by Shana Galen
“Thank you, citoyen,” the marquis said before climbing in after her.
The driver called to the horses, who started smoothly, and Honoria watched the line of people outside the wax museum with interest.
“I don’t like it,” the marquis said as they sped past the last of the people in line.
“Do not like what, citoyen?” she asked.
“Good God, I’d rather you call me Laurent than citoyen. If we’re to invade the Temple prison together, we might as well call each other by our Christian names.”
“I’d rather the formality,” she said stiffly.
“Too bad, Honoria.”
Honoria bristled, but said nothing. She suspected he was merely trying to provoke a reaction from her, and she would not give it to him.
The marquis looked out the window and shook his head. “I do not like this at all.”
“Are people gathering in the street?” she asked, fearful of a mob.
“No, but this is not the shortest way to the Rue du Jour. He is taking us somewhere else.”
Honoria glanced out the window, but she didn’t know Paris. She had no idea if this was the way to the safe house or not. “You must be mistaken.” And why had she trusted him? How did she know he hadn’t intended this all along and now made up a story to cover his lie? He’d made it clear he didn’t really want to go to the safe house. “Why would he take us somewhere else?”
“Because he suspects we are not who we appear to be. Devil take it!” He rose and crossed the carriage to sit beside her so he faced forward. His gaze was on the window, looking ahead to the path the carriage traversed.
“What is it?”
“Stupid mistake. We should not have hailed a carriage on the Boulevard du Temple. The driver has probably traversed that street a thousand times. He knows my house. Knows who I am.”
Honoria watched him closely. He wasn’t acting. He was worried, and she was as much to blame as he if they had made an error. She hadn’t considered that it might be dangerous to leave from the marquis’s apartments. But surely the man was merely paranoid.
“Is it possible you are overreacting?” She clutched her hands on her knees, trying to keep calm. Hysteria would not serve either of them.
“Yes.” He gave her a brief look before turning back to the window. “It is possible.”
Honoria let out a sigh. “Then perhaps we have nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing at all except that our present course will take us nowhere near the Rue du Jour and directly to the Conciergerie.”
The gray stone Conciergerie, built on the left side of the Île de la Cité, had been a royal palace in the fourteenth century. Now the Tribunal met there, which was convenient because as soon as the Tribunal condemned a man or woman, he or she could then be imprisoned in another part of the Conciergerie to await an appointment with the guillotine. Marie Antoinette was there now, and while Honoria sympathized with the beleaguered queen, she did not wish to share her fate.
Honoria rose on one knee in order to see over the marquis’s shoulder. In the distance she saw the Conciergerie—or at least a building that looked like the depiction she’d seen in paintings. Its towers and line of windows were reflected in the Seine. “What do we do?” She squeezed his shoulder tightly, partly to keep her balance and partly out of a sense of urgency.
“I don’t know.” He looked back at her. “I am taking suggestions at present.”
Was he making light of the situation? Did he find the thought of imprisonment in the Conciergerie amusing?
“Monsieur.” She grabbed his other shoulder. “This is serious.”
“That is what I have been saying, but short of jumping from a moving conveyance, I do not know what else to do.”
Jump from the carriage? They would probably break an arm or leg or worse on the cobblestone streets. It was a fate better than what waited for them at the Conciergerie, but they might end up there anyway if a broken leg prevented them from running and hiding from anyone who saw them jump.
“Up ahead.” She pointed to a few stalls where women sold vegetables and the ever-present tricolor cockades. At this early hour, the stalls were quite busy and the street was crowded with people. “The carriage will have to slow to move past those people. That’s our chance.”
He followed the direction of her finger and nodded. “That’s our best chance, but before we attempt to kill ourselves, let us try to be reasonable.” The marquis lowered the window and stuck his head out. “Citoyen!” he called to the driver. “This is not the way to the Rue du Jour.”
“The way is blocked, citoyen,” the driver called back. “This is a slight detour.”
Even in the carriage, Honoria could hear the lie. Her heart thumped so hard now she felt ill. Her stomach, thankfully all but empty, heaved.
“We would rather walk, citoyen. Stop the carriage here.”
The driver’s response was to call to the horses, and the carriage lurched forward faster.
The marquis slid back inside.
“I take it back,” Honoria told him. “You are not overreacting.”
He sighed as though beleaguered. “I rarely do. Are you prepared to jump?”
“No.” She pushed her cap lower on her head to hold it in place. “But I am less prepared to face the Conciergerie.” She reached for the door handle. “When do we go?”
His hand covered hers. “Patience, my sweet. I’ll wait until he slows and jump first. You follow.”
She nodded, afraid to speak lest her voice shake as much as her hands. She tucked them under her legs to hide them.
He stared out the window at the approaching stalls, looking quite calm and unperturbed. How did he manage that? Her mind was a jumble, her thoughts an endless repetition of Nonononononono...
“And after we jump?” she whispered.
He pulled one of her hands free and kissed it. “We run. Ready, mademoiselle?”
