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“You will sleep here tonight, and if the guard comes, then Hastings will say he does not know where you are.” Honoria knelt beside her and took her hand. Dear, sweet Honoria. Her work for the Scarlet Pimpernel meant she was often backstage rather than treading the boards, but she was be as strong and steadfast as any of them. “Chevalier does not know where he was taken, and even if he comes here, he will never find the attic room. It’s too well hidden.”
Alex wished she had that much faith.
“I suppose there is nothing to do but wait. By this time tomorrow evening we’ll either have a plan to rescue the dauphin or we’ll have to start all over again.”
But they would start all over without Alexandra Martin.
***
TRISTAN CURSED BOTHthe mothers and the fathers of the Englishmen who had thrown him from the carriage and into the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Though he was well known as Robespierre’s secretary, that would not have saved Tristan from having his throat cut if the residents of that area had perceived he might have a purse or anything else of value. It seemed the Englishmen wanted him alive, because they had relieved him not only of his purse and his coat before dumping him from the conveyance, but also his shoes.
The poor of Saint-Antoine, who had led the march on the Bastille and challenged Marie-Antoinette at Versailles, had barely given him a second glance. Most huddled near small blazes that burned any kind of material the residents could find. They were simply trying to survive the cold night.
Tristan had the same goal.
By the time he’d arrived home, his feet were bloody and his arms were stiff from tightening against the chill of the wind. He stumbled inside, and for the first time he regretted not having hired a servant to attend him. True, Robespierre had no one, and Tristan had always followed Robespierre’s example, but tonight he would have welcomed the aid in lighting his cold hearth.
Finally, his stiff fingers relented to his iron will, and he was able to spark a fire. As he sat beside the hearth, attempting to warm his feet, which felt as though needles stabbed them, he brought the image of Alexandra Martin to mind. It was not difficult. He’d looked at her long and hard, memorizing each and every feature from her wide-set green eyes to her pointed nose to the dimples in her cheeks.
She had tricked him, abducted him, and threatened him. He’d never known such audacity in a woman. Not to mention the courage it took to reveal herself as a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Tristan called himself seven different kinds of fool. How had he not guessed? Not known? She was English. All English were suspect.
Except she had escaped suspicion because she had been in France before the revolution, and she had been nothing but a mere actress. What harm could an ordinary woman pose to the revolution?
Tristan could tell the Committee of Public Safety and the National Convention exactly what harm a woman could pose. Only to do so would damn him as well.
A small voice inside him asked whether he was not already damned for his part in this reign of terror Robespierre had wrought upon the country. And now this Englishwoman offered him a chance to redeem himself by freeing a priest—an innocent man of God, or so she claimed. Tristan would investigate the matter.
But that meant he was actually considering aiding the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The thought itself was enough to condemn him for treason. How could he even think such a thing?
But hadn’t he been looking for a way to stop the bloodshed? This might not have been the path he might have taken, but it was possible the choice had not ever really been his.
And it was possible Tristan could use this entire situation to his own advantage. He needed the letters he’d copied—the evidence that damned him—returned. What better way to accomplish it than by gaining the League’s trust? Then he could not only gain his own freedom but see them brought to justice as well.
Tristan might not like the bloody path the revolution had taken, but he liked theancien régimeeven less. The nobles and their privilege had murdered his mother, his father, and his sister. This abbé might not deserve to die, but the aristos the League rescued did. And Tristan would see that justice done.
The next evening Tristan dressed carefully. He did not know what one wore to break into a prison and free an abbé from his cell, but he opted for dark colors. He did not powder his hair and wore a dark hat low on his forehead. He left early for the Café Voclain and spent an hour or so drinking coffee there and observing the patrons before the appointed time to meet. He’d hoped to catch sight of one of the League without their disguises, but if any of the patrons at the café were working with the Scarlet Pimpernel, Tristan could not discern them.
“I confess I am surprised to see you here,” a feminine voice said in French.
Tristan turned and found Alexandra seated in the chair beside him. He hadn’t seen her enter the café or even been aware of her presence. She was obviously much more skilled at deception than he. She smiled. “You look surprised to see me as well.”
She sat and lowered the hood of her scarlet cloak—the same one she had been wearing the day before when she’d abducted him. And though he now knew her true nature, seeing her face again dazzled him all the same.
She was a snake with a beautiful skin and a heart of ice.
He had not thought her very pretty when he’d first met her, but she had been in a wig and theatrical makeup. The shedding of her costume had to be the reason he thought her prettier every time he saw her. Now she looked lovely with her pale hair and green eyes. When she smiled her whole face seemed to light up with impish amusement. He could not stop himself from smiling in return.
But there was something else in her features that drew him, a vulnerability that made him feel compelled to protect. This was the source of her true treachery and what made her truly dangerous. She made a man think she was weak and he was needed, and then when she had him, she used him for her own nefarious purposes.
She blinked at him, looking anything but nefarious. He was a man, and he could not stop his body from reacting to her. He wanted her, but that did not mean he need fall under her spell. In fact, Tristan wagered that the seductress could be seduced herself, and if he could seduce her, gain her trust, then he could once again gain the advantage.
Her slim, graceful brows drew together. “And what are you thinking? From your expression, it does not appear very friendly.”
Tristan relaxed his features, aware he would have to work harder at schooling them if he were to fool her. He was no actor, but he could hide his feelings. He had been doing so for months now every time he met with Robespierre.
“I am thinking you look cold,” he said. Raising his hand, he signaled the waiter to bring another cup of coffee. “Or do you prefer wine?” he asked. “They have spiced wine. It will keep the chill away.”
“It will also make me sleepy, and I’m afraid I need all my wits tonight. Does your presence here mean you will help with the small task I mentioned yesterday?”
