Page 42 of Souvenir Heart

“Shall I bring another of these,” Marcus lifted one of the wine bottles on the shelf. “To add to your collection?”

“You’re a most thoughtful man, Tisset.”

Marcus walked around the table and set about repacking and closing his art box. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him, he said, “You wouldn’t…”

Lauren cocked his head like a curious bird. “Wouldn’t what?”

“I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what?”

“I’ve an appointment on the first floor…”

“Ah, the ladies’ accommodations…” Laurent smiled knowingly.

“One of my subjects is quite the lovely. If I might be granted a few moments of…”

“Privacy?” Laurent suggested waggling his eyebrows in a way that made Marcus want to scrub his skin with lye.

An image of the lady, those large intelligent eyes blazing, rose in his mind’s eye. Marguerite still hadn’t sent for him, but he felt certain with a bit of extra time and some privacy, he could convince her to accept his help. He made a silent vow not to mention the damned fish drawing.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew one of his carefully forged assignats and slid it across the table. “You are indeed a sensitive soul.” He was well aware that many of the prisoners in the Conciergerie were awaiting a death sentence for forging assignats, but he’d be damned if he’d waste honest currency on this man. “A small gesture of my gratitude.”

“Precisely the right sized gesture,” Laurent said, glancing at the amount, before slipping the bill into his pocket. “Argen, a word.”

Marcus’s escort, who’d been waiting outside in the hallway, stepped into the tiny office. After a brief discussion, which included the exchange of bills smaller than the one Marcus had given Laurent, they continued on their way; Marcus committing to memory the twists, turns, and series of wickets that led to Marguerite de Rouvroy’s cell.

He prided himself on his eidetic memory. But he was distracted by Andre’s admonition to show Madame de Rouvroy his better self. Not to mention, the memory of the lady herself. He saw again those blazing eyes, the flushed cheeks, the distractingly lovely face framed by waves of chestnut hair.

Marcus waved a hand in an attempt to erase it.

His better self. Who was that? The hopeless romantic who’d returned from the Americas, dreaming of settling down with the woman he loved. Who had faithfully, fervently believed their union was destined to be.

His better self had been an ignorant ass. Marcus had buried him as deeply as his eight- year-old self had buried any mementos he could salvage after his mother and sister had died of the pox. He’d placed a button, a scrap of his mother’s favorite gown, and his sister’s cloth doll into a small wooden box, then dug as deep a hole for it in the garden as his small hands could manage.

It would be much easier to convince Marguerite to believe in his baser self.

“Turn left here,” Argen ordered. “Up these stairs.”

As they mounted the stairs, the noise of the place, the cries, the conversations, and the curses, rose up to meet them—as did the smells. His eyes and nose stung with the nearly-overwhelming odors of sewage, sickness, and rank despair.

“Visitor escort.” Argen’s call to the guards waiting ahead was met by the sound of a wicket being unlocked, and the admonition to “have your papers ready.”

On the battlefield a man had a fighting chance, could force the tide to turn, but here?

They stopped at the top of the stairs, before a wall of iron bars inset with a wicket. There were two guards standing on either side of it. “Papers,” one demanded, holding out his hand.

Marcus pulled out his identity papers, the guard, Agen, pulling out his, as well as the orders allowing them to proceed. The guard gave the documents a cursory review before handing them back and swinging the little barred door open.

What if he’d misread the spirit he’d seen in Marguerite’s portrait? And in the courtroom. What if she hadn’t sent for them because she’d given up hope?

He recalled the way her slender shoulders had sagged when the evidence of her betrayal had been revealed. Pain, spiky and raw, twisted in his chest and he lengthened his stride, even as he reminded himself of how she’d caught herself immediately, stiffened her spine, and stuck out her chin. How she’d challenged him in the courthouse.

They stepped through and continued walking. The hallway was dark, lit only by a few guttering torches. Between the sounds and the smells, it was like entering the mouth of hell.

“It’s this one,” Argen said, stopping abruptly.

Third cell on the right after the gate, Marcus noted, adding the location to his internal map.