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Of course she couldn’t trust him. No one who knew him outside of his home village in Cumbria could trust him. He’d lied to everyone in London, even those he considered friends. But they weren’t his friends. They didn’t even know him. And here was a woman he wanted to know him, and he was as trapped behind a false facade as he had ever been. He’d added more lies, more deceit to his growing list of transgressions.
If she knew why he had really come to Paris…
He’d thought warning her not to trust him would assuage his guilt. He planned to use her to expose the Scarlet Pimpernel. He’d half hoped she wouldn’t trust him and he’d fail at his mission.
Well, he deserved whatever her reaction would be when she learned he planned to turn over the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel to a woman like Madame Fouchet. Now that he was in Paris, he realized just how precarious the Pimpernel’s position really was. Anonymity was everything if he hoped to continue his work of smuggling the condemned out of France. Ramsey knew, better than anyone, that the woman had no soft spot for heroes. She’d destroy whoever stood in her way, including the lovely Gabrielle. He could tell her Madame Fouchet knew about her mission. He could reveal his involvement, who he really was.
And if Gabrielle knew who he really was…
He imagined she’d recoil in as much disgust as he’d done when Madame’s assistant had touched his cheek. She didn’t want a peasant’s lips on hers, a peasant’s hands on her. She’d be glad to see him hung at Tyburn, and as much as he liked her, he wasn’t quite prepared to have his neck stretched to impress her with his honesty and newfound trustworthiness.
“Citoyen,” she said with a nod. “I have an appointment at the Palais-Royal.”
She would go to the Palais-Royal to meet Ffoulkes. Right now, Ffoulkes was the closest thing he had to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
“I’ll accompany you.”
She paused, and he wondered if she hadn’t read his thoughts as she approached. Hadn’t guessed that his motives were less than pure.
“I have an appointment as well,” he lied, taking her arm and steering her away from La Force. “I plan to meet with a solicitor about my family’s French properties.”
She slanted a gaze at him. “In the Palais-Royal? Not his place of business?”
“He thought it better if we appeared to meet by chance at one of the cafés rather than give anyone cause to wonder why a soldier need speak with a solicitor, especially a solicitor already under suspicion for his dealings with the nobility.” The fabrication came almost too easily. He could see by the way her face lost its earlier tension she believed him.
“Very well.” The street was uneven, and she lost her footing slightly, leaning into him. For a moment her breast pressed against his arm, and he was reminded vividly of what had passed between them the night before. He was reminded of how she’d looked when she’d dropped her sheet. She’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist her, even before she stood naked before him.
But when she’d dropped the sheet…
He hadn’t imagined she would look so perfect. He’d been with other women—hasty couplings with courtesans and tavern maids—and he’d seen beautiful women practically naked. The prevailing fashion did not lean toward modesty.
But he had never seen anything like Gabrielle. He had never touched anything like her either. Her skin had been like silk, her lips like flower petals, her neck…
Good God! Was he about to write her a poem or take her to bed?
She moved away from him quickly, and he thought he would probably do neither at the moment. If ever.
They turned the corner, leaving La Force behind, and he took her arm as they neared a busy street. A tumbrel filled with the condemned was passing ahead and the onlookers hurled insults and rotten produce at the lost souls. “This way.” He steered her around the crowd, onto a smaller side street. The Palais-Royal was not far from the prison, and he followed an innate sense of direction to lead her that way.
“This city is horrible,” Gabrielle told him when they were moving quickly again. “I knew it would be. I read the papers.”
“Yes, but reading about them in theTimesis quite different from passing a tumbrel filled with fodder for Madame Guillotine.”
“It is rather like a nightmare,” she admitted, cutting him a sideways look. “But I don’t regret coming. Who else will help the comtesse? Who else can steal the bracelet?”
If anyone could do it, she could. Ramsey was quickly learning not to underestimate her. He’d never doubted she was strong, but he hadn’t realized she had a backbone of steel.
“The sooner we acquire the bracelet, the better,” Ramsey told her.
She glanced at him. “We? You will help me?”
He shouldn’t. The smart thing to do was to get out of Paris as quickly as possible, not endanger themselves further by stealing a precious bracelet. But then he never had been very smart.
“Of course.”
They were almost to the entrance of the Palais-Royal. “You don’t have to do this,” she told him. “I fear I’ve caused you more trouble than I’m worth.”
He laughed. “Oh, you’re worth far more trouble than we’ve encountered so far.”
