AllFreeNovel
Share Us
As she was a British citizen in a country at war with Britain and working to snatch the “enemy” out from under the noses of the Committee, Honoria was doubly at risk. Fortunately, her French was flawless—thanks to her family’s origins in Brussels, and her papers impeccable—thanks to her skills in forgery.
If neither of those attributes saved her, she had a weapon of last resort.
At the door, Honoria paused. “Who is it, please?”
“Open up!” a man said in cultured French, slightly slurred.
“Of course, citoyen, but who is calling?”
“I have a paper,” he said.
Honoria furrowed her brow. This was no group of soldiers. Had someone stumbled upon the wrong house? “Go away, citoyen. My husband is not at home. If you return later, he will speak with you.” She had no husband, but it was what Ffoulkes had instructed her to say if anyone should come to call.
“Open the door,” the man said again. His voice had grown weaker, but still full of authority. “And I’ll show you the damned paper with the red flower.”
He’d spoken in French, and so his words had beenla fleur rouge. It made no sense. It was a madman at the door.
And then dread slid down her back like an icicle.La fleur rouge. A scarlet pimpernel. The Pimpernel’s symbol was nothing more than a small red flower.
Her fingers fumbled with the locks, tripping over them in her haste. She flung the door wide and caught her breath. Blood dripped down the man’s cheek from a gash to his temple. His clothing was covered in mud and dried blood, and he leaned on the side of the door, barely supporting himself.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She pulled him inside before anyone might see him, and then wondered if it was already too late. If one of her neighbors had spotted him on her doorstep, she was doomed.
They were all doomed.
“Not God,” he said. “Citoyen Bourgogne—at least that’s what they call me.”
“Do not speak,” she hissed, leaning him against a chair while she hurried to close the door and turn the locks before anyone might walk by and see or hear them. It would take no more than a moment for a passerby to ascertain what she already had in one quick glance. This man was a noble running for his life. Honoria did not know if he’d escaped soldiers, a mob, or the Conciergerie itself, and at the moment she did not care. She just needed to lock the dratted door and close all the drapes. She did this with speed and efficiency.
Alex had told her not to close the drapes unless there was an emergency. Closed drapes made one look as though one had something to hide, but if a French noble bleeding on one’s carpet was not an emergency, Honoria did not know what an emergency was. Oh, how she wished Alex or Hastings or any of the League was here. They would know what to do. She was just a forger and an antiquarian. What did she know about head wounds and fleeing nobles?
When she’d secured the ground floor as best as she could at the moment, she turned back to the man, who had sat in a chair in the entryway. “I do beg your pardon,” he said, indicating the upholstery now stained with his blood. “Very bad form of me.” He looked up at her, slowly, a lock of his chocolate brown hair falling over one moss-green eye. Even with the blood and the fatigue on his face, she could see he was a man of beauty. “Is your Pimpernel here?” His words were slurred, probably from pain as the gash on his temple looked shallow but painful.
“We’ll not speak of him at the moment,” she said. “We must clean you up and hide you.”
“I’d prefer you feed me. If you are making a list, do add that, won’t you? I could use food and wine. Oh, and clean linens.”
She raised a hand before he could make more requests. “No wonder they are cutting your heads off,” she muttered.
“On second thought,” he said, “I may just rest a moment.” His head lolled back, and Honoria gasped when his eyes closed.
“No, no, monsieur! You cannot sleep here. You must go upstairs.”
“Can’t. Can’t open my eyes.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged. His skin was soft, his fingers uncallused, and yet there was strength in those long, elegant digits. If she did not usher him upstairs before he collapsed, she would have to wait until Dewhurst or Mackenzie returned. The nobleman—Bourgogne—was a good foot taller than she and three or four stone heavier. The secret space between the floors was under her bed. If he’d been followed or soldiers came to search, she had to be able to hide him there.
“Please, monsieur. Stand and walk with me. You may lean on me, and if you cooperate, I will give you wine and fresh linen.”
Lord Saint Denys had left some clothing when he’d gone back to England a few days ago. She could give that to this Bourgogne. They were of a similar size and build.
He opened his eyes, so green they reminded her of the English countryside in Derbyshire, where she’d spent time in her youth. “I like how you call memonsieur. I’ve missed it.” His eyes closed again.
“No, no, no!” She wedged her shoulder under his arm and scooted him forward. His head thunked heavily on her shoulder, staining her dress with blood. “Monsieur, please. Stand. You must.”
He heaved out a disgusted sigh and clenched his hands on the arms of the chair. Then with no small effort, he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed drunkenly before he caught his balance. “I am at your command, mademoiselle.”
She could not stop herself from glancing at the door. Had that been a noise outside? “Quick. Up these stairs. I will help you.”
