Scarlet

by Jen Geigle Johnson

Overview

The roads in and out of Paris are heavily guarded, but the dead have easy passage out of the city. A ragged old woman transports the coffins of the most recent victims of the guillotine and is waved on unimpeded. Later, the same crone watches five French aristocrats step out of their coffins unscathed. Not beheaded, but spirited away to safety by that most elusive of spies: the Pimpernel. Or, as she’s known in polite society, Lady Scarlet Cavendish.

When not assuming her secret identity as a hero of the French Revolution, Scarlet presents herself as a fashionable, featherbrained young widow flitting about London. In truth, this façade is merely a diversion designed to conceal her clandestine work in France. Among members of the doomed French aristocracy, the Pimpernel is renowned for her bravery and cunning. But when tasked with rescuing handsome Comte Matteo Durand, she faces an unprecedented challenge: she is falling in love with the man. If ever there was a time to keep her head, it is now—because in a world brimming with intrigue, she is not the only one harboring secrets. And if Scarlet doesn’t take care, Madame la Guillotine may finally catch up with the Pimpernel . . .

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781524405960
Publisher:	Deseret Book Company
Publication date:	05/01/2017
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Sales rank:	912,899
File size:	1 MB

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Paris, France — 1793

The young urchin's sharp gaze flitted through the crowd as if he knew things he shouldn't. Scarlet stood next to him, strangers pressed together by the mass gathering for the executions. Baked between the stone walls by the heat of the afternoon sun, Scarlet's neck beaded with sweat under her wig, and she longed to scratch her head.

"Kill the aristos!" a woman shrieked at them.

Scarlet jumped, hand at her heart, swallowing.

The woman's eyes bulged in their sockets, veins protruding along her neck. Her hand shook as she lifted a stained and wrinkled finger, pointing upward.

The last blade of the day rose by inches to the top of the guillotine. The angry woman, like everyone around her, willed it to drop, her expression full of yearning, nostrils flared wide to catch the scent of blood.

"Don't watch. She is deranged." Scarlet shielded the eyes of the young urchin standing at her side. His friends, also milling about them, far too young to witness, called him Abelino.

He did avert his eyes at first, but his neck turned, stretching out of her reach, until he found the woman again.

Moving farther away and dragging Abelino with her, Scarlet tried to place as many beating hearts between them and the crazed lady as she could.

Her body jostled a man to their left. He did not notice, chanting and rubbing his hands together with a feverish intensity. Evidence of bloodlust haunted the air, the cobblestone, the platform itself. People bumped up against Scarlet and Abelino, reshuffling the group; a great movement from behind rushed forward toward the guillotine. And they found themselves staring once again into the face of the woman. She worked herself into such a feverish frenzy, wringing her hands and rocking from foot to foot, that a line of drool traveled down her chin.

Scarlet and Abelino didn't watch the moment of death, but the grating sound of the sliding metal and the final thump at the end reached their ears. Abelino shivered. Deep regret filled Scarlet that she couldn't spare him from hearing it. A weight on her chest restricted her breathing, and she sorrowed for the loss of innocence and life.

But the woman showed no sorrow. She and her compatriots — a surging, seething, gruesome crowd of beings, human in name only — gave an exultant cheer and turned their attentions from Madame La Guillotine toward the west barricade.

With a sigh, Scarlet squeezed Abelino's shoulder. "Off with you."

By all appearances, she was an older woman herself; at least, she hoped everyone viewed her as such, that she had hidden all mannerisms ingrained by her governess. She left the boy to fend for himself in the crowd and limped around the side of her cart, directing that the remaining coffins be filled.

She grabbed the arm of the nearest guard.

"And the heads, mind you. I need an extra bag for me heads."

Long strands of white-gray hair fell in her line of sight. She brushed them away when they tickled her nose. Her tongue moved around inside her mouth as if she had no teeth, coming forward at times, visible between her lips. She knew if she exaggerated ugly details that made people uncomfortable, they would not stare at her too closely.

