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And considering that she planned to steal le Saphir Blanc—one of the rarest, most elusive pieces of jewelry in existence—she had even more reason to be nervous. Oh, and that was forgetting that le Saphir Blanc was also said to be cursed.
He didn’t believe in curses, but it didn’t give him peace of mind. Did the Scarlet Pimpernel want her to steal the bracelet, or was this something she did to pay off McCullough’s debts? Perhaps he had been wrong about her association with the Pimpernel.
Perhaps…but he didn’t think so.
Weaving through the streets of Paris, he saw evidence of recent violence—blood spatters, broken pikes, a forgotten boot. The émigrés and tales printed in the English magazines had not exaggerated the violence, and he found himself in the awkward position of admiring the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League. Now that he himself walked the narrow, dirty Paris streets, he realized the courage those men—he looked at Gabrielle—and women possessed.
He was still looking at Gabrielle when they crossed the last street and reached Sainte Marguerite. She had traded her shawl for a mantle with a hood and dressed in a dark gown. Her luggage was compact, but he wasn’t surprised that she’d managed to pack at least one change of clothing. Now she pushed the hood off her dark curls, which she’d tidied before they left, and stared at the graveyard.
Ramsey had a vivid memory of her styling her hair in their small shared room. She’d forced him to wait outside when she undressed, but he needed to change cravats and did so while she fussed with all that long, dark hair. He hadn’t realized it was quite so long. It reached almost to her waist and was so thick he thought his hands would disappear in it. He’d tried to tie his cravat and surreptitiously watch her dress her hair at the same time.
She brushed and twirled, braided and twined, and all the while her hands were over her head, giving him a lovely view of her rounded breasts. How would he share this tiny room with her and keep his hands off? He was certainly willing to sleep on the floor, if she demanded it, but he was hoping to change her mind.
Not that a ball in a graveyard was quite the romantic venue he had hoped for.
“It looks deserted,” she said.
He glanced away from her and stared at the cemetery. It did look deserted. “Perhaps our Miss Martin was mistaken.”
“Yes.” Her hand toyed with the velvet at the opening of her mantle. “I suppose we should go inside and be certain.” But she sounded less than convinced and made no move to enter.
Ramsey heard voices behind him and turned to see another couple approaching. They hesitated upon seeing him, but he called out a greeting.
The man, who wore a high cravat and a low three-cornered hat, said, “Are you looking for the ball?”
“Yes,” Gabrielle answered.
“Follow us,” the woman called, her voice merry. Ramsey realized this was the first time he’d heard any merriment in Paris. Gabrielle stepped behind the woman, following her past gravestones and fresh mounds of dirt. The smell of lime and turned earth assaulted his nose.
They walked and walked, and Ramsey was about to protest when he finally heard the sound of music. They moved around a large mausoleum and he glimpsed a quartet tuning their strings. On either side of the quartet two dozen men and women mingled. Some sipped champagne; all eyed the newcomers with hooded eyes.
Gabrielle dug her fingers into Ramsey’s arm, slowing him. “Do you see the women?” she asked.
“What about them? Their hair?” He had just noticed that like Miss Martin, the women had cropped hair. Was this a new style? A wig? Or had they really shorn their locks?
“Yes, that and the ribbons about their throats.”
Ramsey tried to see through the darkness. It did appear as though many of the women sported crimson ribbons about their necks.
The woman who had led them to the ball returned with her partner and held out glasses of cooled champagne to them. “I’m Mademoiselle Manon, and this is Monsieur Olivier,” she said. “We only use first names.”
“You don’t call one another citoyen?” Gabrielle asked.
Olivier laughed. “Not unless we have to.”
“This is Mademoiselle Gabrielle, and I am Monsieur Ramsey.” He bowed. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know of the ball?” Manon inquired.
“Our friend Alexandra Martin told us about it,” Gabrielle answered.
“Ah.” The woman nodded. “The actress. Then you will want to see Monsieur Andrew.” She glanced about. “He’s not here yet. But—oh! The music is beginning!” And the young pair rushed off.
“Did you see her earrings?” Gabrielle asked. “Replicas of the guillotine.”
“The red ribbon must stand for the mark the guillotine makes when the head is chopped off.” And then before he could comment on how truly ghastly the ball and Paris had turned, he watched in horror as the men and women approached one another. The man would greet the woman, draw a finger across his throat, and the woman would fall. Then, laughing, she’d rise, and they’d begin to dance, a dance more suited to a play featuring headless marionettes than to a ball.
But this was a ball in a graveyard, so perhaps it made sense.
