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Authors: Provocateur

Elisabeth Fairchild

Provocateur, A Historical Romance

Elisabeth Fairchild

 

 

“We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;

How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,

Streaking the darkness radiantly!--yet soon

Night closes round, and they are lost forever…”

 

-Mutability/ Shelley

Table Of Contents

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Epilogue

Author Bio

Other Books By Elisabeth Fairchild

Also by Elisabeth Fairchild

 

 

 

Copyright Page

 

Provocateur by Elisabeth Fairchild

Cover Design by Jim D’Arc Designs

 

Copyright Info:

Provocateur

eBook layout by
Ink Lion Books
, July 2012

 

copyright
2012
Donna Gimarc

 

All rights reserved.

 

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.

 

No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, stored in or introduced to any information storage and retrieval system, in any form, whether electronic or mechanical without the author’s written permission. Scanning, uploading or distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission is prohibited.

Please purchase only authorized electronic versions, and do not participate in, or encourage pirated electronic versions

 

Visit the author’s website at:
www.gimarc.com/fairchild.html

 

 

To

those who stand between order and chaos,

and to those who possess the courage to unmask:

their truest selves,

their deepest emotions,

the most earnest love within.

In a time
when revolutions were fought and won in France and the Americas, radical forces gathered in Regency England. A secret class of men stood between order and chaos--special informants to the king--lurking, listening, affecting the fate of nations--shadowy, nameless men who controlled the course of history--the
agents provocateur
.

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

April 1803

Paris, France

 

Seven months after Ritter’s discovery

of ultra-violet rays----

One month before the Peace of Amiens was broken,

 and the French Revolutionary Wars resumed—

 

A provocative, thirty year old theory, lured Dulcie Selwyn’s father, a man of reason in the ghost of an age of reason, to Paris. Across the churning, green watered Channel, under skies that promised change, he took his seven year old to the
Rue St. Honore'
.

“This is the house where Dr. Mesmer lives?” In broken French he asked the woman who answered his knock. She waved a bony hand, her English better than his French, “No longer. Gone. To Switzerland.”

“I’ve come all the way from London. Monseiur Mesmer’s students? Do they still practice?” The weary voice spoke of his desperation. For Dulcie. The lines on his face—worry for his daughter.

The woman shrugged. “Once the whole world came to Monseiur Mesmer. The Princess de Lambelle, Marie Antoinette, Lafeyette--everyone must be magnetized.” She gestured, fingers like a flower opening. “A different time, no?”

“What happened?” Dulcie dared ask.

“To France,
mon petite
? Revolution. To Monsieur Mesmer? The Academies of Medicine and Science.” Her hands clapped together like flashing blades. “He ran, from Madame Guillotine.”

Mr. Selwyn’s shoulders sagged.

The woman peered at Ducie. Dulcie peered back.

“Mesmer’s students still practice the
magne’tisme
. In Buzancy. So serious she looks, monsieur. Is she very ill?” She wore a gray cloud. Death lurked in her eyes, in her lip’s pallor.

Dulcie tugged at her papa’s sleeve. When he bent to her, gaze swimming with concern, the child whispered, “Tell her no, papa. And that I am very sorry she is.”

 

Buzancy, France

Mr. Selwyn tried to sleep on the way to Buzancy.

Dulcie watched the world whip by, light and dark, the setting sun flashing golden through grasping trees.  A massive elm dominated the village green. From its limbs, cords dangled. Clinging to the cords the halt, lame and ill. Desperation marked their faces. She tugged her papa’s coat, waking him, his face a pale reflection on the pane.

He threw down the window, leaned out. “What madness, this?”


Magne’tisme
,” the coachman bellowed as he drew the team to a halt. “They believe the tree will heal them. Fools! You are not believing Puysegur’s nonsense, eh,
monsieur
?”

Papa helped his daughter down and slammed the door. She ran to keep up through waving grass, shadow long-legged. Her father stopped to ask a crippled lad who held one of the ropes. “Puysegur? I am looking for the
Comte Maxime de Puysegur
.”

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