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Laurent would have preferred to keep the lamp, but he would hand it over if it meant they could leave this grave. Holding the lamp before her, she squeezed through the heavy door, and he followed on her heels. The weak light illuminated two or three steps on the narrow staircase, and she paused to lift her skirts and peer up. “Where will we exit?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
She gave him a worried look, her brow furrowed and her porcelain skin burnished by the glow of the lamp. “The streets are dangerous. If we are stopped by the National Guard we will be arrested for certain. Even someone looking out his or her window might spot us and send for the soldiers simply because we are not wearing our tricolor cockades.”
He gave her a level look. “Then we should be careful not to be seen.”
She blew out a breath and with a resigned shrug, started up the narrow staircase. He was right behind her, so close her thin skirts brushed against his coat. When she reached the top, she paused to catch her breath. “There’s a door here,” she said, her voice a whisper. “If you would hold the lamp, I will try to open it.”
He took the lamp and held it aloft to give her light, but immediately it was clear she would not be able to move the door. It was either barred from the other side or, like the door below, difficult to move because of years of disuse. “Change places with me,” he ordered.
She pressed against the wall, and he stepped up. But when she tried to step down, her slipper slid and she inhaled sharply. Laurent caught her arm and yanked her against him. The scent of lavender wafted from her hair, and the warmth of her body branded him through his clothing.
“Thank you.”
She took a cautious step back, and he released her reluctantly. When he was certain she was steady two steps below him, he handed her the lamp and turned back to the door. Like the one below, it had a round handle, but it opened out, not in. Pulling the handle would be no help opening the door. Laurent pushed at the door, and when it did not move, he motioned for her to lower the lamp.
“Voilà!” he exclaimed when he saw the handle for the bolt. He grasped the metal and pulled. But the metal had rusted with the bolt in place, and as much as he yanked, it would not come loose.
The rough metal cut into his fingers, but he ignored the pain and the warm liquid on his skin, and putting his weight into it, yanked with all of his strength. The bolt began to slide. Laurent continued to pull, muttering curses in French, English, and Spanish, until the bolt came free.
Blood ran down his hand, but he ignored it. Using his shoulder, he pushed against the door. “God’s teeth this is heavy,” he gritted out.
“I thought there was no God, only the Supreme Being,” she retorted.
“Do not. Make me. Push. You down. The. Steps.”
She gave him a ghost of a smile, though he was only half-joking. Finally, the door creaked open, and Laurent fell onto rough cobblestones in a short, narrow alley. Honoria emerged after him, blinking in the daylight. She offered a hand to help him up, but he shook his head, not wanting to dirty her with the blood on his skin. When he finally gained his feet, he saw that behind him a wall sealed the alley. In front of him, it opened into what he thought must be the Rue Montmartre.
Good. All he needed was a bit of luck, and he would be at his little flat in the Boulevard du Temple in an hour or so. With his uninjured hand, he grasped her elbow and started forward.
“Where are you taking me? I want to go back to the safe house,” she hissed.
“And I want to go back to my château in Lyon. Neither of us will have our wishes granted today.” More roughly than he would have liked, he pulled her after him. He would have liked to let her go. Now that they were out in the open, he didn’t need to keep the Pimpernel’s League at bay, but he needed her forgery skills. The only way he would be able to ferry the royal children out of the country was with false documents and passports.
The Englishwoman could create those for him. Once he had the forged papers in his hands, he would let her go. He’d make certain she was safe. He owed her that much. He had never felt as though he owed anyone anything. It had been a long time since he’d cared what happened to anyone but himself.
But that was before he’d sat in La Force for five months and listened to roll call after roll call, men and women summoned to the guillotine. Honorable men and women who did not deserve to die. And while these nobles and commoners alike went stoically to their undeserved deaths, he was spared. He, who deserved the guillotine more than any tailor’s wife or lamplighter ever could.
Laurent had paid no attention to the weather, but now he saw the day had dawned sunny, crisp, and cool. The Rue Montmarte was lined with shops and cafés. It was the sort of day that brought Parisians out of doors to sip coffee and discuss the days’ news. Indeed, the cafés were swollen with men and even a few women. The patrons seemed engrossed in their conversation, but he kept his head down and walked quickly past them. He had to head east to reach the Boulevard du Temple. The walk was thirty minutes. He might have hailed a carriage, but he didn’t have any assignats to pay the fare. Nor did he wish to be recognized. He was just another citizen walking through Paris. He could not act as though he had escaped La Force and cheated Madame Guillotine the feel of his neck beneath her blade.
To her credit, the Englishwoman kept stride with him and ducked her head. She might have wanted to escape, but she wasn’t so much a fool as to risk her life to make a run for it. She seemed to understand this was not the time to call attention to oneself.
Steadily they angled west, avoiding the larger groups of men. It was later in the day and the executions were almost at an end. Those who had not stayed to see the last of them were laughing and chatting in small groups. Laurent followed close enough that he hoped any National Guard they encountered would assume he and the Englishwoman were also returning home from the Place de la Révolution.
“Where are we going?” the Englishwoman hissed in French. She’d been silent until then, her head down and her arm imprisoned by his hand. But he’d seen her gaze darting all around and guessed she had not seen much of the city until now.
“I have rooms on the Boulevard du Temple.”
“And you don’t think it’s dangerous to go to your residence? What if the guards discover you’ve escaped La Force? That’s the first place they will look. And what of your neighbors? They will report you if they spot you.”
He had already considered all of those risks. “That is why we are not making for the Champs Élysées. My apartment on the Bourlevard du Temple is small, a place to sleep if I was too tired”—or too inebriated—“to go home after attending the theater.”
“The National Convention would have confiscated all your property when you were arrested,” she argued. “Who knows who might be living in your rooms now. It might be Danton or Robespierre.”
He laughed. “Robespierre is far too frugal for my chambers. Besides, it’s doubtful the Convention knows of this residence. I paid the rent under a different name.”
For the first time since they’d left the crypt, she gave him a direct look. “Why would you do that?”
