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“Good God, I’d rather you call me Laurent thancitoyen. If we’re to invade the Temple prison together, we might as well call each other by our Christian names.”
“I’d rather the formality,” she said stiffly.
“Too bad, Honoria.”
Honoria bristled, but said nothing. She suspected he was merely trying to provoke a reaction from her, and she would not give it to him.
The marquis looked out the window and shook his head. “I do not like this at all.”
“Are people gathering in the street?” she asked, fearful of a mob.
“No, but this is not the shortest way to the Rue du Jour. He is taking us somewhere else.”
Honoria glanced out the window, but she didn’t know Paris. She had no idea if this was the way to the safe house or not. “You must be mistaken.” And why had she trusted him? How did she know he hadn’t intended this all along and now made up a story to cover his lie? He’d made it clear he didn’t really want to go to the safe house. “Why would he take us somewhere else?”
“Because he suspects we are not who we appear to be. Devil take it!” He rose and crossed the carriage to sit beside her so he faced forward. His gaze was on the window, looking ahead to the path the carriage traversed.
“What is it?”
“Stupid mistake. We should not have hailed a carriage on the Boulevard du Temple. The driver has probably traversed that street a thousand times. He knows my house. Knows who I am.”
Honoria watched him closely. He wasn’t acting. He was worried, and she was as much to blame as he if they had made an error. She hadn’t considered that it might be dangerous to leave from the marquis’s apartments. But surely the man was merely paranoid.
“Is it possible you are overreacting?” She clutched her hands on her knees, trying to keep calm. Hysteria would not serve either of them.
“Yes.” He gave her a brief look before turning back to the window. “It is possible.”
Honoria let out a sigh. “Then perhaps we have nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing at all except that our present course will take us nowhere near the Rue du Jour and directly to the Conciergerie.”
The gray stone Conciergerie, built on the left side of the Île de la Cité, had been a royal palace in the fourteenth century. Now the Tribunal met there, which was convenient because as soon as the Tribunal condemned a man or woman, he or she could then be imprisoned in another part of the Conciergerie to await an appointment with the guillotine. Marie Antoinette was there now, and while Honoria sympathized with the beleaguered queen, she did not wish to share her fate.
Honoria rose on one knee in order to see over the marquis’s shoulder. In the distance she saw the Conciergerie—or at least a building that looked like the depiction she’d seen in paintings. Its towers and line of windows were reflected in the Seine. “What do we do?” She squeezed his shoulder tightly, partly to keep her balance and partly out of a sense of urgency.
“I don’t know.” He looked back at her. “I am taking suggestions at present.”
Was he making light of the situation? Did he find the thought of imprisonment in the Conciergerie amusing?
“Monsieur.” She grabbed his other shoulder. “This is serious.”
“That is what I have been saying, but short of jumping from a moving conveyance, I do not know what else to do.”
Jump from the carriage? They would probably break an arm or leg or worse on the cobblestone streets. It was a fate better than what waited for them at the Conciergerie, but they might end up there anyway if a broken leg prevented them from running and hiding from anyone who saw them jump.
“Up ahead.” She pointed to a few stalls where women sold vegetables and the ever-present tricolor cockades. At this early hour, the stalls were quite busy and the street was crowded with people. “The carriage will have to slow to move past those people. That’s our chance.”
He followed the direction of her finger and nodded. “That’s our best chance, but before we attempt to kill ourselves, let us try to be reasonable.” The marquis lowered the window and stuck his head out. “Citoyen!” he called to the driver. “This is not the way to the Rue du Jour.”
“The way is blocked, citoyen,” the driver called back. “This is a slight detour.”
Even in the carriage, Honoria could hear the lie. Her heart thumped so hard now she felt ill. Her stomach, thankfully all but empty, heaved.
“We would rather walk, citoyen. Stop the carriage here.”
The driver’s response was to call to the horses, and the carriage lurched forward faster.
The marquis slid back inside.