“No.”
“Follow me anyway!” And he threw the door open. The cobblestones rushed under them, far too quickly. With a roar, the marquis jumped.
LAURENT HAD FALLEN from horses when he’d been learning to ride. He knew how to fall to prevent the worst sort of injuries, but jumping from a moving carriage on a Paris street proved quite a bit different from falling from a rearing horse on dirt or grass. He tried to roll to distribute the impact of the landing, but it hurt like hell when his shoulder slammed into the cobblestones, followed by his back and then his other shoulder.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced himself not to lie still, as his body wanted, but to lever himself on his elbow. All around him people were crying out in alarm, but he ignored them. The carriage was speeding away now. Had the Englishwoman jumped or was she still inside? A second later he had his answer when he caught a flash of her red cap.
“Jump, damn you,” he muttered.
The carriage was almost past the last of the stalls, and people scrambled out of its way because the driver was taking no chances. He would not slow further.
A moment more and the driver would whip the horses to a frenzy, and she’d be lost to him forever. “Jump,” he muttered. “Jump.”
He closed his fist in frustration. A minute more and it would be too late. But Laurent knew it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t jump. She was too afraid. He should have made her jump first. He should have held her hand so they might jump in tandem.
And then, at the last possible second, the door swung open again, and she reached one foot out, stepping into nothing. He couldn’t help but close his eyes. If the cobblestones hadn’t smashed her to pieces, she’d surely injured herself against one of the stalls or by colliding with one of the shoppers.
“Honoria!” he called and struggled to his feet.
“Now wait just a moment!” someone yelled from behind him, but Laurent had no intention of waiting for anything. His shoulder hurt enough to make him curse, but his legs held his weight. He gained his feet and started to run. People moved
out of his way, their gazes shifting from his face to whatever or whoever pursued him. It was a bad sign, but Laurent didn’t need any more bad signs. He didn’t look behind him, merely pushed people out of his path, trying to reach Honoria.
When he came to the stall where she’d jumped, he called for her again, looking frantically at the ground for blood or her broken body. A bright splash of red made his heart lurch. He ran for it, realizing at the last moment it was only her cap. “Honoria!”
“Here!” He followed her voice and spotted her leaning against the wall of a building just beyond the stalls. A small crowd of people was gathering, watching her with interest. “Citoyen, hurry!” She pointed behind him.
Still resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, he arrowed for her, stopping before her and putting his hands on her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a few scratches.” She held up her hands, which were bloody with scrapes. Unfortunately, not only had she lost her cap when she’d jumped, her hair had come undone. It streamed over her shoulders, framing that startlingly beautiful face.
Around him he could hear people whispering. “It’s a woman.”
“You?” she asked him, her gaze moving up and down him quickly.
“I’m fine.” His shoulder hurt like Lucifer was burning it with hellfire, but that was a problem for another time. He’d finally turned to look behind him.
It looked as though half the National Guard was after them.
“Can you run?” he asked, taking her wrist.
“Do we have a choice?”
“None at all.” He pulled her with him, but she kept pace, running beside him. They swerved around small groups of people in the streets, dogs, wheelbarrows, and several casks of wine outside the door of a wine shop. “We have to get off this street. Too busy.”
“Over there?” she suggested, pointing to a smaller street intersecting them.
He didn’t like that it led them closer to the Conciergerie, but the half dozen men behind him were more of a concern than the prison looming ahead of them. He angled for the side street, pulling her after him. The fastest member of the Guard was right behind them. Honoria looked over her shoulder.
“Didn’t there used to be more of them?”
Laurent glanced back. Somehow he had to find a way to double back and head away from the prison. There were likely to be even more guards there. “What? That bunch isn’t enough for you?” he quipped.
In front of them, another half dozen guards turned a corner and started down the side street. He and Honoria slowed.
“That bunch is more than enough for me.”
“I agree.” He grabbed her hand and slid into a narrow alley. “This fête is too much of a crush, and I don’t care for the theme.”
Behind them, the first of the Guard charged in after them.
“There’s no way out of this alley,” Honoria said, echoing what he’d been thinking. “We’re trapped.”
“Try the door.” He pointed to a door across from her. She wiped the blood from her hand on her trousers and tried the handle. When it didn’t move, she shook her head and hurried to catch up with him.
“Locked.”
“What is it you English say? Bloody hell?”
“Yes.”
“Well, bloody, bloody, bloody hell.”
Honoria ran for the next door, tried it and all but fell inside. “Monsieur!”
“Right behind you.”
He slipped in behind her, closed the door, and searched frantically for a way to lock it. He recognized the rectangular metal rod and slid it into place. “That won’t hold them for long.” Glancing around the small room filled with bolts of cloth and a sewing machine in a corner, he finally spotted a staircase and pointed. “Up we go.”
