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Gabrielle froze. Her every instinct told her to run, but she knew the action would be suicide. Instead, she slowly turned to face the barricade. Sedgwick stood before Bibot, his papers extended. Bibot had not yet taken them.
Bibot stared at her.
She couldn’t help it. She looked over her shoulder, studying her escape options. The open street was filled with soldiers who blocked her path. The crowds, who had been speaking in low murmurs and whispers, were now shrilly silent.
He gestured for her to approach. Somehow she forced her legs to move. Even more difficult, she kept her gaze from straying to Sedgwick. If she were taken, she did not want him to suffer a similar fate. She hoped he didn’t intend to play the hero.
And then again, she hoped he did.
“Citoyenne,” Bibot said when she stood before him. He stank of onions and liquor, a sharp contrast to Sedgwick beside him. She couldn’t smell him now, but when he’d taken her in his arms this morning—had it only been this morning? It seemed years had passed since then—he’d smelled pleasantly of leather and soap. She couldn’t help but steal one look at him. How she wished she were in his arms again—safe in his arms.
“Yes, Sergeant?” Her voice didn’t waver, though her entire body quaked as though it was a tiny leaf in a furious rainstorm.
“You are a lace maker.”
“That’s correct, Sergeant.”
“Hold out your hands.”
Gabrielle, puzzled, made to obey and then hesitated slightly.
Oh, God. Oh no.
Her arms halted in midmotion, and she curled her hands into fists to hide them. She was doomed. This much she knew. Once Bibot saw her smooth, uncallused fingers, he would know she was no lace maker. She would be sent to La Force.
Or worse.
It didn’t seem possible, but the crowds hushed further. Even the chickens and the cows ceased their squawking and lowing. People leaned forward, staring at her, staring at her hands. They hoped her hands were soft and lily white. Then they’d have something to tell their families at dinner tonight—that Sergeant Bibot caught another of the Pimpernel’s League.
“Citoyenne?” Bibot said sharply. “Your hands.”
Gabrielle stood like a statue, knowing she had no choice but to obey, and knowing to do so was her death knell. Slowly she extended her arms and unclenched her fingers.
Bibot reached for her hands, and Sedgwick stepped forward—she knew not why.
“Sergeant!” one of the soldiers on the other side of the barricade called. “I’ve got one!”
Bibot’s head whipped to look at the soldier who was examining those who wished to leave Paris while the sergeant himself dealt with Gabrielle. The soldier indicated the side of an old carriage, and Gabrielle saw what the owners of the carriage had not—the coat of arms had been painted over, but the conveyance needed more paint. The carriage had probably been painted in darkness, but the aristocratic insignia was quite evident in the light of day.
Gabrielle closed her fists again, and Bibot pushed past her to approach the carriage. He yanked the door open, exposing the figure of a small, delicate man crouched on the squabs.
Velvet squabs.
Gabrielle drew her breath in with the rest of the crowds.
“And who are you?” Bibot demanded.
“Citoyen Dupont,” the man answered, but the lilt of his speech, the way he held himself and looked down at Bibot, damned him. He was an aristocrat, through and through.
“Let me see your papers,” Bibot demanded. The soldier who had called his sergeant over handed them to Bibot.
Gabrielle felt Sedgwick’s hand on her arm. Without thinking, she stepped closer, allowed herself to be drawn against him. He was solid and steady, whereas she shivered with fear.
Bibot studied the papers, glanced at the man in the carriage, then at the crowd. “These papers are false!” he announced.
The crowd around Gabrielle and Sedgwick pushed closer. The air around them, crisp and cool with the promise of autumn only moments before, turned hot and stuffy.
“I know that man!” a woman in the crowd screamed. “He’s the former marquis de Comborn!”
