Page 65 of Souvenir Heart

“I do believe I’ve lived to see Marcus perturbed,” Andre mused. Then his tone became serious. “Were either of you followed?”

“No.” That was at least one thing working in their favor. Marcus craned his neck, straining to see if a slender man standing in the shadows by a shuttered apothecary’s was Marguerite. “If none of her cell mates sounds an alarm, I’m guessing we have several hours before they conduct the morning roll call and realize she’s missing.”

“Are you thinking door-to-door searches?”

As the carriage rolled closer, he could see the man by the apothecary’s was wearing a dark suit, not a uniform. He expelled a frustrated breath. “I’m thinking that our newly appointed chief prosecutor won’t want to make a big fuss over an investigation that’s likely to reveal his own role in the escape of a prisoner.”

“I can only imagine the headlines and the cartoons. Perhaps we ought to ask Madame de Rouvroy to try her hand at one.”

If they found her. Marcus gritted his teeth. No. When they found her. Where the hell was she? “He’ll try and make light of it. Make some excuse that he planned to let her go anyway. Still,” he worried, more to himself than to Andre. “Between her escape, the Rouen rumors, and the ongoing search for fugitive Girondins, security is likely to be even tighter at the city gates. Have you and David determined the best one to use?”

“Still working on it.” Clearly anticipating Marcus’s response, he added, “I know, I know, we only have a week and a half left. But getting that uniform and David’s latest changes to the coach took…” his voice trailed off. “Wait…”

“Do you see her?” Marcus whirled around, straining to see out the window, beyond Andre’s mop of curls.

“No.” Andre shook his head, “Apologies. I thought…”

Marcus turned back to his window. He glanced back down the street, in case he might have missed her, then fixed his gaze forward. He scanned every passerby, trying to pick out faces and shapes with only the light of the occasional street lantern and candle-lit windows to aid him.

“Damned blue uniforms,” he muttered. “Couldn’t the bloody guard have chosen something that shows up better in the dark?” What if he’d misjudged her? What if she had tried to go back to the Marais? To her lover? Had run into trouble?

“Things are definitely getting more tense here,” Andre said. “Fights breaking out on the streets. I’m thinking perhaps we should take Suzanne with us when we go.”

“I’ve asked her.”

“I have, too,” Andre confessed.

“She turned me down flat.”

“Me, as well.”

“She doesn’t speak English and hears we boil all our food. Says she’d rather die than live without decent spices.”

“She told me the same thing.”

“Wait,” Andre’s voice rose in hopeful excitement and Marcus’s heart followed suit. “I think—” Then it fell. “No.”

“If things do take a turn for the worse, I’ve found a really secure place to hide out.” he continued.

“Don’t say that word,” Marcus growled.

“What word?”

“The one that rhymes with curse.” He thought of how Dinsmore had asked if this rescue was a penance. It was beginning to feel that way.

“There’s just one problem.”

He resisted the urge to ask, only one?

Three sharp thumps on the roof interrupted their conversation. Marcus heard them at the same moment he caught sight of the slender guardsman, bicorne pulled low, stopping on the street corner, waiting for their coach to pass. His heart leapt, even as his body tensed to do the same. He reached for the door latch.

“Why don’t we pull up and invite her in?” Andre protested.

In response, Marcus swung open the door of the still moving coach and leapt out. Eyes like a diving falcon fixed on the slight figure, he began running the moment his feet hit the ground. Stretching out an arm, he caught the figure around the waist, crushing the light body to his chest. The bicorne tumbled to the ground, revealing the stunned and graphite smeared face of Marguerite de Rouvroy. With a furious rush of frustration and relief, Marcus swept her up into his arms.

Forty-One

“Stop kicking!”