Page 63 of Souvenir Heart

She had to keep moving. Marguerite hastily strode off in the direction of the address the prosecutor had given her.

Only when she judged she was out of view of anyone from the Conciergerie seeing her did she stop. Dare to glance back to see if anyone was following her. Saw no guards pursuing her. Of an alarm being raised. And no sign of him.

Pushing her hat back, she bent over, hands on her knees, and took a deep shuddering breath.

Her nostrils filled with the scents of the city; the perfume of Paris’s working people, of horses, of cooking, and the fishy dank of the Seine. It might not be sweet, but it was a blessed relief after the prison’s ever-present stink of ordure, sickness and despair.

She knew the odors still clung to her body, her skin, her hair.

A wave of longing swept over her for the copper hip bath in her apartments, for buckets and buckets of hot water, and herb-scented soaps. For the embrace of clean clothes and silken underthings. And her own bed, with its curtained privacy, soft mattress, and even softer sheets.

For her work.

She couldn’t go home. Even if the doors weren’t covered in official seals. It would be the first place they’d look for her when her escape was discovered.

She couldn’t think of the paintings she’d left on her easels. Countless hours of work, of planning, of studies—so much hope that had gone into them.

She had to keep moving. But where could she go?

She glanced around, searching for Marcus. After everything he’d said about helping her. Everything he’d done. He hadn’t shown up.

A man of his word, Andre had said. She wanted to spit.

Clearly the lure of her father’s money had been insufficient to convince him to risk his life for hers.

She spun around, hating that she kept looking for him. Wishing for the strong arms that had seemed so ready to catch her.

She took a deep breath. She’d double back, cross the Pont au Change, and get herself as far as possible from the Conciergerie and her old neighborhood.

As she began to walk, Marguerite told herself that it would be difficult for anyone to find her, when she hadn’t a clue where she was going.

Forty

After what seemed like hours, but even without his pocket watch, he knew was more like twenty minutes, Marcus found himself standing in a pool of lantern light outside the prison’s walls. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, before looking around.

To his right, there were three guards leaning against the wall, smoking and talking; none slim enough to be Marguerite. To his left, two middle-aged men were engaged in a heated argument, hands waving and fingers pointing. Across the street, a cart filled with baskets full of chickens rolled past revealing a wall, the Seine, and beyond it, the rooflines and candlelit windows of the buildings on the other side of the river.

He turned left, strode down the block, eyes raking the street, the doorways, anywhere she might be lingering. He spotted a woman seated on a stoop, head resting on the door frame—but she was too old, too ragged to be Marguerite.

He turned right, walking faster now, searching more intently. It had been foolish to think she’d wait. In his experience, women never did—not Alice, not his mother, or his sister. Their reasons might have been different, but the pain was the same. The pain that was rising now...

No. Marcus slammed shut the drawers in his chest; now was not the time to poke at old wounds. He had a mission to complete.

Where the hell had Marguerite gone?

He couldn’t keep pacing back and forth in front of the prison. Mustn’t stand there like a discarded lover.

Think, think, think, Tyndale! What would you do in her shoes?

Wait, by God.

He exhaled slowly. Marguerite de Rouvroy must be desperate to put as much distance between herself and the prison as possible. Of course she wouldn’t stop, she’d keep walking.

But in which direction?

He combed his mind for what he knew about her, shoving aside the memory of mocking eyes, soft lips, and delicately arched brows. He thought of her paintings, instead; of bold Diana testing the strength of her bow, her self-portrait challenging the gaze of the viewer. She might be frightened, but she, like her art, was clever and audacious.

He thought of her portfolio of erotic drawings, all of the same man. Was he her lover? Was that where she’d gone?