They started up the staircase just as the pounding on the door started. The building appeared to be a typical French shop on the ground floor with living quarters above. Patrons would have entered through the door on a busy street. Considering how narrow the alley was, the back door was probably rarely used and had been all but forgotten. Based on the fabric in the back room, Laurent assumed the shop sold cloth for patrons to buy and make clothing or linens. Not everyone could afford a modiste or the new fashion of ready-to-wear garments. On the second landing, Honoria bent and clutched the railing.
“One moment,” she panted. “I’m bound so tightly I cannot breathe.”
A crash sounded below. “That’s the door.” He took her hand. “Hurry.”
They started up the next and last set of steps just as a door opened on the floor they’d left. A woman holding a basket of linens shrieked and stepped back into the room, closing the door behind her.
At the top of the steps was a small attic area. Laurent had to bend in order to avoid hitting his head. A small bed and a few hooks for clothing were here, probably belonging to a servant or shopgirl. On the stairs behind them, he could hear the sound of boots and men’s voices.
“What now?” Honoria gasped, still trying to catch her breath. “We cannot hide here. The Guard will search the entire house. Once they even bayoneted our mattresses.”
“I suppose we have only one choice then,” Laurent answered, crossing to a small window that looked out onto a sloping roof. Several chimneys of varying heights exited the building here, puffing out trickles of smoke.
“You cannot possibly mean—”
“We jump out the window?” He unlatched it and pushed it open. “That’s exactly what I propose.”
Nine
Honoria balked and took a step back, despite the fact that the sounds of men on the stairs grew louder. “You cannot be serious.”
“Do you have another idea?” he asked, ducking and putting his head out the window.
She had no other ideas. “Surely there must be something we could do other than plummet four floors to the ground. I might prefer the guillotine to jumping.”
“We won’t jump to the ground.” He put one leg through the window and beckoned her. “Trust me. I have done this before.”
“You’ve jumped off the roof of a building before?” She moved closer to the window, but didn’t extend her hand yet.
“I’ve jumped from a window. Take my hand. Hurry or they’ll see you.”
Honoria looked over her shoulder, then around the sparsely furnished room.
Nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to go but into the hands of the Guard.
With a groan of frustration, she put her hand in his, wincing a bit when he touched the tender scrapes, and allowed him to help her from the window. Outside the wind was cold and stung her cheeks. It blustered around her, making her hair whip about her face. The reddish-brown brick of the roof was not as steep as it had looked inside, but the wind made it difficult to keep her balance.
The marquis reached around her and shut the window. “This way.” He pointed higher onto the roof. The window jutted out, forming a small ledge, and he used this to climb higher. Against her better judgment, she followed him, perching on the roof’s pointed summit. Her head spun, and she did her best not to look down or up or to the side. Honoria kept her eyes on the ledge where her feet rested.
Montagne, on the other hand, did not seem troubled by their height at all. He stood, hands on hips, surveying the surrounding area. “There’s the Conciergerie,” he said, pointing.
Honoria wanted desperately to take his hand and force him to sit down. She was dizzy just looking at him.
“And if it was a bit clearer, I would be able to see the Temple.”
“Thank you for pointing out the various prisons. Now do sit down and be still.”
“You don’t like heights,” he said, still standing and turning to look about.
“No. I like my feet on the ground.”
“You are perfectly safe here.”
As though she believed that! “What if they open the window and see us?”
He furrowed his brow, then marched across the roof. Honoria closed her eyes and held he
r breath until she heard his quiet footfalls return. “Do you see that stovepipe?”
She followed the direction in which he pointed without lifting her head or moving her body. She wanted to remain as still as possible. “Yes.”
“Below it is a small drop, then a ledge. A drainpipe runs to the ground from there. It looks reasonably sturdy. We jump to the ledge and then climb down the pipe.”
He had hit his head when he’d jumped from the carriage. That was the only explanation. “And if we fall or the pipe breaks?”
“The drop isn’t so bad,” he said with a smile and a shrug.
He had definitely hit his head. “And you know this because you have jumped from windows before.”
“Exactly.” He crouched beside her. “Once I had to jump from the salon of the Duchesse du Beauvier.”
“Why?”
“Her husband had forbidden me to attend.”
She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Because of your politics?”
“Because he caught me in bed with his wife the week before.”
“You are a rake,” she said with contemptuous shake of her head.
“I beg to differ.” He leaned back, resting an elbow on the roof as though they were having a picnic in the country and this was a green field of flowers. “I have traveled to England, and I know of these rakes you speak of. I am no such thing.”
“And how are you different?” This was not at all the sort of conversation she wanted to have with him, but it was better than thinking about the long drop to the ground.
“A rake will seduce any woman, regardless of whether or not she is an innocent or whether she wants to be seduced. I assure you the Duchesse du Beauvier wanted to be seduced and she was no innocent.” He looked off into the distance, toward the Conciergerie. “Marie Antoinette knew I was no rake. She never had a moment’s concern when I was with Marie-Thérèse. She knew she could trust me implicitly. I would never have touched Madame Royale in any way other than that of a brother. I would never touch any woman who does not want to be touched.”
