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He shrugged. “A man likes his privacy.”
Her lip curled as she obviously assumed he meant he’d kept the apartment as a place to take women. He had brought women there on occasion, but for the most part, it had been, as he’d said, a place to sleep after a late night at the theater. After the revolution had begun, Laurent had seen the apartment as a place to hide should the royalists not win the day. He’d been careful to erase or transfer any papers or deeds that linked the property to him or his family.
He would be safe on the Boulevard du Temple, if he could but reach it. And it furthered his plan. He could gather some coin and the privacy would afford his little forger time to make the papers he required. He led the Englishwoman onto another street, this one rather narrow, and immediately realized his mistake. A half dozen soldiers of the National Guard had gathered a few hundred feet before them. Laurent could not pass without being noticed. Even if the men did not recognize him as the former Marquis de Montagne, the absence of a tricolor cockade or striped trousers would make him stand out. Nor could he turn the Englishwoman around and go back the way they’d come. The Guard would be on them like a wolf on a rabbit. He had no choice but to pass them and take his chances.
He began to move forward, but the Englishwoman resisted. “We cannot go that way,” she said, voice low and eyes anywhere but on the guardsmen. “They will stop us and question us.”
“We have no other choice. If we turn around, we look suspicious.”
“We already look suspicious!” she whispered. “We aren’t wearing cockades and your hand is bleeding to say nothing of the wound on your temple.”
He’d forgotten about the injuries, but now he looked at the smear of blood on his hand and almost smiled. He released the arm he held with his good hand and moved to the other side of her, wrapping his injured arm around her and resting his bloody hand on her side, just below her breast.
She jumped. “What are you—”
“Shh. Lean on me and let me be the one to answer questions.”
He propelled her forward. “This is it. I cannot believe this is the end,” she muttered.
“Halt in the name of the Republic!” one of the guards said, stepping in their path. The others fanned out, blocking any hope of moving past the men unmolested.
Laurent halted. “Citizens,” he said. “I beg you to allow us to pass. My wife has been injured.” He lifted his hand slightly so the guards might see the bright blood stain on her white dress.
But if Laurent had thought the guards would immediately part and allow them through, he was wrong. The men barely glanced at the injury.
“Are you a patriot, citoyen?” the man who seemed to be the leader asked, his eyes darting from the Englishwoman to Laurent. He was older than a good number of the guardsmen Laurent had encountered. So many of those had been little more than boys in baggy uniforms. This one was at least old enough to shave.
“Of course.”
“Where are your tricolor cockades?”
As though anyone could not wear a tricolor cockade, but Laurent bit his tongue. These were simple men, and while verbally sparring with them might satisfy his vanity, it would also doom him.
Which begged the question—where weretheirtricolor cockades?
Laurent was unused to having to answer to anyone and lies of this sort did not come easily to him. But he knew he’d paused too long when the Englishwoman elbowed him and darted a glance at him from under her lashes.
“Please,” Laurent said, trying to sound desperate. He’d never begged before, but he’d had men grovel at his feet often enough to know how it sounded. “My wife is injured. I must take her to a surgeon.”
The guardsman’s eyes lowered to the bloody stain on her dress again. “What happened?”
More questions. Laurent had never professed to be the most quick-witted. He’d always been rich and handsome and charming. He hadn’t needed his wits. Now he would pay the price for his lack—as would the Englishwoman and Marie-Thérèse.
He clenched the fist at his side, as though that might force his mind into action. And then the Englishwoman looked up at him, those strangely beautiful eyes met his, and he spoke without even thinking.
“Citoyens, we were attacked by enemies of the revolution!”
And wonder of wonders, the guardsmen looked alarmed. Of course, the Englishwoman looked alarmed as well, but hopefully the men were not looking at her shocked face.
“They came upon us, attacking us from behind, as we made our way back from the Place de la Révolution. We had been to see the”—he almost saidexecutionsbut changed his mind at the last moment—“sacrifices to liberty. These men were cryinglong live the queen! When we challenged them, they attacked, injuring my wife, and...”
Laurent knew he was in danger of going too far, but what the hell? His life had been filled with theater. He’d see this show to the end.
“And they stole our cockades.”
The Englishwoman closed her eyes, clearly indicating she felt this was one of her last moments on Earth. Fortunately, the action served to make her look weaker.
“They attacked you in the open?” the leader of the guards asked.
