“There’ll be a mob at the door of this house soon, angry with your brother.”
“Good heavens.” Céleste snatched up the handle of her violin case.
“A groom heard a crowd speaking of marching on Fleur-de-la-Forêt with torches. Another manor house in the area has already been burned.”
She passed by him into the corridor. “I will repack my bag and fetch a coat. Where should I meet you?” She was thinking clearly. That would help tremendously.
“The back terrace,” he said. “We have less than a quarter hour to make good our escape.”
That seemed to only further stiffen her resolve. She moved more quickly, so he did too.
Aldric threw open the door of this borrowed bedchamber and crossed directly to his own portmanteau. He began tossing in only the essentials.
Blast Jean-François.Céleste and Adèle were having to run again because of his horridness. This home was supposed to have been a haven to them.
I promised Henri. I told him his sister and niece would be safe.
Aldric had failed the Gents too many times already. He probably should have left years ago, after losing Stanley, to spare them the consequences of his shortcomings.
He grabbed his coat and hat and, portmanteau in hand, sped to the back terrace first. He set his things on the ground, then returned to the house and moved swiftly to the nursery. It was in a frenzy of activity. Adèle watched it all with a growing look of panic.
“Come here,ma petite douce,” Aldric called to her.
She rushed to him. He lifted her from the ground and held her. The nurse emerged from a doorway with blankets under one arm and Adèle’s traveling bag in her other hand. They exchanged silent nods, then left the nursery. They crossed paths with Céleste on their way to the back terrace.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
A small two-wheeled cart had been brought around, waiting for them. With the added assistance of the groom, they had their three bags, Céleste’sviolin, the blankets, and a basket of food the kitchen had sent tucked into the front of the vehicle. There would barely be room for their feet, but there were no other options. Aldric helped Céleste climb onto the bench, then handed her Adèle. He took his place next to her—the seat was barely long enough for both of them—and grabbed hold of the reins.
Before setting off once more on this new, unplanned leg of their journey, he looked back at the nurse, whose warning had saved all three of them.
“Monsieur Henri and his wife are planning to journey to Fleur-de-la-Forêt from Paris. I have no way of warning him of the dangers here.”
“We will watch for him and warn him,” she promised. “You see our mesdemoiselles to safety. We are depending on you.”
A quick flick of the reins set the sturdy horse into motion, pulling the cart away. Aldric began turning toward the front lane leading away from the estate, but Céleste set her hand on his.
“Anyone watching will be expecting us to go that way. There is a less-known path toward the back.”
She guided him through narrow gaps in hedges and barely distinguishable path markings. He followed her instructions to the letter, all the while keeping his eyes and ears attuned. They had only just turned down a very narrow lane tucked on the other side of a very thick stand of trees when angry voices carried to them. Shouts tinged with fury.
Aldric kept his focus firmly on the road. Céleste, holding fast to Adèle, glanced back.
“Do you think they’ll burn the house?” she asked in English.
“I don’t know.”
“Are the staff in danger?”
“I don’t know.”
They had no way of predicting how far the pain of France’s generational struggles, mingled with this area’s resentment toward Jean-François, would take the current threat of violence. How far from Fleur-de-la-Forêt did he need to take Céleste and Adèle?
He had no idea the identity of the man who’d grown weary of Jean-François’s extortion or whether the riots in Paris were enough to distract him from his purpose.
Aldric didn’t even know if those riots were ongoing or what the streets of the capital city looked like after potentially two days of uprisings.
