by Shana Galen
“HE’S A HANDSOME ONE,” Alex told Honoria later that night when they were alone in their small room. Honoria had helped Alex change the linens on her bed as some of the blood from the former Marquis de Montagne’s head wound had seeped through the protective cloth she’d lay down and stained them.
“He’s pompous and haughty and arrogant. And now he intends to endanger us all.”
Alex raised her brows as she sat on her newly made bed and removed her slippers. “All of that? Exactly how much time did you spend together this afternoon?”
Honoria took down her hair, feeling the back of her neck relax as the heavy weight was more evenly distributed. “Long enough, I assure you. He’s the kind of man who cares nothing for anyone save himself.”
Alex shrugged. “He’s a French noble. Many of our English dukes and marquesses are no doubt the same. He will soon learn the value of honest labor. French nobles are as abundant as fleas in London at the moment.”
Honoria paused in the act of brushing her hair. “But he says he will not go to England. He’d rather die on a mission to save the princess.”
“And you think Dewhurst cares what the Marquis de Montagne wants?” Alex snorted. “When Ffoulkes returns, he and Dewhurst will make plans to be rid of the marquis as quickly as possible.” She looked down and met Honoria’s gaze. “They will take you with them, I am sure. Now that the queen is unreachable, we have less of a need for your skills.”
“But surely the League intends to rescue the dauphin. We cannot consign that little boy to a life of imprisonment in the Temple. And what of the marquis’s desire to rescue the princess?”
“Madame Royale is safe with her aunt in the Temple. The Tribunal has no cause to execute her as France’s laws do not allow women the crown. She is probably safer in the Temple than anywhere else at the moment. When all this fervor dies down, she and Madame Élisabeth will almost certainly be released. But the little prince will always be a danger to the patriots.”
“And my skills are not needed in the dauphin’s rescue?” Honoria had no idea why she was so intent upon staying in France. Only this morning she’d been more than ready to return to England. Now she was looking for any excuse to stay.
“We have all that we need in place,” Alex said.
“Except the design plan of the Temple.”
Alex nodded. “Tomorrow we make Montagne draw it for us, but it will be some time before we can attempt a rescue. With his mother’s trial imminent, the dauphin and his sister will be watched closely, perhaps questioned.”
Honoria did not ask what sort of questions the revolutionaries might put to a boy of eight and a girl of fourteen. The Tribunal wanted blood, and blood they would have. In this new France, wives turned on husbands, brothers turned on sisters, and children turned on parents.
Long live the republic.
Honoria climbed into bed. She was not tired, but they had no candles to spare and little wood for a fire. There was nothing to do in the dark and she was far warmer under her covers than without. Alex climbed in as well. Honoria could hear the murmur of low voices somewhere in the house. Perhaps Ffoulkes had returned or Dewhurst and Hastings were planning another dangerous mission. Honoria stared up at the ceiling and wondered if Montagne—that was not his name but his title—slept. They’d put him in a windowless room with a lock on the door. He’d been rescued from one prison only to enter another.
“I could probably get you the key,” Alex said in the silence.
“What key?”
Alex laughed. “You know what key. Do not pretend you are not thinking of him. A woman would have to be dead not to see a man like that and imagine what it might be like to be kissed by him.”
“I assure you, I have not even considered it.”
“A pity.”
Honoria allowed the silence to drag on another few minutes. “Why is it a pity?”
“Because I assure you he has considered what it would be like to kiss you.”
“No, he has not!” Honoria sat up. She told herself the sudden surge of heat in her veins was due to disbelief. She wouldn’t allow herself to believe it might be the result of lust.
“Why do you think I don’t take the key for myself?” Alex asked.
Honoria hadn’t considered that option, and now that she did a coldness settled in her belly. “If you think him so handsome, perhaps you should,” she said. But her voice sounded false and tinged with bitterness.
“Because tonight in the dining room, he only had eyes for you,” Alex said. “If he’d even looked at me twice, I might have considered visiting him, but it’s not me who interests him.”
