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He walked about the room, his boots echoing on the bare stone floors. “I am less concerned about the priest’s sermons than I am about what happened to the four hundred million livres of church property the Assembly stole when they dissolved the ecclesiastic orders and transferred the contents of the church coffers to the state.”
He had a point. The church’s money certainly did not go to buy bread or help the indigent. If it had, perhaps there would have been no need for the revolution to turn so bloody.
Montagne examined the contents of several cabinets. They were mostly empty of anything of value, probably stripped in the early days of the revolution. There were buckets and a broom. Perhaps cleaning supplies were stored here now. One cabinet was locked, and when Montagne forced the door, it opened to reveal a stack of crucifixes and images of Christ and various saints.
Honoria frowned. “Why would they put those in a locked cabinet?”
Montagne withdrew a small figure of one of the saints. Honoria could not have said which one.
“Because they are forbidden. We are not a Catholic nation any longer. We celebrate dog day, not Christ’s birth on Noël. Only images of the first sansculotte, Citizen Jesus, are allowed to be displayed. This is no longer a church but a Temple of Reason.”
“It is madness,” she whispered.
“I agree. And yet you chose to leave the safety of England and reside in the thick of it. Why is that?”
Honoria pressed her lips together. She owed him no explanation. And a pampered, selfish person like him would never understand what she’d felt when she’d heard Monsieur Palomer’s tale. “What now?” she asked. “You are free. Surely there is no harm in allowing me to return to the safe house.”
“Unless your friends make an appearance.” He shut the door of the cabinet filled with the outlawed saints. “We’re not safe until we are away from here, and I don’t want to attempt that in the daylight. Ffoulkes was right that if I am recognized on the street, I will not live long.”
“Then we simply sit here until curfew?”
He shook his head. Somehow even in the coarse shirt and coat, he managed to look handsome and elegant. His hair was combed and pulled into a short queue that looked almost like a stream of chocolate. “Now we find the crypt.”
Honoria stumbled back, moving intentionally toward the door they’d just come through. It was concealed behind a wardrobe that might have once stored robes and vestments, but the furnishing had been pulled far enough forward that the door could open and close with ease. “Are you mad? I am not waiting in any crypt, surrounded by skeletons or...or worse!”
“Why not?” He raised a brow. “Isn’t that why you came to France? To see the revolution up close? To witness the Terror for yourself?”
“No.” But wasn’t that part of why she’d come? Yes, she’d wanted to be more than a pretty face. She’d wanted to do something worthwhile with her life and to help the innocent people like Monsieur Palomer and the Scarlet Pimpernel. But if she was honest, there was an element of selfishness in her decision to come. She’d wanted adventure and excitement, not the monotony of her days copying documents and examining antiquities in the British Museum. When he’d contacted her, she’d all but begged the Pimpernel to bring her here. She’d argued she wasn’t afraid of anything.
But that had been a lie. She was very much afraid of death. She couldn’t understand why Montagne seemed to court it.
“There must be somewhere else we can hide.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but I don’t know where that might be. Come on.” He offered her his arm, as though there were just going for a stroll along the Champs Élysées. She shook her head and scooted toward the door again. Now she had one foot behind the wardrobe. Just a few steps and she could be through the door and back into the secret passageway. She did not think he would waste time chasing after her.
“Honoria,” he began.
“You may call me Mademoiselle Blake or Citoyenne Deschamps. You do not have leave to call me by my Christian name.”
“Very well, citoyenne. I do not have time to chase you into the passage. Come with me willingly or I will be forced to take extreme measures.”
The hard way. Extreme measures.Honoria did not know what he meant, and she did not care. This was her chance.
She darted for the door to the passageway, and she would have made it too if she hadn’t snagged her gown on the wardrobe. The furniture had splintered edges and her muslin caught easily on the side.
She tried to dislodge it, but the material did not rip cleanly and she was momentarily trapped. Finally, the splinter came loose, but by then Montagne had her. He swept her up and into his arms, and when she would have kicked him, he slung her over his shoulder.
She pounded on his back, not caring who heard. “Let me down.”
“Keep it up and we’ll have the whole National Guard on our heels. Try explaining why you aren’t wearing the tricolor to those most patriotic of men.”
She stopped yelling, but she continued to pound on his back. He walked quickly, moving through the church so fast that all she saw was a glimpse of pews and a blur of candlelight flickering on stone. She thought one of the priests might have peeked out from a room on the side of the sanctuary, but if he did, he disappeared just as quickly.
A moment later, the cool staleness of the grave made her nostrils burn, and Montagne started down a narrow set of steps. “I would be less likely to break both of our necks if you would cease abusing me,” he said, sounding like her pounding was nothing more to him than the nip of a puppy on his ankle. “It might also help if you would stay still.”
She gasped aloud when the flat of his hand landed on her bottom. “Get your hand off me!”
“I assure you, mademoiselle, I take no pleasure from this. It is merely to steady you.”
