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“Yes.” She looked into his green eyes and saw there the steely determination she needed. “Yes.” Her legs still threatened to give way, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard, the pain breaking the numbness threatening to wash over her. Sensation flooded into her legs again and she walked resolutely, if not steadily, away from the gate.
She did not know how long they walked, she only knew she dared not turn about, dared not look back for fear of seeing the marquis’s mangled body. Or worse, Bibot chasing after her.
She was out of breath and on the verge of collapse when Sedgwick pushed her against the wall of a bakery. Men and women passed them, giving them curious glances, and the bakery’s owner came out and yelled in coarse French that they couldn’t stop there. Sedgwick tossed the baker a coin, and he went back inside.
Gabrielle could only stare at Sedgwick. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to bury her face in his coat as she had at the gate. She wanted him to lift her and hold her and never let her go.
“Where are you staying?” Sedgwick asked.
Gabrielle could only blink at him. He was speaking in French, and she understood the language, but her mind could not decipher the words.
“Gabrielle,” Sedgwick said, his voice harsh, “we’re safe now, but we must go inside.”
As if to punctuate this observation, she heard the roar of a mob not far away. They were singing and yelling, and the sound of breaking glass rent the stillness of the quiet street.
He took her face between his hands and put his forehead to hers. His gaze was steady, and she drew strength from it. “Listen to me. Where are you staying?”
Where was she staying? Audley Street and her cozy dining room seemed so far away. How she longed for Cressy and Diana and even silly Violet Cheever. Gabrielle would give anything to be sitting in Violet’s drawing room right now, bored out of her mind with stories of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
She closed her eyes and forced her mind away from England. She was no schoolgirl, no scared ninny. She was a woman, and she had been in dire circumstances before. No, she had never seen a man torn limb from limb, but she needn’t think of that right now. She needn’t think of anything but the missive from the Pimpernel.
Thirty-three Rue Saint-Honoré…
“Thirty-three Rue Saint-Honoré,” she answered.
“I’m not as familiar with Paris as I’d like,” Sedgwick told her. “Where is it?”
She was not familiar with Paris at all, not this new Paris. She had often been in Paris when she was in the convent school and her parents came to take her on holiday. She supposed the names of the streets might have changed, but the layout was still the same. She looked around, noting the characteristic narrow streets.
“Rue Saint-Honoré is close to the Tuileries,” she answered. “Do you know where that is?”
“I have an idea,” he said, and took her hand.
They walked past the bakery, and as they did so, the baker came to the door and stared at them. Other shopkeepers watched them as well. Gabrielle looked up at the windows bowed over the street and felt other eyes on her. It seemed all of Paris was suspicious and watching. Waiting.
She shivered.
“Where are you staying?” she asked as they stepped onto a slightly wider boulevard. It seemed more familiar to her, though the hungry faces and the sly eyes of the men and women they passed did not.
“With you,” he answered.
Gabrielle turned to him, a protest on her lips, but she quickly swallowed it. She had told Sedgwick she didn’t need his help. Now she wasn’t so certain.
But how much information could she trust him with? Should she tell him about the Scarlet Pimpernel or keep her mission a secret? And what about le Saphir Blanc? Sedgwick was obviously an accomplished thief. He might be able to help her steal it. But would he be willing to give it up if he did so?
The streets looked more familiar to Gabrielle, and soon she led Sedgwick toward Rue Saint-Honoré. They walked quickly, keeping their heads down as most of the Parisians did. Occasionally they heard a commotion or saw a group running toward a square, and Sedgwick would push her into a shop or an alcove and wait until the mob passed.
Finally, they reached number thirty-three, and Gabrielle let out a sigh of relief. It had grown dark, and she was exhausted.
“Whose house is this?” Sedgwick asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “I…” She glanced up at him. “I’m not really here about a cousin Josette.”
“I’m shocked and appalled,” he drawled. “Do you mean to tell me, Citoyenne Leboeuf, that you were lying to me?”
She could not think of a witty retort. Her mind felt fuzzy and slow. Instead, she marched to the door marked33. He followed.
“Will you confide your true reason for coming to Paris?” he asked.
