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LAURENT SMILED RUEFULLYwhen the door closed. She made more sense to him now. No wonder she hated any attention called to her beauty. She had certainly never benefitted from it. Perhaps he could show her that beauty was not evil but a great gift, especially when one had beauty inside and out, as she did.
Of course, he had promised Ffoulkes he would refrain from those sorts of lessons, and to think of seducing her now was surely the behavior of a rogue. But thinking was not behaving. One could not fault him for his thoughts...
He stared idly out the window, watching as the door of the building opened below and Honoria stepped out, carrying her basket, head down. She started toward the Tower. She must pass it on the way to the market.
Laurent looked ahead to trace her path and then his heart caught in his chest. A mob had formed a few streets away and was converging on the Tower. They had paraded the Princess de Lamballe’s head in front of the queen’s window here at the Tower. Would they do something similar again? What satisfaction could they gain from frightening children and the king’s young sister?
He rose slowly, his gaze falling once again on Honoria. She would undoubtedly meet with the mob, and then anything could happen. He knew he could not risk going out, but nor could he risk losing Honoria. Without another thought, he grabbed his coat, hat, and his cockade, and rushed after her.
He caught up to her just as she passed the Tower.
“Citoyenne!” he called, his voice breathy from his exertions. She did not turn. She had probably learned it was best to ignore men on the street who called to her. But he must reach her. He must stop her before she encountered the mob.
“Mademoiselle! Honoria!”
She turned, and her violet eyes widened. “What are you doing—”
He waved a hand. “No time.” Indeed, he could hear the sounds of the mob fast approaching. “We have to return.” She moved closer to him. “Now.”
“Why?”
But it was too late.
Laurent grabbed her and pushed her against the wall of the building. The mob, now grown to a hundred or more men and women, barreled toward them. The men wore sabots that clattered on the street, the customary pantaloons that had given them the name sansculottes, short-skirted coats called carmagnoles,and the red cap of liberty. The women wore the cap too. Many of them also wore sabots, but a good deal were barefoot and, shockingly, bare-chested.
Many were armed, running with rifles, clubs, rusty swords, and pikes. But one man drew all of Laurent’s attention. He carried a pike with the head of a young man upon it. The man had obviously been freshly murdered. The face was still quite clean, the lips lax, and the eyes drooping. The man’s hair, brown and pulled into a queue, hung down the back of the pike like a horse’s tail.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Honoria gasped. He’d been blocking her from view, but there was no hiding the face of the decapitated man.
And just as Laurent spotted the skewered head, the mob spotted him. “Look!” a woman yelled. “There’s another.”
Laurent had the ridiculous urge to look over his shoulder, as though the mob must be pointing at someone other than he.
“And he has a woman with him. Look at that face!”
“And that dress!”
“An aristo, to be sure.”
Laurent could hear the death bell toll. Could see his own head, alongside Honoria’s, paraded on pikes.
“Wait!” Laurent held up a hand, the gesture like holding off an attacking dog with a feather. He pointed to his cockade. “We are patriots, citoyens! We are with you.”
The mob slowed slightly, taking in the cockade, and also his clothing. It was the garb he had been given from the League and the shabbiest he had ever worn, but it was still far better than what the majority of the mob wore.
The man carrying the pike with the head, a leader of sorts if a mob like this could possess a leader, held up a hand, stalling the mob. For how long, Laurent could not guess.
“You are one of us?” He looked and sounded skeptical. His gaze traveled to Honoria. “What about her?”
“I am a seamstress, citoyen,” she said. “Here, I have my papers.” She fumbled in her pockets, and Laurent wondered if she’d remembered to bring the false documents.
“What are papers to us?” one of the women cried. She was missing two teeth, and a smear of blood marred one cheek. Laurent had been about to offer his own false papers, but Honoria’s attempt made him realize most of the mob was probably illiterate. What were words and paper to them?
“I swear to you, citoyenne,” Laurent said, “My wife and I are patriots.”
The leader stepped forward, and Laurent watched as a drop of blood splattered on the stones near his foot. “Prove it.”
“Gladly,” Laurent answered. But this new twist did not relieve him.