Honoria lay back on her pillow. “I don’t interest him either. He couldn’t stop the look of distaste from crossing his face every time I spoke today. He thinks me little better than a lowly servant.”
“How perfectly vexing for him.” Alex’s light laugh tinkled. “A commoner—an English one at that—has caught his interest and he cannot seem to keep his gaze off her. Oh, I do love to watch a play like this unfold.”
Honoria scowled. “This is not a performance, and if Montagne makes any advances toward me, he will be rebuffed.”
“You could have your pick of men. I don’t doubt that,” Alex said. “But something tells me the marquis has piqued your interest.”
“And something tells me it is late and you should stop talking so I may go to sleep.”
“Suit yourself.” The bedclothes rustled across the room as Alex turned on her side.
Honoria did the same, but it was a long time before she slept.
Four
Laurent could not stop his foot from tapping impatiently. They’d put him at a table near a small fire and asked him to draw a map of the Temple prison. He’d put his head down and pretended to be hard at work, but he was plotting how to escape this place, and he was eager to be away. He had no more time to waste. If the League did not want to help with his rescue of the princess, he’d do it himself.
Beside him Honoria labored on what he assumed were passports and papers they would use in his escape from France. Her head was bent, but from his vantage point, he could see the curve of her cheek and the sweep of her thick lashes.
Others came in and out, speaking in hushed tones. The Convention had set forth another decree. Someone in the Palais-Royal was calling for the transfer of Descartes’ ashes to a place of honor. The republican forces were still fighting in the provinces. Laurent wondered if Lyon, where he’d built his country estate, had yet fallen or was still under siege.
Laurent pretended to work and listened closely, and by the end of the day, he knew all of their names. The big one with the dark hair and eyes was Lord Anthony Dewhurst. The man with the auburn hair was Lord Edward Hastings, and the Scot was Sir Edward Mackenzie. The newest arrival, a well-dressed man with blond hair, was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He appeared to be the one in charge. They were all nobles, except for the women. Honoria and Alexandra. He’d known the petite blonde looked familiar, and after she left for the People’s Theater, he remembered seeing her in a production several years ago.
That had been a different life, a life that now seemed to be nothing more than a rippled reflection in a pool of murky water.
Laurent couldn’t help but admire these men. Not only were they putting themselves in danger by opposing the revolution, they were English noblemen, a species Robespierre and his cronies viewed with almost as much contempt as they did their own French aristos.
All men were equal in France now, and that meant the guillotine didn’t discriminate based on nationality. English blood or French blood in the streets. It made no difference to the National Razor.
“So my good man,” Ffoulkes said after the actress had left and Hastings had been sent to the market to buy something to eat. Laurent did not wonder why they didn’t send Honoria. Her looks would have garnered attention, and these men did not want undue attention. In fact, only Hastings and the actress—who were playing the part of lovers for th
e benefit of the neighbors—left by the front door. The others took the secret entrance.
They’d closed the windows and spoke softly now to avoid being overheard in the street.
Ffoulkes clapped a hand on Laurent’s shoulder, and Laurent eyed it. He might have spent the last month or so in La Force, but he was not used to such familiarity.
“Let us see your progress.”
“I’m not quite done,” Laurent said, blocking the paper with his arm. “I need more time.”
“There’s not much time left. You and Citoyenne Deschamps will depart with me after the curfew. I know a way out of Paris that circumvents the barricades and gates.”
This was useful information. “What is it?”
“You will see when you have need of it. Which will be soon.”
Laurent had no intention of leaving Paris while Madame Royale was still imprisoned, but he hadn’t yet determined how he might convince the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel to assist in the rescue. He did know that he’d spent the last few hours pondering his plan, and he’d come to a new conclusion. He needed Honoria’s talents.
“Then you should leave me to my work,” Laurent told Ffoulkes. Beside them, the saucer rattled when Honoria set down her cup of tea.
