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“I found a little.” He pulled it from his pocket and dropped it on a table. “I think I must have a pouch in this wardrobe somewhere.”
“And what about the key to these fetters? I can hardly go about with a chain dangling down.”
“The cuffs on the shirt will hide it,” he said. She gave him a dark look.
“Or I could look for the key.” He opened the wardrobe and began to shuffle its contents. In the meantime, Honoria peered at the money on the table.
What the marquis described asa littleturned out to be several hundred assignats. Honoria had never been poor, but she had never had money to spare either. It amazed her that anyone could find so much money lying about, seemingly forgotten. She had never felt any antipathy for the nobles in England or France, but if she had been born just a few rungs lower, her feelings might have been somewhat less neutral. Parisians were starving, and this noble had enough “forgotten” coin lying about to feed a family for a week.
“Aha!”
She turned, eager to be rid of the weight on her wrist, but the marquis held up a small purse. In one quick motion, he swept the assignats into it and tucked it in his coat.
“And the key?” she asked with another glance at the clock. It was half past nine now.
“It must be here. I looked through the rest of the house.” He went back to his search, and she wandered the perimeter of the room. She dared not open the curtains, but she parted one very slightly and looked out on the Boulevard du Temple. People were lined up outside the Salon de Cire, ostensibly to see whatever new tableau the wax artists had created. The day was sunny, so at least she need not worry about being caught in a cold rain.
She dropped the edge of the curtain back into place and stared at the marquis. He still searched the wardrobe, bent so he might look into one of the lower shelves. Was it wrong to admire the way his buttocks looked in the trousers? She should look away now—not that he seemed to have any compunction about staring at her body.
She looked away anyway. If he caught her watching him, it would invite trouble.
“Wait a moment.” His voice was muffled from within the wardrobe.
“You found it?” She moved forward, eagerness mixed with hope.
He straightened and held up a small key. “I think this is it. Let us try.”
She held out her hand, and he took it, holding her wrist lightly in one hand and brandishing the key in the other.
“You needn’t touch me,” she said, when he’d inserted the key. “I can hold my hand steady.”
He turned the key. “I rather like touching you.”
She could not see his face, as his head was bent in work, but she thought she heard a smile in his voice. Then the cuff opened and clattered to the floor. Honoria snatched her hand away and rubbed it as though it had been burned.
“All set then?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And if your friends refuse to help us?”
“They won’t,” she said, starting for the bedchamber door. She would be glad to be out in the open with him again. The bedchamber felt infinitely more dangerous when they were alone together.
“And if they do?” His voice was right behind her.
“Then you and I will go alone,” she promised. But even as she said it, she felt a tremor of unease.
***
IT WAS NOT DIFFICULTto hire a carriage, and she allowed the marquis to tell the driver the story they’d agreed upon. They would visit a sick friend in the Rue du Jour and then journey to the Place de la Révolution to see the executions. The driver grunted and nodded in agreement, and Honoria kept her head down when they climbed inside.
“Thank you, citoyen,” the marquis said before climbing in after her.
The driver called to the horses, who started smoothly, and Honoria watched the line of people outside the wax museum with interest.
“I don’t like it,” the marquis said as they sped past the last of the people in line.
“Do not like what, citoyen?” she asked.
