Page 48 of Souvenir Heart

Without another word, Andre dumped the contents of his pipe on the cobbles and strode off.

David watched as his dark figure wove swiftly in and out of the evening’s traffic, crossed the street and merged with the steadily growing stream of soldiers leaving the prison. He followed the young man, Allard was his name, remaining several paces behind him, until it was clear that the soldier was alone. Then Andre lengthened his stride, catching up with him and slinging his arm around Allard’s shoulders as if they were boon companions.

Which, given Scott’s silver tongue, David had no doubt Allard would soon believe they were.

When the two men were nearly out of sight, David dumped the smoldering remnants of tobacco out of his own pipe, ground the embers into the mud, and followed.

He walked slowly, making little effort to keep the two men ahead of him in sight, even as the streets became far more winding, muddy, and welcoming to soldiers scraping by on patriot’s pay. He knew where they were headed. Had scouted the streets and alleys using a map that Marcus, with that incredible memory of his, had sketched out for them.

Catching sight of a sign hanging above a low doorway, featuring a jaunty rooster sporting a bright red liberty cap, he lengthened his stride. He spared only the briefest glance to his right as he passed an alley too narrow and dark to be favored by the prostitutes who loitered about the tavern’s doorway.

Ignoring their calls of “Good evening, love,” and “Is all of you that big?” he stepped inside the Cock’s Roost. The humid air was heavy with the scents of wine, roasting meat with spices that would never grace an English table, and sweat. There was a crowded bar and a sea of tables filled with blue-uniformed and red-capped men. Andre and Allard had found a spot near the unlit, but thoroughly blackened, fireplace at the far end of the room.

Using his height and the impressive breadth of his shoulders, David maneuvered himself to a place at the bar where he could keep his eye on the pair. He ordered a glass of wine (red, since white was considered the drink of aristos) and a dish of olives.

Leaning his back against the bar, he watched as a leathery barmaid in a grease-stained apron served Andre and Allard plates of steaming beans topped with roasted duck legs and sausage. His stomach growled, but he didn’t dare order a meal; it would look odd if he needed to rush out of the place, leaving an unfinished plate of food behind.

“Haven’t seen you here before. Where are you from?”

When he turned to answer, David saw to his relief that the question was directed not at him, but at two soldiers seated beside him. Their uniform coats looked as if they’d rolled in road-dust, and they were eating with the face-down gusto of draft horses at the end of a week’s worth of plowing. The man nearest David had sweat-soaked brown hair. His companion was a sweat-soaked blond.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Paris.”

“Rouen,” the brown-haired man muttered, barely glancing up between shovels.

“Rouen eh? That has to be at least a week’s ride. What brings you here?” The questioner was a guardsman with a droopy eye and a sad attempt at a mustache.

“Three days,” the blond man said between bites, “if you ride like the Devil’s ordered your ass to Paris.”

“Official business.” The brown-haired man grunted.

“Official business?” The droopy-eyed man repeated in a tone suggesting he found it difficult to believe Rouen would have business even approaching ‘official.’

“Official business,” the brown-haired soldier repeated, setting down his spoon and scowling. “Hunting counterrevolutionaries and spies.”

“Here? In Paris?” Droopy-eye snorted with laughter. “Why? Did you run out of ‘em in Rouen? Or do you think we need your help?”

“Your wine. Your olives.” The barkeep set down a bottle, a cloudy-looking glass and an earthenware bowl of olives beside David’s elbow.

Popping an olive into his mouth, David chewed distractedly, his eyes on Andre and Allard and his ears on the soldiers’ ongoing conversation.

“We’re doing fine mopping up the scum here. Feel free to visit any of our prisons, if you doubt us,” another soldier chimed in.

“Is that so? Have you mopped up a bastard by the name of Marcus Templeton?”

Marcus Templeton? David nearly choked on his olive. Templeton was the alias Marcus used when he’d posed as James Dinsmore’s private secretary. He picked up the bottle of wine, filled the dirty glass, and drank in an attempt to clear his throat.

“Never heard of him,” the broken-nosed soldier responded. “Who is he? A Girondist?”

“He’s a spy. Might be French. Might be an Englishman who speaks like a Frenchman. But, either way, he’s a cold-blooded bastard.”

“A murdering bastard.”

“Murder?”

“Who’d he kill?”

David took another sip of the wine, grimacing at the sour taste, and shifted closer to the men, even though this was a story he knew all too well.