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The woman sat again, but Ramsey dared not tax the dying chair across from her with his weight. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, waiting until he heard the snick of the door closing behind him. “I think you must know why I’m here, Miss Blake,” he said quietly.
“And if I said I do?”
“Then I would beg you to accommodate me. I need your expertise directly. I’m leaving for Dover and the packet to France tonight.”
“Are you?” She steepled her fingers, studying him. Ramsey felt like a schoolboy, called before the headmaster for misconduct. Several moments passed during which Ramsey forced himself not to shuffle his feet.
Finally, he said, “I can be generous in my payment.”
She smiled, and Ramsey was surprised at how childlike and innocent she looked when she smiled. “I don’t care about the money, my lord. I don’t do it for the money.”
“Then why?” he asked, knowing it didn’t matter, knowing he was in a hurry, but intrigued nonetheless.
She waved a hand, as though to dismiss the question. “Because once I needed help. Doyouneed help, Lord Sedgwick?”
“Yes,” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.” She pursed her lips and continued quickly. “I’m sorry. That was incredibly rude, but I fear your travels to Paris are ill intentioned.”
She was right, of course. Madame Fouchet did not want the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel because she hoped to become his benefactress. Everything and everyone that woman touched came to ruin.
But there was no other way. Ramsey had to go to Paris, had to find the Scarlet Pimpernel.
“I could tell you a pretty story, Miss Blake, but I’d be wasting your time. I have to go to Paris. For me, it is a matter of life and death.”
She nodded. “That I believe.” She leaned forward. “And my lord? I don’t think you’ll be able to go through with it.”
Ramsey opened his mouth to speak but could find no words. Did she know what he intended? Surely not.
Before he could find words of denial, she reached below her fichu and pulled on a plain chain, lifting a small silver key from her bodice. She then opened a drawer, removed a small wooden box from within, and inserted the key into the lock. As she removed the papers inside, she said, “I’m trusting you, Lord Sedgwick.”
Ramsey wasn’t certain if she meant she trusted him not to betray the Pimpernel or that she was trusting him with the knowledge of where she hid her forgery equipment. Ramsey had a glimpse of official-looking seals and stamps before she angled the box away from his line of vision.
When she had paper and ink laid out before her, she looked up at him, squinted. “Let’s see. You look like a Citoyen…”
Ramsey raised his brows and bore her scrutiny. For all her beauty, he felt no flame of arousal when he looked at her. Too bad. She would be a challenge, and he enjoyed a challenge. But no sense in chasing her when he looked at her and thought of his sister.
“Delpierre,” she finally exclaimed.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Citoyen Ramsey Delpierre,” she said, nodding firmly and beginning to write on the documents before her. “That is your new identity.”
“But what if I don’t like—?”
“Shh. I’m trying to concentrate. It seems the revolutionary government changes the format for their documents every other week. You want me to write this correctly, don’t you?”
“Please.” The last thing he needed was to be stopped at the Paris gates because his papers were worded incorrectly. Dear God, he hoped Miss Blake’s French didn’t lack. His own was less than perfect.
“Do you have a profession in mind?” she asked, looking up.
“Oh, I have a choice now?”
“Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll make you a soldier. Paris needs gendarmes now.”
“Wonderful.” He couldn’t think of any profession he desired less than that of a soldier—unless it was an earl.
She finished the document, read it, affixed a seal, then sanded the ink.
