L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Twenty-Nine - 14. March. 1789

Gabriel

“Charlotte de Fontin was caught in Vicomte de Narbonne’s bed by his wife. And now she’s in hysterics because everyone knows Charlotte has syphilis.” Marguerite points her fan to where, sure enough, the Vicomtesse de Narbonne is teary eyed and red-faced, her blubbers echoing throughout the gardens.

Uninterested in the vicomtesse, Gabriel leans back on his elbows and directs his eyes to the horizon, where fluffy white clouds roll leisurely across the cerulean sky. Though there is still much work to be done in regard to finding who is trying to kill him, he agreed to today’s outing in the gardens. Only to discover upon arrival that neither Lizabeth nor Jean is in attendance. Now, instead of spending the afternoon with his best friend or the woman he fancies, he’s stuck listening to useless prattle with no one to keep him company.

Though the conversation doesn’t bother him nearly as much as everyone’s forced merriment. All around him, his friends wear smiles that don’t reach their eyes and talk in exaggerated voices, all the while not daring to move their gazes to the empty spot on the ground occupied by Pierre’s ghost.

Not that Gabriel can blame them. There has been too much sadness as of late. Too many pitying whispers and too many choked back tears. All anyone wants is a semblance of normalcy, to pretend today is another early spring day, and the only thing there is to worry about is the latest gossip. 

Gabriel, too, wishes this were the case. But mere wishes can’t change reality.

Raising one hand to shield his eyes, he tips his head farther back, relishing in the warmth of the sunlight. He’s just beginning to relax and block out everyone's chatter when a shadow obstructs the sun, turning the light behind his closed eyelids from orange to black. He blinks his eyes open to see Charles standing over him, looking noticeably uncomfortable. 

“Bonjour, Charles,” Nicolas says before Gabriel can get a word out. He sits with his legs crossed and shoulders thrown back in perfect posture, looking everywhere but Jean’s brother.

Charles coughs once. “Bonjour, Nicolas,” he says, and then turns his attention to Gabriel. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

“You wish to talk to me?”

“If you wouldn't mind.”

Regardless of his feelings for the man, Gabriel complies. He should at least let Charles explain considering the trouble he’s gone through to address him in front of an audience. Ignoring the pairs of eyes burning into his back, he gets up and follows Charles to a more secluded area of the gardens between two statues of Greek gods, where no one is around to listen in on their conversation.

“I’m sure you have an idea of what I wish to discuss with you,” Charles starts, eyes lingering on a wall of manicured hedgerow and one hand twisting a gold button on his frock coat. “I would appreciate it if you told no one about what you saw.”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Gabriel says.

Charles turns away, but it doesn’t hide the pink creeping up his neck. “Yes, well, if anyone was going to see what happened, I suppose I should be grateful it was you. At least you’re not one to gossip.”

Gabriel raises his eyebrows, not certain if he should be offended. But before he has the chance to respond, Charles continues, “There is one person, however, I was worried you might have said something to . . . ”