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Did anyone care about all the innocent people trapped in the senseless violence of Paris? And if she did, what was she doing about it?
Monsieur Palomer had told others in the community of French exiles about her, and the next time an émigré had come to her with a request for false papers she’d made it known she wanted to work for the Scarlet Pimpernel. She didn’t even know if he was real, but if she was to go to France and help, she knew he was her best hope.
It hadn’t taken long for the Pimpernel to find her.
“Miss Blake!”
Honoria wiped her brow and rose to go to the door of the tiny room she shared with Alex. That had to be Dewhurst yelling. He would have bellowed prayers in church, and despite the fact that he was one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter, he had the worst manners of the lot of them.
“Yes?” She addedmy lordmentally, because even though they had no servants in the house and never any guests, they were careful as to how they addressed each other. They had false names, of course. French names, but though Ffoulkes was always reminding them to use the false names at all times, they rarely did when at home alone.
“We are for the market. A little shopping.”
She no longer believed they were actually walking to the market. The first few times she’d been told this, she’d asked after their missing packages when they’d returned. Now she understoodshoppingmeant a mission. She moved to the landing at the top of the stairs so she could see Dewhurst. He stood at the bottom dressed in the rough clothes of a revolutionary, complete with a carmagnole jacket, a tricolor cockade, and a Phrygian cap on his inky black hair. He’d wound a red and white striped sash about his waist, where the handle of a pistol peeked out. His face had a light layer of dirt and grime on it, and if he looked a little too healthy, too well-fed to have stepped out of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, no one would question him too closely. The dangerous glint in his eye tended to discourage questions.
That and the bloody pike he liked to carry.
“I do hope you find a bargain,” she answered. It was the accepted way for her to wish them good luck.
“Lock the doors and stay inside.”
“I will.” She kept her gaze on his face and not on the pike.
“Work in the dining room with the panel open. If anyone comes to the door—”
“Iknowwhat to do.”
“If he is one of ours, he’ll know the signal or have the mark.” Dewhurst narrowed his eyes, waiting until she nodded. “Even then, be careful.”
“Of course.” She’d heard it all so many times, but she didn’t blame him for reminding her. The Pimpernel himself might be in Paris right now. If he came to the door, she wouldn’t know him. She’d corresponded with him, even spoken to him on half a dozen occasions, but she’d never seen his face, and the few times she’d caught a glimpse of him, he’d been in disguise.
“What if something goes wrong?” she asked.
Dewhurst had been about to turn and walk away, but now he paused and gave her a long look. He had dark eyes, and they looked even darker in the enclosed space of the stairwell.
“It won’t.Au revoir.”
“Au revoir. Bonne chance.”
She heard a rumble of voices, the sound of the door, and then she was alone. Left behind, as usual.
She started back up the steps and made the mistake of peeking into the drawing room.
Left behind to clean up the mess. With a sigh, she bent to pick up a fallen pillow.
***
LAURENT LOOKED UP THROUGHa haze of sweat and blood and into the face of the devil. The devil was not a horned red creature with a forked tail, as the painters made him out to be. Neither was he the golden angel fallen from heaven. The devil was the frenzied mob butchering the helpless inmates of La Force.
The devil was the peasants of France.
He’d closed his eyes then, giving in to the peace that would come with death. If hell had come to earth, certainly death could be no worse. The shrieks and groans faded away, and he felt only the warmth of the sun and the cool of the breeze on his face.
“Citoyen Bourgogne.”
Something sharp prodded his ribs.
“Open your eyes. Citoyen, wake up.”
