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“Conspiracy,” the soldier read. “You are accused of being in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

Alex laughed, quite convincingly. “That’s ridiculous! Who would make such an accusation?” She shook her head. “The Scarlet Pimpernel? I don’t think the man even exists.”

“I assure you, citoyenne, he does. And we will catch him.” The soldier gestured to the men standing behind him. “Take her into custody.”

The soldiers moved forward, and Ramsey finally willed his legs to move. He cut in front of Gabrielle, blocking access to her. “Wait. You can’t take her.”

“We can, and we will.” The leader put a hand on his bayonet as a warning.

“Where?” Ramsey stalled for time.

The soldier consulted his papers again. “She’ll be delivered to La Force. They should have room after the group they sent to the guillotine this morning. She’ll wait there for the tribunal’s pleasure.”

“There must be something we can do to stop this. She’s innocent.”

“That’s for the tribunal to decide.”

The leader nodded to his men, who shoved Ramsey aside and clamped hands on Gabrielle. She gave him a pleading look, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“This is ridiculous. She’s no conspirator.”

The soldiers led Gabrielle into the hallway, pausing to await their leader. Gabrielle’s gaze never left his. He wanted to tell her all would be well. He would save her. He had always been a good liar.

“What is your name?” the leader asked.

“What?” Ramsey had to think for a moment. “I’m Ramsey Delpierre.”

“Delpierre?” The soldier glanced at his papers. “I don’t know why you should be so surprised she is arrested. It’s your name on the papers.” He held them out for Ramsey to see. “You made the denunciation yourself, citoyen.”

“No!” But his name was there in dark black ink. He glanced up and saw Gabrielle’s eyes harden. Her gaze slid away from his—but not before he saw the flicker of hurt and disappointment.

“No,” he protested. But he was talking to himself.

The footsteps on the stairs faded away and the door closed, and then Alex was before him again.

“I don’t—“

She slapped him hard. “Get out, traitor.”

Chapter 18

If the warden at La Force had been surprised to see her, he hadn’t shown it. He had merely handed her over to a guard who showed her to a cell, crammed with twenty or so other prisoners. They stood when she entered, and she perused them quickly, realizing she had been put in with the nobles.

Her preferential treatment didn’t calm her. Her knees were wobbling, her stomach was in knots, and her thoughts were racing. She couldn’t seem to control or even slow them down. They were like an orchestra, playing the same reel over and over and over until she wanted to cover her ears and scream.

But she couldn’t do that among the aristocrats. She had to hold her head high and pretend she was regal and noble about dying. She couldn’t show fear or cowardice. And so when the guards closed the cell door behind her, she gave her fellow prisoners a placid smile and folded her trembling hands in front of her. But in her mind, her thoughts circled.

You will die. You will die. You will diediediediediedie.

The men occupying her new home, most still wearing their coats of silk and velvet and their linen shirts and expensive lace, stood along the edges of the wide rectangular room. There was a long table in the center, and the equally well-dressed women in the group sat there, stitching or working on needlepoint. The women looked up at her then back down again. She read in their quick glances despair and pity.

An older gentleman moved away from the wall and gave her a courtly bow. “I am the former duc de Châtre. I am sorry to have to welcome you to our humble cell.”

Gabrielle blinked. Such fine manners belonged in a salon, not a prison cell. But what had she expected? “Thank you. I’m Gabrielle, Viscountess McCullough,” she said over the noise in her head, which had not abated.

Ramsey betrayed you. Ramsey betrayed you. Traitortraitortraitor…

Another man stepped forward. He was younger, but resembled the duc with his dark coloring and steel-gray eyes. Gabrielle thought he must be the duc’s son. “You’re an Englishwoman.”

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