“Surely you might give him more time,” she said in English, apparently forgetting he understood the language.
“No more time.” That was Dewhurst speaking. He proved himself to be every bit the brute he resembled by wrenching Laurent back and snatching the paper out from under him.
Dewhurst stared at the paper and then at Laurent. Laurent couldn’t have said what he’d drawn on it. Something to occupy his hands while he listened and tried to plot.
“Miss Blake,” Dewhurst said with a bow. “It appears you have an admirer.”
Her brow furrowed, and when Dewhurst looked at Laurent, Laurent wanted to groan. He’d drawn her, of course. He’d been looking at her cheek and her profile, and he’d drawn it without even thinking. He was a decent artist. Madame Royale spent hours learning the art of sketching, watercolors, and oils from great masters. Laurent had attended many of the lessons with her. A spoiled child, she didn’t appreciate the lessons she was being given. But Laurent had always had an eye for beauty, and he’d been an apt pupil, encouraging Marie-Thérèse as much as he could. Her mother often thanked him for his efforts, but he demurred. It was hardly an effort when he gained more from the lessons than she did.
Dewhurst turned the page so all could see. It was clearly Mademoiselle Blake. He looked pointedly at her to gauge her reaction and was gifted with seeing her cheeks turn pink.
“What is the meaning of this?” Ffoulkes demanded. “I asked you to sketch the plan of the Temple.”
Laurent sat back. “And I will, but only if you agree to my plan to rescue the royal children.”
Dewhurst slammed his hands on the table and glared at Laurent, his fists crumpling the sketch. “You are here as our guest. At any time, we can throw you back out onto the streets.”
“You won’t do that,” Laurent said calmly. “I have information you need.”
“There are other ways to obtain it,” Ffoulkes said quietly.
“Then why haven’t you? Surely you want the plans so you may go in and rescue the dauphin. He’s being held separately from his aunt and sister, and as he’s the heir to the throne, technically Louis XVII now, he’s watched as a hawk watches a mouse. You will never get him out.”
“Then why do you want to come with us?” Dewhurst demanded. “Is this about the princess again? That’s a waste of time. Austria will bargain for her.”
“Listen, monsieur,” Ffoulkes said, his voice level and reasonable, his back straight and his head held high. “You are leaving France tonight. You may either help us and your country before you go or not. But you are departing for England.”
Laurent sat absolutely still. He should simply go to England and forget the Temple. He could marry an English heiress, raise sheep in the English countryside, go to English balls and...whatever else it was the English did for amusement.
But for the first time since Amélie had died, he cared about something beyond himself. For once, he would do what was right, not what was convenient or pleasurable or easy. He’d caught the glint of the silver Mademoiselle Blake had been using to eat her breakfast—she often worked as she ate—and since the house had no servants, it still sat where she’d left it. Quick as a cat, he grabbed the knife and rose from his chair.
Dewhurst shook his head and pulled out his pistol.
“Lord Anthony!” Honoria cried, pushing her chair back from the table.
“Stay out of this.”
“I will not,” she said. “Monsieur, put the knife down. Surely we can come to some compromise.”
“Excellent idea.” Laurent skidded sideways and wrapped an arm around her from behind. He brought the other hand up so the knife pressed to that lovely white flesh. She cried out, but froze like a statue when the cold metal of the blade touched her skin.
She’d made it almost too easy for him.
“Tony, put the pistol down,” Ffoulkes said.
“He won’t hurt her,” Dewhurst argued. “This is all for show.”
“That may be,” Ffoulkes argued. “But I don’t like the show.”
“What good will this dae ye, lad?” Mackenzie asked, rising from the chair where he’d been reading. “If ye kill her, it will nae get you intae the Temple.”
It was a good point. Laurent had to concede that. But killing her was not his plan.
“I’ll take that into consideration.” Laurent took a step back, dragging Honoria with him. They stumbled out of the dining room and into the parlor. “Where is the secret passage?” he asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never used it.”
