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“No, but I’ll proceed nonetheless.” Ramsey approached the guard at the entry door. He had to wait until the man ahead of him finished his business. Apparently, the committee did not rest. He was counting on it.
“Citoyen,” Ramsey said to the guard. “We are here to see Citoyen d’Herbois. We have information of an urgent nature.”
The guard did not even raise a brow. He probably heard such as this every day. “Citoyen d’Herbois is not here. Come back tomorrow. Besides it is almost time for the curfew.”
“But citoyen,” Gabrielle stepped forward. “Tomorrow may be too late. Please, if Citoyen d’Herbois is not available, what about Citoyen Billaud-Varenne or Citoyen Robespierre? We must see one of the Paris representatives tonight. Surely once the committee learns of our information, they will give us a pass.”
“It’s your neck,” the guard observed. “I believe Citoyen Billaud-Varenne and Citoyen Robespierre are still meeting. I’ll have you escorted inside.” The guard gestured to another farther inside the gates. “That doesn’t guarantee you an audience,” he added.
“Thank you, citoyen,” Ramsey said. “The boy and I will be happy to see either of those illustrious men.”
The guard spoke to his compatriot and the second man led them into the building. Ramsey was pleased the guard was no behemoth. He’d been envisioning David and Goliath scenarios all the way over—it was something to take his mind off Gabrielle’s lovely form.
He noted the halls and corridors were mostly empty. No one would see them enter. Gabrielle had been clever to time their arrival just before curfew. Although the committee members would have passes, the citizens and clerks did not. Their escort led them up a wide marble staircase into a quiet corridor. The runner on the floor looked expensive. It would mute any sounds of running feet well.
“Citoyen Robespierre’s office is just ahead,” the guard told them.
“Whose office is this?” Gabrielle asked, pointing to the one they were passing.
“Citoyen Saint-Just. He is not here.”
“Good,” Ramsey said. “Then he won’t mind if we borrow it.”
Gabrielle cut to the left, trying the door. When it opened, Ramsey grabbed the sputtering escort about the neck and dragged him inside. Gabrielle closed the door and stood outside, while Ramsey struggled with the man. He was armed with a bayonet and rifle, but that did little good when he couldn’t reach it. Ramsey dragged the guard into the office—a lamp still burned and he could see it was sumptuously decorated with chairs upholstered in silk, velvet draperies, and if he was not mistaken, an Aubusson rug—and reached for an expensive-looking vase. He lowered the treasure, bashing it over the escort’s head.
It didn’t render him unconscious, as Ramsey had hoped. But nothing was easy in Paris these days. And if these damn revolutionaries didn’t live so well, they might have a vase with some heft to it, rather than such a thin, fine porcelain one.
The guard was on his knees, and now he turned and reached for Ramsey. Ramsey danced out of the way, but the man caught his leg and brought him down. The escort was instantly on top of him, his hands around Ramsey’s neck. The man slammed Ramsey’s head down, and for a moment he saw black. Thank God for the plush carpet. He shook the fuzziness off, bucked, and threw the escort aside.
It was coming back to him now—this kind of no-rules, roll-in-the-dirt fighting. He’d been in more fights than he could count as a lad, mostly with his brothers. This was no ring at Gentleman Jackson’s. This was kicking, biting, and punching until one of them was out cold.
Ramsey knew if he could keep the guard’s bayonet out of the fight, he had a good chance of winning. The guard rolled, and Ramsey caught his arm, pulled him back, and punched him hard. Blood splattered the rug. Ramsey winced as it soaked in, distracted just long enough for the man to kick him in the belly.
He let out a rush of air, bent, then butted the man in the head when he drew close. The escort reared back, and Ramsey swept his legs, bringing him down in a crashing heap. A chair overturned as well, and Gabrielle opened the door.
“What are you doing? You’re louder than a coach and four on cobblestones!”
Ramsey was holding down the escort, but he looked up in time to catch her disapproving expression. “You’re welcome to take over.” He panted, trying to catch his breath and keep the squirming man still.
“Just hurry up!” she hissed and closed the door.
Ramsey looked down and met the escort’s gaze. “You heard the lady.”
“Lady?” The escort looked back toward the door, and Ramsey hit him hard. The man groaned, and Ramsey stood. While the escort rolled on the floor, clutching his face, Ramsey divested him of the bayonet.
“Sorry…” He lifted the butt and struck the guard in the head.
The man stopped moving. Ramsey knelt and felt his neck—he still had a pulse. Ramsey looked about for something to tie his hands and feet. The curtains were secured with a silk cord, and he yanked it off and bound the man tightly, rolling him behind the desk to hide him from view.
He was heading for the door when Gabrielle opened it and stepped inside. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. She kept Saint-Just’s door open a sliver and they peered out. A man wearing a powdered wig, a high-necked silk coat with a flowing cravat, silk breeches, and shoes with ornamental buckles walked by.
Gabrielle closed the door silently. “I think that’s Robespierre.”
“He dresses better than I do.”
“The country might be in turmoil, the people starving, but at least its leaders are togged in twig.” She cracked the door again. “Let’s go.”
Ramsey grabbed her arm. “It’s only half past ten. Robespierre might return.”