A man in torn and tattered clothing watched as they loaded the last coffin on top of the others then climbed in behind them. She tossed the guards a bag of coins and then climbed up on her perch in the cart, reins in hand.

"Thank you, citizens. The doctor has a bit of work to do on 'em, to be sure."

One guard grimaced. "We don't want to be knowing, now do we?"

"Cut off the toes last week, he did." She leaned forward with a loud whisper. "Doing an experiment."

The guard slapped her donkey on the rump. "Shut yer trap, ye old hag. Just take your bodies and go."

She pulled on the reins to quiet the donkey. "Eh, now. Me papers. You forgot to sign me papers."

"Oh, blast and nonsense. Who'd confuse you for an aristocrat?" Laughing a bit too long at his own joke, he snatched the papers from her hand. "Give it 'ere now." The guard scribbled his signature, permission for Scarlet and her companion, known by the English nobility as Lord Simon Devereaux, to leave through Paris's barricaded gates.

"To Bibot!" The crowd sought new entertainment, as they did every evening.

Cheers echoed off the walls of the square in anticipation of desperate aristocratic flights from the city. Any nobles not yet denounced sought to escape Paris before the committee accused them, but the barricades around the city had gone up weeks ago, and if the guards caught nobles leaving without the proper papers, they went straight to the Bastille, accused or no. The sansculottes, the poor, of France enjoyed these captures almost as much as they enjoyed the executions.

Bibot, the gatekeeper, a sharp-witted brute of a man intent upon guarding Paris's west gate, loved the aristos with a twisted obsession that increased the more he caught.

Though some had escaped in other ways, as of yet, not a single aristocrat had left Paris through the west barricade.

Scarlet hoped today would change Bibot's perfect record. Their lives depended on it.

The cart pulled up, next in line.

"Papers!" Bibot shouted, and the crowd cheered.

She handed them over, willing her hands to steady themselves, and said, "Carrying out the bodies, citizen."

Suspicious as always, the burly Bibot eyed the coffins in her cart. "Search them."

"Oh, not the bags, monsieur." Her voice took on a pleading tone, diverting his attention. She held her breath.

Bibot bristled, and his thick eyebrows raised and lowered several times in consternation. "Oh no? You there, toss me that bag!"

Relief warmed her, and she bit back a smile.

Lord Simon Devereaux, her ever-loyal partner and dear friend, dressed in ragged and filthy clothing, cradled the bag for a moment and then swung it over the side of the cart. It dented the earth where it landed and fell open to reveal what everyone nearby recognized as a mound of human hair. But Bibot reached down without looking, grabbed a handful, and held the head up.

The crowd cheered.

She watched his eyes, waiting for the moment of realization. Not even Bibot could countenance the lifeless appendage in his hand, she hoped. His reaction would either reward or doom them all.

The corner of his gaze caught human features in his tight grip, and he dropped the whole mess, cursing. Wiping a smear of blood across his shirt, he shoved the papers back into the cart. "Move out! Move out, I say!"

Lord Devereaux's face twisted and contorted, turning a bit pink. Then he let out the wail of a greatly disturbed man, maybe a little slow in his thinking. "Mine." He reached for the bag.

Exultant inside but outwardly incensed in all her actions, Scarlet clenched her fists. "Me heads!" she shrieked. "He's stolen our heads!" She caught Lord Devereaux's eye and nearly smiled, turning away before she could.

Bibot fumbled with the bag and tried to toss it back to her, but it fell short, hitting the edge of the cart only, and spilled its contents, which bounced across the stony ground before rolling to a stop.

She stood, waving her arms about, entreating the crowd. "Me heads! Thief! Give me back me heads!"

Lord Devereaux increased the volume of his own wailing, their discordant notes clashing together in such a jarring sound Bibot was sure to bless their departure. The cart began to pull away at a quicker pace.

Grumbling from the crowd surprised her.

A man called out, "Here man, it's her property, now, isn't it?"

Would they support her when challenging their hero, Bibot?

The man himself chased after, tossing heads inside until they had all been returned, and Scarlet reclaimed her seat and her taciturn demeanor. She brushed off her torn clothing, a cloud of dust rising from it. Lord Devereaux too resumed his seat, legs dangling off the back of the cart.

