AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Can you tell me more of what happened at La Force? Only if you feel well enough,” she said politely, though her eyes were hungry for information.
“Order your servant to bring tea or wine. I find I am very thirsty.”
“We don’t have a servant. I can fetch it for you.”
No servants? Laurent did not believe for an instant she was a servant. She was far too lovely to scrub floors. She would have been made some man’s mistress the moment she was hired. But she was no courtesan. She was far too modest for that.
“It can wait,” he said, raising a hand to stay her. “I believe I saw your compatriots at La Force. The prisoners are allowed an hour or two in the courtyard each day,” he explained.
“How very civil.”
“Yes. Kind of the revolutionaries to give innocent men and women some small freedoms.” His tone was bitter. He hadn’t even realized how bitter he was until hearing it in his voice. Not for himself. No, he deserved his fate, but for others. For Camille and the Princess de Lamballe and Marie-Thérèse. They had done nothing. “Unfortunately, the mobs either know when we are granted this privilege or bribe the guards to tell them. They stormed the courtyard and attacked the men, women, and children taking their exercise.”
A hand went to her mouth and she paled so that her eyes looked even more purple. Laurent realized she must not have been in Paris long. Anyone who had been in the city for more than a few weeks was used to the atrocities. They had become part of everyday life. But she was still appalled. She was either very naïve or had newly arrived in Paris.
He told her the rest of the story, concluding with the Scotsman who called the other men away.
“And no one hinted at what the problem might be?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s Alex,” she murmured. “It has to be. Alex is the only one you did not mention.” She closed her eyes, stemming the flow of tears. Laurent wondered who this Alex might be. He also felt an uncharacteristic tug near where his heart had been, back when he had a heart. What would it be like to have someone care for him as she cared for this Alex? Marie-Thérèse cared for him, of course, but she was just a girl. And like most royals, she cared much more for herself than anyone else. Amélie had cared for him, but she had died such a long time ago.
“I’m sure your Alex is fine,” Laurent said. “Your League is renowned for evading the National Guard and the agents of the Committee of Public Safety.”
“I hope you are correct. I will be back in a few moments with some refreshment. Then you should rest. When the others return, I’m sure you will have much to talk about.”
He was certain they would. There was a reason the League had saved him and sent him here, and it was not Christian charity.
We need him and what he knows.
When she was gone, he removed his shoes and reclined on the bed. It was not much better than the one he’d had in La Force, but it was quieter and smelled better. He should not waste time lying in bed. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He should start planning. He should take what he needed and go to Marie-Thérèse before the whole city was looking for him.
But the sheets were so clean and the mattress so soft, and he had missed these comforts. And his head still ached. He’d close his eyes just until the pounding subsided and then...
For the first time in months, perhaps years, he slept and did not dream. When he awoke, the room was darker and a tray of cold tea and bread had been placed beside the bed. He was alone in the room, and he heard no other voices in the house. This section of the Rue du Jour was not a busy thoroughfare, and he heard only the occasional rise and fall of voices as people passed by.
Laurent sat up slowly. His head still ached, but the pain was tolerable. He sipped the cold tea, ate the bread, and then rose. He could not afford to waste any more time. The king had been executed and the queen would be next. He could not help Marie Antoinette, although he had heard rumors at La Force that a rescue had been planned by Count von Fersen or that the Austrian government might save her yet, although Thugut, the Austrian minister, had publicly spoken out against this.
Perhaps the Scarlet Pimpernel would save her. If the man could save a wretch like he, even the queen might be saved.
In any case, Laurent’s concern was Marie-Thérèse. She was imprisoned in the Temple with her mother and aunt, Madame Élisabeth. The princess probably had Marie-Thérèse praying night and day. She was the most devout woman Laurent had ever met, and he’d avoided her assiduously when he’d been at Versailles. But Laurent was in possession of vital information, and this information was his best guess at why the Pimpernel’s men had saved him. As children, he and the king’s brother had played at the Temple. He knew it well, knew all of its secrets.
He had no time for the Pimpernel’s games. Laurent would go to the Temple, make his way in using the secret tunnel only he and perhaps a handful of others knew of, find the children, and escape with them. Then he’d only need good papers and a little coin to take all three of them over the border and to safety. He could get the coin from his apartments in the Boulevard du Temple.
Since he didn’t fall over, Laurent made his way out of the room and wandered to the stairwell. It was a small house, and he’d had to take only half a dozen steps. No one had rushed out to stop him. In fact, he wondered if he’d been left alone. Perhaps the Englishwoman had gone to fetch the National Guard to take him back to La Force and claim the reward.
With some care, he made his way down the steps and into the entryway. It opened into a small parlor, and beyond that he could see the dining room. Laurent stepped into the parlor and from that vantage point, he could see the Englishwoman sitting at the table. From his angle, she was in profile, and her features were the perfect illustration of rapt concentration. Curious, he moved closer and noted she had a quill in one hand and seemed to be scratching something on a paper. Besides the ink pot and wax at her hand were several brushes, paint, and a small saucer of ashes.
What the devil was the woman doing?
Whatever it was, she was so engrossed in it, she did not even notice his approach. He could move silently when he wished and as he’d forgotten to put his shoes on again, his feet made no sound as he neared her. A fire burned in the hearth nearby, and she looked truly lovely in its light. The glow made her black hair shine and gave those pale cheeks and lips rosy color.
Her hair had been styled simply—rather artlessly—but the coil above her neck emphasized the long graceful column of it. How he would have liked to run a finger down the back of that neck. He imagined her skin was as soft as silk. He would place a kiss where the first bone of her spine was visible and watch her body tremble in pleasure.
Finally, his gaze strayed back to the table, and he took a step back. Before her were two sets of identification papers, such as the kind every Frenchman was required to possess to pass in and out of Paris or the country. The first was obviously an original document. The second was in progress, a forgery. Now he understood the point of the ashes and the paint. Those were to make it look as realistic as possible. What a stroke of luck. If she’d give him the papers and coin, he’d be on his way.
“You’re making that for me,” he said when she’d lifted her pen to dip it in the ink pot.