Laurent dug the knife into her neck. Dewhurst had been right. He would never hurt her, but she didn’t know that.
“I don’t believe you, mademoiselle. You may not have used it, but you know where it is.”
Dewhurst, Mackenzie, and Ffoulkes had followed them and stood in the doorway of the dining room. It was three against one, and they’d move soon if he didn’t find a way out.
“Let her go, Montagne,” Ffoulkes demanded. “We can sit and discuss this like civilized men.”
“There’s no civility in France anymore,” Laurent said, then leaned close to Honoria. “Tell me or I will be forced to cut you.” Then he raised his voice. “What you really mean is you’ll beat me senseless, tie me up, and take me out of the city by force.”
“Excellent idea,” Dewhurst said, his dark eyes all but black. “And I want the first punch.”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” Laurent murmured into Honoria’s ear.
“Under the stairs,” she said, her voice choking on a sob. He was a bastard, making her cry like this.
“There’s a secret panel. Push it, and it will open. Go and leave me here.”
He couldn’t do that. His plan depended on her skills, and she served another purpose as well. If he left her behind, the League would chase him until they brought him back. With Honoria as his prisoner, he had some leverage to keep the British at bay.
Laurent made his way to the panel, found the almost invisible seam, and pressed it. It clicked, and the little door sprang open. They would have to duck to fit inside, but he could do it if he forced her to go ahead of him.
“Where will you go, monsieur?” Ffoulkes asked. “You are supposed to be dead. If anyone recognizes you on the street, you will be brought to the Tribunal or worse.”
“Then I’d better be certain no one recognizes me.” He pushed Honoria into the small doorway.
“Leave Miss Blake, at least,” Ffoulkes said. “If you want to get yourself killed, that is one thing, but she’s done nothing.”
“I’ll bring her back,” Laurent promised as he followed her into the low corridor. “I swear it.”
He had no idea how he would ever keep that oath,
but keep it, he would.
HONORIA STRUGGLED TO take a deep breath as she and the daft marquis were thrown into darkness. The corridor opened up inside, and she was able to stand. He pushed her forward, but she took only a few steps.
“I cannot see anything. I don’t know where we are going,” she said, trying to stall him.
“We are following the corridor to the end. Keep walking.”
Now that he didn’t hold the knife to her throat, her fear had turned to anger. Who exactly did he think he was to try and abduct her? She’d come to help him—well, not him but those like him—and this was how he repaid her?
She turned on him and knocked her head on his chin. She hadn’t realized he was so close behind her. “I am not walking any farther. You can go wherever you like, but it won’t be with me.”
Suddenly his hands were on her arms, and he’d shoved her against the wall of the corridor. “I do not have time to argue with you, mademoiselle. Your friends are undoubtedly planning their counterattack even now. Keep walking.”
“Or?”
“Or we do things the hard way.”
“I hope they guillotine you,” she hissed when he pushed her forward again.
“I am certain you will get your wish.”
“I hope it takes more than one chop.”
“Unlikely as my neck is not excessively thick,” Montagne replied. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
She staggered forward, hands outstretched in the darkness. What had ever come into her to imagine kissing him last night? She’d rather kiss a toad than the horrid Marquis de Montagne.
She kept walking, and the floor seemed to slope downward gradually. Above them she could hear scuffling sounds at times. Were they under the Rue du Jour? Were those passersby on the streets or men and women moving about in their homes and shops?
Finally, after it seemed they had walked for hours, and she was ready to kick Montagne if he dared to prod her even one more time, the floor angled upward, and she had to lift her skirts to avoid treading on them. She wore a simple muslin dress, no cap as she’d been inside, and no tricolor cockade either. When they emerged, she would be in danger of being questioned as lacking patriotic fervor. Moreover, the Convention’s new decree that all women must wear the tricolor cockade made her lack of the blue, white, and red ribbons all the more egregious.