The impenetrable Bibot shivered in disgust, wiping his hands over and over down the front of his trousers.

Abelino waited up ahead at the side of the path, clutching his side and laughing as though he couldn't stop, full tears on his face. As the cart approached him, she looked down into his bright countenance and winked. He grinned even wider and ran off into the darkening streets of Paris.

* * *

Familiar landmarks encouraged her in their race to escape as dusk turned to night. Dark old trees, gnarled but cheery, welcomed their cart to the journey's end. She sighed. "Lord Devereaux, my scalp itches; my very brain tingles. This wig is reaching the point of unbearable." Lady Scarlet Cavendish pressed one delicate finger against the back of her head while holding the reins in her other hand.

He climbed over the tops of eight coffins to sit beside her in the front.

"I'm weeping in sympathy, my lady."

She scowled and pushed the donkey faster as their rickety cart lumbered along the old country roads.

"I could do without your sarcasm, sir."

They rode in silence for a moment. Scarlet knew he bit his tongue, stopping his response, but only just.

She goaded him. "I see your smirk, you know."

He laughed. "Can I not even smirk without your knowledge?"

"Certainly not." She brought the donkey to a walk, concern for the others reminding her to avoid a large pothole. "I hope our passengers did not get too jostled going at the speed we did."

Lord Devereaux ran a hand over his face. "I'll be happy when we reach Dover."

She turned to him and placed her hand on his arm. "I do hope you care for yourself while we are home. Rest, Simon. Go to a ball. Visit Penelope."

He nodded. "It's Franny."

"Is it?" she asked.

"Her name is Franny."

She frowned. "Find yourself a nice Penelope."

He shook his head and grinned. "What, precisely, is wrong with Franny?"

She waved her hands. "Penelope just has such a nice ring to it. Penelope. See?"

They pulled deep into a copse of trees where members of their league waited. Lord Andrew Hastings and two others started opening coffins and helping the five members of the de Molier family climb out, legs shaking beneath them, onto the soft earth beside the cart.

Moonlight lit the area immediately around them, and a path to their front led down a hill to the edge of water, visible only to the keen eye.

Scarlet breathed out in satisfaction.

Stepping forward to the group, Lord Hastings said, "Come with us, please." He held his arm out for the young lady, the de Molier's eighteen-year-old daughter, Suzanne, to take. She smiled weakly up at him, her blonde curls softly bouncing on her shoulders, and allowed his escort down the small path toward a waiting jolly boat.

The smell of damp earth, welcome after the pungent odors of Paris, mixed with the salt of the sea. Twilight had grown dark, the trees above them merely shadows against the starlit sky. But the sound of low waves, lapping against a boat, directed their footsteps.

Scarlet slapped her reins, shouting to her donkey. The cart pulled away from the group as if she were returning to Paris, but she left the donkey tied to a tree and circled back by foot.

Nimble fingers worked through her change of apparel. Bless her modiste for the modifications she had made to Scarlet's various costumes. Scarlet had hidden a satchel in the hole of a tree, and she was now closer to the group than any realized as she retrieved it.

Suzanne's voice carried to her. "So she works for the Pimpernel, then? I do wish we could have thanked her, even though she is a bit frightening to gaze upon."

Scarlet peered through the trees.

Andrew patted Suzanne's hand still on his arm. "The Pimpernel and his accomplices wish to remain anonymous. We function with the utmost secrecy and hope you will help us maintain it."

Suzanne nodded vigorously, and her father, a portly gentleman with graying hair, responded, "We will never speak of it. Please express to the wonderful man how grateful we are."

"To think we could have been beheaded by morning." The Comtesse de Molier lost her composure to tears. "Bless him. Oh, bless the man."

The comte pulled her into his arms.

Their daughter cleared her throat. "Well, I for one should like to join him. It's appalling what this dreaded committee has done to our beautiful France." Suzanne's lower lip protruded ever so slightly, and Scarlet smiled at her bravado.

