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“A pity.”
Honoria allowed the silence to drag on another few minutes. “Why is it a pity?”
“BecauseIassure you he has considered what it would be like to kiss you.”
“No, he has not!” Honoria sat up. She told herself the sudden surge of heat in her veins was due to disbelief. She wouldn’t allow herself to believe it might be the result of lust.
“Why do you think I don’t take the key for myself?” Alex asked.
Honoria hadn’t considered that option, and now that she did a coldness settled in her belly. “If you think him so handsome, perhaps you should,” she said. But her voice sounded false and tinged with bitterness.
“Because tonight in the dining room, he only had eyes for you,” Alex said. “If he’d even looked at me twice, I might have considered visiting him, but it’s not me who interests him.”
Honoria lay back on her pillow. “I don’t interest him either. He couldn’t stop the look of distaste from crossing his face every time I spoke today. He thinks me little better than a lowly servant.”
“How perfectly vexing for him.” Alex’s light laugh tinkled. “A commoner—an English one at that—has caught his interest and he cannot seem to keep his gaze off her. Oh, I do love to watch a play like this unfold.”
Honoria scowled. “This is not a performance, and if Montagne makes any advances toward me, he will be rebuffed.”
“You could have your pick of men. I don’t doubt that,” Alex said. “But something tells me the marquis has piqued your interest.”
“And something tells me it is late and you should stop talking so I may go to sleep.”
“Suit yourself.” The bedclothes rustled across the room as Alex turned on her side.
Honoria did the same, but it was a long time before she slept.
Four
Laurent could not stophis foot from tapping impatiently. They’d put him at a table near a small fire and asked him to draw a map of the Temple prison. He’d put his head down and pretended to be hard at work, but he was plotting how to escape this place, and he was eager to be away. He had no more time to waste. If the League did not want to help with his rescue of the princess, he’d do it himself.
Beside him Honoria labored on what he assumed were passports and papers they would use in his escape from France. Her head was bent, but from his vantage point, he could see the curve of her cheek and the sweep of her thick lashes.
Others came in and out, speaking in hushed tones. The Convention had set forth another decree. Someone in the Palais-Royal was calling for the transfer of Descartes’ ashes to a place of honor. The republican forces were still fighting in the provinces. Laurent wondered if Lyon, where he’d built his country estate, had yet fallen or was still under siege.
Laurent pretended to work and listened closely, and by the end of the day, he knew all of their names. The big one with the dark hair and eyes was Lord Anthony Dewhurst. The man with the auburn hair was Lord Edward Hastings, and the Scot was Sir Edward Mackenzie. The newest arrival, a well-dressed man with blond hair, was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He appeared to be the one in charge. They were all nobles, except for the women. Honoria and Alexandra. He’d known the petite blonde looked familiar, and after she left for the People’s Theater, he remembered seeing her in a production several years ago.
