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That was right. Think about the League and the Pimpernel. Don’t think about her warm hand. Don’t think about the smell of lilies. Don’t think about how easily he could take her in his arms right now, hold her, stop her shivering.
“I don’t know anything about any league,” she said. If she lied, she did so convincingly. “I’m here for one thing only.”
“Steal le Saphir Blanc.”
“Yes.”
“To pay off your debts?”
She inhaled audibly. She debated whether or not to tell him more. He almost wished she would not. “Not for me. There’s a woman and child who desperately need me to succeed.”
Ramsey might have known a woman and a defenseless child would factor in somewhere. If he were to play the villain, no sense in doing it by half measures. “Tell me,” he said.
She did, relating the story of the comtesse and her child and of the warden of La Force, Citoyen Toulan. It sounded plausible. The comte might have come to her in London. Perhaps the Pimpernel had nothing to do with this after all.
“Did Ffoulkes tell you where to find le Saphir Blanc?”
“I’m to meet him tomorrow, and he’ll give me the information then.”
“Where?”
“The Palais-Royal.”
Hopefully they would live long enough to make her assignation. Several more moments passed, and he finally rose, went to the gray slice of light, and listened carefully.
He heard nothing but the chirping of insects and the croak of frogs. “I think the soldiers have gone.”
“Thank God. I was afraid we’d be stuck in this rat trap all night.” He heard her rise and felt her stand behind him. He hefted the crowbar, and as quietly as possible, levered the marble door open. They both stood in the mausoleum’s doorway and stared at the dark graveyard. Ramsey let out a breath. Soldiers could be hiding in the shadows. They might be crouching behind other mausoleums, waiting to pounce. Or he and Gabrielle might make it to the edge of the cemetery only to be caught and questioned as they left.
But he supposed it would be no better if they waited until morning. There would be more bodies delivered by daylight, and really he could not tolerate the smell of the quicklime any longer. He’d been in Paris only a day and already the smell of death and decay permeated his every sense.
“Is it safe?” Gabrielle asked.
“Nothing is safe anymore,” he answered, but he took her hand and led her out of the mausoleum. He used the weight of his body to push the door back into place, then replaced the crowbar behind the building. Keeping to the shadows, he and Gabrielle crept from the cemetery, along the winding alleys and shadows of Paris, and back to Alexandra Martin’s house.
When they entered, she pounced. “Where have you been?” she demanded. She was no longer dressed in her Tudor costume but was wearing a simple muslin gown without adornment of any kind.
“How kind of you to wait for us,” Ramsey said, ushering Gabrielle inside and closing the door behind him.
“It’s not out of kindness,” she snapped.
He removed Gabrielle’s mantle, and Miss Martin took it.
“I don’t employ servants,” she explained. “They talk too much.” She narrowed her large green eyes. “I suppose you two are hungry now. I brought some bread and cheese home.” She began walking toward the dining room, gesturing them to follow. Ramsey trailed after Gabrielle, taking in the small rooms with their layers of dust and general untidiness. She had obviously been telling the truth about the servants. But despite the dust, the house was cozy and charming. It felt welcoming. Could it be a safe place for the Scarlet Pimpernel’s League? If so, how many of the Pimpernel’s men had hidden here and how many other houses of refuge were scattered about the city?
The bread and cheese were set on a platter in the dining room, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Alex fetched a third and poured. “To another day!” she toasted, and took a sip.
Gabrielle drank, then sank into one of the chairs. Ramsey’s stomach rumbled, but he didn’t reach for the food. He had a bad feeling…
“Now tell me what you’ve been doing this evening,” Alex demanded, cutting a hunk of cheese and eating it. “I heard the national guard are conducting domiciliary visits.”
“What are those?” Gabrielle asked.
“Searches,” she answered, tearing a piece of bread from the loaf. “The soldiers come into your home and search it from top to bottom. They look at all of your correspondence, bayonet your mattresses and couches, and if they’re hungry, eat all of your food and drink all of your wine.” She looked at Ramsey. “You’d better eat now.”
Because it might be a long night and he needed to keep up his strength, he did as she bade him. The bread was stale and the cheese tasteless, but he’d had far worse. The wine was good. He downed the last in his glass, and Alex poured him another measure.
“Are these visits because of us?” Gabrielle asked.
