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“I don’t think so,” Ramsey murmured, setting the woman on her feet. He’d already avoided arrest once today. He didn’t intend to go to prison now. He turned to follow the woman he’d assisted into the shadows and safety, then swore and turned back.
Gabrielle.
He couldn’t leave her.
Every instinct in him screamed to abandon loyalty and nobility and save himself. And if it had been anyone but she, he would have done it. But he needed her—she could be his key to the Scarlet Pimpernel and freedom.
At least that’s what he told himself as he rushed into the fray instead of escaping through the dark sanctuary of the cemetery.
Despite the revelers’ quick action, the soldiers had managed to catch one or two, and desperate skirmishes erupted. In the cramped quarters between grave markers and dirt mounds, the soldiers could not fire weapons without risking the lives of their compatriots. Several wrestled the revelers they had caught, and the ball goers fought back.
Ramsey stood in the middle of the melee and scanned the cemetery for Gabrielle. She and Ffoulkes were gone. Caught by soldiers or escaped to safety?
Something hard and heavy thudded against the back of his head, and he spun around to see a soldier wielding the butt of his rifle. Ramsey felt blood trickle down his cheek as the soldier raised the rifle again.
He had a moment to mourn that this was it—the end. He would die, ignominiously, after attending a ball in a Paris cemetery. It was probably no more or less than he deserved. The rifle jerked toward him, and Ramsey closed his eyes.
The shot that rang out jerked his body, the sound reverberating through him as his back hit the cold, unyielding ground. Something thudded beside him, and he opened his eyes to the soldier’s wide-eyed stare.
“Sedgwick?”
He blinked and looked up. Gabrielle leaned over him, her dark mantle brushing against his hand. “Where did you come from?”
She turned away from him. “Sir Andrew!”
The ever-noble Ffoulkes—Ramsey should have known he’d never flee—arrived. “I diverted the last of them, but they’ll be back once they realize I circled back,” he panted.
“Help me,” Gabrielle said. Ffoulkes, still breathing heavily, bent and assisted Ramsey to his feet. Several men lay on the ground near him, including the fallen soldier. He could hear shouts in the distance as other soldiers chased the ball goers and herded their new prisoners to the overcrowded prisons.
“I think I’ve been shot,” Ramsey said, touching his chest and his arms, looking for the wound.
“No.” Gabrielle was running now, pulling him along while Ffoulkes pushed. Behind him he could hear the shouts of the soldiers and the sound of pursuit. “I fired at that soldier,” she said. “That was the shot you heard.”
So that was why only his head throbbed. He would have a nasty bump on it later tonight. But he’d prefer that to lying dead in Saint Marguerite or rotting in La Force. At least Gabrielle was safe—no thanks to him. She’d had to save him, and didn’t that gall?
She was still pulling him, so he jerked his hand away, intent on making his own way. She glanced over her shoulder, giving him a curious look, and almost tripped over a marker. He caught her, steadied her, and took the lead.
But he’d gone no more than three or four steps when Ffoulkes called, “No! This way! To that mausoleum.”
“We’ll never get inside,” Ramsey argued, but Gabrielle was already following.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, and took off after her. The large, white mausoleum featured columns in the front and a door weathered by age. Ramsey didn’t have time to glance at the name, but he didn’t really want to know whose bones he’d be sharing the evening with anyway.
Ffoulkes ran behind the marble building and returned with a crowbar.
“Do you do this often?” Ramsey asked.
“Far too often.” Ffoulkes jammed one end in the door, levered, and pushed the heavy marble open. The door must have already been compromised, or he would not have been able to accomplish it so quickly.
Gabrielle slipped through the sliver of an opening easily, but Ramsey had to wedge his body through. He looked behind him for Ffoulkes, but the man merely saluted. “Remember what I said!” he told Gabrielle before tossing the crowbar inside. The door scraped against the marble floor, shutting out what scant gloomy moonlight illuminated the area. And then he and Gabrielle were alone. In the darkness.
In the tomb.
“How are we to get out?” Gabrielle whispered.
Ramsey felt on the floor for the crowbar. His fingers brushed something cold and hard but not metallic. He tried not to think about what it might be. Finally he felt metal and lifted the tool. “I’ll pry the door open again when it’s safe. Shh, now. I hear them.”
The soldiers’ voices were muffled by the marble surrounding them, but their shouts were unmistakable. He held his breath, hoping they would run past the mausoleum without pausing. He dearly hoped Ffoulkes had closed the door enough not to arouse suspicion.
