Page 45 of Souvenir Heart

“You might have asked,” he said, ducking under the shawl to join her. Concealed by the makeshift privacy wall, he made no effort to touch her, though he sat closely enough to whisper without being overheard and one arm was stretched behind her back, as if anticipating she might need support.

She felt drawn by invisible strings towards him; it took an effort of will not to lean against him. “Are we observing the niceties, now?” She examined his portrait of Marisol. It was a decent enough likeness, his lines precise and intentional. Although, he hadn’t recorded the toll the prison’s hardships had taken on the woman, the worried creases around her eyes and mouth, the bruised shadows beneath her eyes. He’d drawn Marisol as she must have looked before her arrest—vibrant and young; it was a sharp contrast with his sketch of the fugitive Comte Verignac. “You are an artist, then?”

There was an odd twitch of his lips as he took his sketchbook from her. “As you can doubtless see, I’m more of a draftsman. Certainly not in a class with you.”

“You’ve seen my work? How is that possible? I’ve never shown it publicly.” She’d never seen him in any of the Paris salons, and certainly never invited him to her apartments.

“With one notable exception,” he agreed.

Her face, already flushed from his proximity, grew even warmer: that damned fish.

“When I first got to Paris, I went to your apartments,” he went on, as if he hadn’t noticed her discomfort. “I’d planned to find you there, convince you to leave with us, and take you back to England.”

England? The heat in her face was replaced by a sickening chill. He said the word so casually. As if England and France were not at war. She lowered her voice so that it was nearly inaudible, “Emigration there is a crime punishable by death, Citizen.”

He leaned closer, his whisper equally soft. “So is drawing France’s leading politician with fins and a tail.” He continued, “There was no one home. So, I let myself in. I saw the mess. And your paintings.” He shook his head. “Quite remarkable. If I hadn’t already promised your father that I’d bring you back to him, your self-portrait alone would have moved me to do so. And your Diana,” he whistled admiringly.

“No.”

“No?” He inhaled the last note of his whistle. “You would prefer to remain here? You do understand that however much Andre might stall your sentencing, he cannot stop it.”

“I do.” But she also knew that her father, or whomever he forced her to marry next, would put an end to her dreams of becoming a professional artist. And life without art…after she’d been so close to a public exhibition. Years of work, of trial and error, back bent over an easel, fingers cramped around a brush...

Silence stretched between them.

“If I twist the curl up, and pin it like so,” Marisol’s voice filtered through the shawl, “it gives you height, makes your features so much more dramatic.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me…” the elderly vicomtesse intoned.

“They may be comforting you, but they’re annoying the hell out of me,” said the prostitute in the bed next to the vicomtesse.

“Will you at least allow me to get you out of here?” Marcus’s voice, when he finally spoke, was low and urgent.

“Why?”

“Why?” He raked a hand through his hair, and again she caught the scents of sunshine and leather. “Not…can I do this? Not how?”

“Yes. Why. Why are you doing this? How can I be sure you’re not trying to lure me into some kind of trap?”

“Trap?” He gestured at the stone wall behind them with its coating of mold, at the headboard carved with initials and dates, and the sagging shawl. “Could you be more trapped than this? What do you imagine that I…that we could possibly want from you?”

“I’m supposed to simply trust you, a complete stranger, when you tell me you’ve rescued my father and now have come to rescue me. Why? Just because you’ve got the face and body of a Greek god and a charming manner?”

“Greek God? Charming?”

“Because you order me to? Again, why? Because you’re acting out of the goodness of your noble heart?”

There was a flash of frustration in his cognac-colored eyes; then he closed them and inhaled deeply.

Here it comes, she thought, the noble speech. She wondered which well-worn theme he’d choose to try and convince her to trust him: duty, honor, personal responsibility?

Marcus opened his eyes. His face was cast in shadow, but Marguerite caught a hint of mockery in his voice as he said, “You want to know why I’ve come to save you, Mme de Rouvroy? For the money, of course.”

Thirty-One

It was the last thing she expected him to say. And yet, it made perfect sense. Far more than risking one’s life for some romantic cause.

And yet. Marguerite felt oddly disappointed. As if a seemingly dashing hero had whipped off his domino to reveal the face of a tax collector. She sat back, forgetting Marcus’s arm was behind her.