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That had been a different life, a life that now seemed to be nothing more than a rippled reflection in a pool of murky water.
Laurent couldn’t help but admire these men. Not only were they putting themselves in danger by opposing the revolution, they were English noblemen, a species Robespierre and his cronies viewed with almost as much contempt as they did their own French aristos.
All men were equal in France now, and that meant the guillotine didn’t discriminate based on nationality. English blood or French blood in the streets. It made no difference to the National Razor.
“So my good man,” Ffoulkes said after the actress had left and Hastings had been sent to the market to buy something to eat. Laurent did not wonder why they didn’t send Honoria. Her looks would have garnered attention, and these men did not want undue attention. In fact, only Hastings and the actress—who were playing the part of lovers for the benefit of the neighbors—left by the front door. The others took the secret entrance.
They’d closed the windows and spoke softly now to avoid being overheard in the street.
Ffoulkes clapped a hand on Laurent’s shoulder, and Laurent eyed it. He might have spent the last month or so in La Force, but he was not used to such familiarity.
“Let us see your progress.”
“I’m not quite done,” Laurent said, blocking the paper with his arm. “I need more time.”
“There’s not much time left. You and Citoyenne Deschamps will depart with me after the curfew. I know a way out of Paris that circumvents the barricades and gates.”
This was useful information. “What is it?”
“You will see when you have need of it. Which will be soon.”
Laurent had no intention of leaving Paris while Madame Royale was still imprisoned, but he hadn’t yet determined how he might convince the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel to assist in the rescue. He did know that he’d spent the last few hours pondering his plan, and he’d come to a new conclusion. He needed Honoria’s talents.
“Then you should leave me to my work,” Laurent told Ffoulkes. Beside them, the saucer rattled when Honoria set down her cup of tea.
“Surely you might give him more time,” she said in English, apparently forgetting he understood the language.
“No more time.” That was Dewhurst speaking. He proved himself to be every bit the brute he resembled by wrenching Laurent back and snatching the paper out from under him.
Dewhurst stared at the paper and then at Laurent. Laurent couldn’t have said what he’d drawn on it. Something to occupy his hands while he listened and tried to plot.
“Miss Blake,” Dewhurst said with a bow. “It appears you have an admirer.”
Her brow furrowed, and when Dewhurst looked at Laurent, Laurent wanted to groan. He’d drawn her, of course. He’d been looking at her cheek and her profile, and he’d drawn it without even thinking. He was a decent artist. Madame Royale spent hours learning the art of sketching, watercolors, and oils from great masters. Laurent had attended many of the lessons with her. A spoiled child, she didn’t appreciate the lessons she was being given. But Laurent had always had an eye for beauty, and he’d been an apt pupil, encouraging Marie-Thérèse as much as he could. Her mother often thanked him for his efforts, but he demurred. It was hardly an effort when he gained more from the lessons than she did.
Dewhurst turned the page so all could see. It was clearly Mademoiselle Blake. He looked pointedly at her to gauge her reaction and was gifted with seeing her cheeks turn pink.
“What is the meaning of this?” Ffoulkes demanded. “I asked you to sketch the plan of the Temple.”
Laurent sat back. “And I will, but only if you agree to my plan to rescue the royal children.”
Dewhurst slammed his hands on the table and glared at Laurent, his fists crumpling the sketch. “You are here as our guest. At any time, we can throw you back out onto the streets.”
“You won’t do that,” Laurent said calmly. “I have information you need.”
“There are other ways to obtain it,” Ffoulkes said quietly.
“Then why haven’t you? Surely you want the plans so you may go in and rescue the dauphin. He’s being held separately from his aunt and sister, and as he’s the heir to the throne, technically Louis XVII now, he’s watched as a hawk watches a mouse. You will never get him out.”
“Then why do you want to come with us?” Dewhurst demanded. “Is this about the princess again? That’s a waste of time. Austria will bargain for her.”
“Listen, monsieur,” Ffoulkes said, his voice level and reasonable, his back straight and his head held high. “You are leaving France tonight. You may either help us and your country before you go or not. But you are departing for England.”
Laurent sat absolutely still. He should simply go to England and forget the Temple. He could marry an English heiress, raise sheep in the English countryside, go to English balls and...whatever else it was the English did for amusement.
But for the first time since Amélie had died, he cared about something beyond himself. For once, he would do what was right, not what was convenient or pleasurable or easy. He’d caught the glint of the silver Mademoiselle Blake had been using to eat her breakfast—she often worked as she ate—and since the house had no servants, it still sat where she’d left it. Quick as a cat, he grabbed the knife and rose from his chair.
Dewhurst shook his head and pulled out his pistol.