Lord Hastings cleared his throat. "Such fine sentiments, and brave ones too." He leaned nearer to Suzanne, lowering his voice. "I feel the same — all those on the league do — which is why we step in to aid the Pimpernel when we can." He took hold of her small hand and held it in his own, eyes searching her face until she blushed and stared at her slippers.

Lord Devereaux gestured toward the water. "I will pass along your gratitude to the Pimpernel. Now, if you could hurry and step into this modest conveyance, we have one more passenger, and we will be on our way."

"One more? But who?" Suzanne craned her neck to see into the trees around them.

Lord Devereaux fell back into the shadows.

Out from the trees stepped Lady Scarlet Cavendish. "Never fear, my dear Lord Devereaux. I am here. Oh yes, my dears! I have arrived!"

Completely transformed, she prayed she looked resplendent, distractingly so, in her latest gown. Her hair was tied back in a modest and simple low bun and her cheeks, no doubt still rosy, the only evidence of her rapid ride through the countryside. All sign of age and dirt wiped from her youthful and glowing face, she hoped she looked to be no more than her true age of five and twenty. She practically glided toward them, hands reaching out to all, greeting each in turn. She allowed Andrew Hastings, a dear member of her league, to help lift her above the water and place her in the dinghy with the others.

"Thank you, my dear Lord Hastings."

Lord Devereaux came out from the shadows, and he too had transformed, free of mud streaks and grime, dressed in shiny hessians, a jacket, and a tied cravat.

He approached Lord Hastings. "Showing off a bit, are we?" Lord Devereaux muttered. "Tied the oriental?"

Lord Hastings raised his chin to show off his immaculate neckcloth. "At least I'm not wearing my wig. Tut, man! Did you bring the powder as well?"

When both men paused at the same time and eyed Suzanne, who watched their exchange with large open eyes, Lady Scarlet Cavendish smiled in amusement.

Lord Hastings straightened his shoulders.

"Boys, gentlemen. Let us make haste. Our boat awaits!" Lady Cavendish called to them as she pointed out into the darkness, the light from the moon illuminating only the shimmering water to their front. The men jumped in and took up oars, and the jolly boat floated out from shore, making its way into the darkness of open water.

Suzanne said, "Lady Cavendish, it is good to see you again, but I do not understand. You are coming with us?"

"Oui. I find I am tired of French shores and long for my beautifully English homeland."

Suzanne's face wrinkled. "But how did you come to be here?"

The comtesse chastened, "Suzanne."

The young lady bowed her head. "I did not mean to pry."

Lady Cavendish smiled indulgently at her. "You will find, ma fleur, since the passing of my dear Rupert, may he rest in peace, most things I do are a bit eccentric; but I am harmless, I assure you."

Andrew and Simon coughed into their sleeves.

She narrowed her eyes. "You see, I was here visiting France, but my dear friends were in need of transportation, so I asked the staff to arrange it, and here we are. Now, shall we be off, then?"

The passengers turned to see where she pointed. The side of a ship, with a rope ladder dangling down, appeared out of the darkness. Their small craft sidled up to it, and Lord Devereaux helped each person grab hold of the rungs and make their way up the side of the boat.

As soon as all other passengers and Simon were up and over the top, Lady Cavendish stepped nimbly onto the ladder and, with a great shove of her foot, pushed their jolly boat away, toward shore. She knew that someone would be along to collect it and anchor it once again amongst the trees. Then, hoisting her skirts with one hand and flinging them over her shoulder, she climbed up the ladder herself and onto the deck. As she breathed in the ocean air with great satisfaction, a smug smile found its way to her lips.

"Thinking of Bibot?" Simon arrived at her side.

"How did you know?"

"The first aristos to sneak past his eminence. This deserves a celebration."

Lady Cavendish smiled. "I saw the boy again."

Simon's gaze sharpened. "Did he recognize you?"

"I think he did. He looked right at me and grinned his impish smile."

Simon shook his head, staring out at the dark rolling water. "How does he do it?"

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Scarlet"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Jen Geigle Johnson.
Excerpted by permission of Covenant Communications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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