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“Might we discuss this later?”
“Of course.” She was correct. They did not have time to stand about chatting. If one of the Guard should look out a window or down from the roof, they would be spotted. “Do you see that tree? I’ll boost you up and you crawl out over the branch until you can jump onto the top of the wall. Then you’ll go over.”
“And you?” she asked.
“Fortunately, I am an expert tree climber.”
The task proved more difficult with two injured shoulders, but though he didn’t climb gracefully, he made it over. They landed on a busy street and ducked their heads, avoiding the curious eyes of passersby. Laurent had to remove Honoria from public view. She was too conspicuous in her male clothing and her all too feminine face and hair. Ahead he spotted a café and beside it a wine shop. He took Honoria’s elbow and leaned close. “We go into the coffee shop and walk out the back. Then we enter the wine shop and look for a place to hide.”
He hoped the simple trick would fool anyone following them. The only flaw in the plan was that the wine shop was unlikely to be crowded this early in the day, which meant they would be unable to conceal themselves in a crowd.
As they neared the café, the strong scent of coffee made him breathe deeply. He would have paid dearly for a coffee with mocha, and if he ordered that, he might as well yell at the top of his voice that he was a noble escaped from La Force. They entered the café, where several men shouted at each other across the room. It seemed a political debate was in progress. If it kept the patrons’ attention away from him, then he was in favor of whatever ridiculous measure the men argued.
He took a table at the back of the café, near the door to the kitchen. The table was round and wooden, but clean and stable. He leaned his elbows on it and peered about the establishment. The windows at the front were large, but the awning hanging above them blocked out most of the midmorning light, leaving the café dark and shadowy. A lamp or two burned, but for the most part the interior was unlit. The owners either could not afford or could not obtain oil to keep the room lit. A fire did burn in a hearth near where the two revolutionaries argued, and the back of the café was warm as well, being that it was near to the kitchens.
On one wall hung pictures of Robespierre, St. Just, and several other leaders he did not recognize. It was difficult to keep them straight as they changed from day to day, the new leader generally lopping off the head of the man he deposed.
He supposed at one point the king’s picture had hung in that place of honor. Now a shopkeeper was forced to change his loyalties from day to day.
“We go out that way,” he said, keeping his voice low and pointing to the kitchen door. “You go first, and I will follow.”
She nodded. “What if someone questions me?”
“Just keep walking.”
The expression on her face was dubious, but she didn’t argue. “Should I go now?”
“In a moment. We should sit here and appear to be engrossed in conversation. I would order coffee, but our absence would be noticed when the server returned with the beverage.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care for coffee anyway. It smells quite lovely and tastes absolutely awful.”
He gave her a withering look. “You English and your tea.”
Now she puffed up indignantly. The sight of her in men’s clothing acting the petulant female would have been comical if they didn’t have a dozen National Guardsmen to worry about. “Tea is a very calming beverage,” she said. “There is nothing like a warm cup of tea at the end of a particularly trying day.”
“Yes, I can imagine those Roman antiquities try your patience.”
She sniffed. “At times they do, but there are times one prefers to be soothed rather than to swallow some bitter brew.”
“Perhaps your government has been too soothed of late,” he said. “Your Parliament seems content to watch from afar while blood runs in the streets of Paris. George III might have helped his cousin. I know the Princess de Lamballe traveled to England and begged for help. Now the king lies in an unmarked grave and his wife will be next on the scaffold.”
“The King of England has his own battles to fight,” she said, but her voice lacked the fervor of conviction. Perhaps she was in Paris for more than a diversion. Perhaps she really did hope to help those in need. She had agreed to assist in his rescue of the princess and the dauphin. Her willingness to help him, despite the poor odds of success, meant she was undoubtedly braver than any of the idiot lords sitting in Whitehall at the moment.
Behind them the political discussion rose to a fevered pitch, and one of the men climbed on a table, shouting to be heard. “Now is your chance,” he said and nodded at the kitchen door.
Her face a mask of granite, she rose from the small round table and walked toward the kitchen door. It was slightly ajar, and before pushing it open, she looked back at him.
He read the concern in her lovely eyes, the need for reassurance, and something else.
Trust.
He’d seen that same look in Marie-Thérèse’s face too many times, and especially on the day he’d promised he would always come for her. He would save her.
He’d saved himself, leaving with the Comte d’Artois, and assisting his friend in creating an army funded by émigrés. He might have stayed and been safe, but he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t exist without seeing that look on Madame Royale’s face. It reminded him too much of Amélie’s scared expression when she knew she would die. He’d returned to France, at his own peril, to save the princess.
And now, looking at Honoria Blake’s expression, Laurent knew he would do anything to keep her safe too.
