation, as if he knew his fate already. He recognized the Jacobin who was behind him. It was the rabidly radical, brutally violent Hébertiste Jean Lafleur as he had suspected.
Tall and thin, his visage pale, Lafleur came up to the bars of his cell. “Bonjour, Jourdan. Comment allez-vous, aujourd’hui?” He grinned, delighting in the moment.
“Il va bien,” he said smoothly—all is well. When he did not beg for mercy or declare his innocence, Lafleur’s smile vanished and his stare sharpened.
“Is that all you have to say? You are a traitor, Jourdan. Confess to your crimes and we will make certain your trial is swift. I will even make certain your head comes off first.” He grinned again.
If it ever came to that, he hoped he would be the first to the guillotine—no one wanted to stand there for hours and hours, in shackles, watching the ghastly executions while awaiting one’s own fate. “Then the loss would be yours.” He could barely believe how calm he sounded.
Lafleur stared. “Why aren’t you declaring your innocence?”
“Will it help my cause?”
“No.”
“I did not think so.”
“You are the Viscomte Jourdan’s third son, and your redemption has been a lie. You do not love la Patrie—you spy! Your family is dead, and you will soon join them at the gates of purgatory.”
“There is a new spymaster in London.”
Lafleur’s eyes widened in surprise. “What ploy is this?”
“You must know that my family has financed the merchants in Lyons for years, and that we have extensive relations with the British.”
The radical Jacobin studied him. “You vanished from Paris for a month. You went to London?”
“Yes, I did.”
“So you confess?”
“I confess to having business affairs in London that I had to attend, Lafleur. Look around you. Everyone in Paris is starving. The assignat is worthless. Yet I always have bread on my table.”
“Smuggling is a crime.” But Lafleur’s eyes glittered.
Finally, he let his mouth soften and he shrugged. The black market in Paris was vast and untouchable. It was not going to end, not now, not ever.
“What can you get me?” Lafleur demanded softly. His black gaze was unwavering now.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Are we speaking about bread and gold—or the new spymaster?”
Very softly, he said, “I have more than business relations in that country. The Earl of St. Just is my cousin, and if you have properly researched my family, you would have realized that.”
He felt Lafleur’s mind racing.
“St. Just is very well placed in London’s highest circles. I think that he would be thrilled to learn that one of his relations has survived the destruction of the city. I even think he would welcome me with open arms into his home.”
Lafleur still stared. “This is a trick,” he finally said. “You would never come back!”
He slowly smiled. “I suppose that is possible,” he said. “I suppose I might never come back. Or I could be the Enragé I claim to be, as loyal to la Liberté as you are, and I could return with the kind of information very few of Carnot’s spies could ever attain—priceless information to help us win the war.”
Lafleur’s gaze was unwavering.
He did not bother to point out that the gains to be made if he did as he said—move within the highest echelons of Tory London and return to la République with classified information—far outweighed the risk that he might vanish from France never to return.
“I cannot make this kind of decision by myself,”
