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But Alex kept her hands still in her lap. She had waited before, and she knew half the battle was keeping the panic at bay. The republic might be quick to sentence and lop off the head of the condemned, but it was not so quick to free them. Papers had to be reviewed, superiors consulted, not to mention the difficult task of finding one prisoner among the ever-growing masses.
She heard footsteps approaching and tensed. She searched her memory for the tale she would tell if the guard had found them, but a moment later she heard Dewhurst’s voice. “He’s coming. Quick! Around the corner. We’ll meet him in front and be away.”
The carriage rocked as Hastings and Dewhurst climbed into position and then the horses jerked forward and they were off. Alex closed her eyes and said a quick prayer they were not driving into a trap.
***
TRISTAN WAS DISMAYEDby how easily he had freed the abbé. The prison’s warden had barely glanced at his papers after he’d recognized him as Robespierre’s secretary. No one had questioned Tristan as to why the abbé was to be freed or where Tristan would take him. Guards merely left to fetch the man and after some time, during which Tristan and the warden shared a glass of wine, a man who could not have been more than forty but who looked a decade older was brought out.
The thin man in the dark clothing and small clerical collar had squinted in the lamplight. “What do you want with me?” he’d asked, clearly afraid some new horror awaited him.
Tristan had no ready answer, and so he’d brushed the question aside. “I will ask the questions, prisoner.” Then he’d saluted the guards, gathered the man by the back of his neck and pushed him, a bit too hastily, through the doors.
As they walked away from the guards, Tristan’s heart hammered in his chest and his blood pumped so hard in his veins he could feel it throb in his neck. He recognized the feeling as the same one he’d felt as a boy and he’d won races against other boys. It was the thrill of victory. The thrill of winning.
He did not have time to analyze the feeling then, and he was rather glad of that fact because if he thought too closely about the rush of excitement flowing through him, he might have to acknowledge that the foe he had beaten was the very government he’d worked so hard to install.
Instead, he prodded the abbé along, releasing the man’s neck because it felt so frail and thin under his fingers. He wondered when the man had last eaten or—judging from his smell—bathed. And then a bolt of fear struck him hard in the chest because the carriage he’d shared with Alexandra Martin was nowhere to be seen. Tristan curled his hands into fists. This had not been a test, as she’d claimed. This had merely been a way to trick him into a criminal act so he might be captured and tried.
But even as he thought it, he dismissed it. They needn’t go to these lengths to expose him. They had the papers he’d copied. His career, and possibly his life, would be over if those were made public.
“What now, citoyen?” the abbé asked.
Then they both looked to the street as the sound of horses’ hooves broke the night’s silence. The conveyance had not even come to a halt when the door flew open and Citoyenne Martin’s face looked out at them from the dark interior. “Come on!” She beckoned them with one small hand, starkly white against the red of her cloak.
And then they were running, and the anticipation fired his blood again. The abbé climbed into the carriage and Tristan was right after him, barely making it inside before the horses were off again. The carriage tore through the empty city streets, and Tristan, still floating from his recent success, parted the curtains.
His heart stopped painfully in his chest. “Where are we going?” he asked, but he already knew. The city gates.
“Abbé Bertrand, would you like bread and a little wine?” Citoyenne Martin asked the man, ignoring Tristan. She held out a napkin with several slices of bread and a flask that Tristan supposed held wine.
“Thank you,” the abbé said, taking the food, his hands shaking as though he feared he would drop the precious cargo and it would be lost to him forever. He had not taken a bite when he looked at the woman and then Tristan. “Will you not join me in breaking bread?”
Citoyenne Martin shook her head. “I have already supped.” Then she looked at Tristan. “He is quite content as well. Please eat and drink. Your journey will be long, and you need your strength.”
“And who am I to thank for this kindness?” the abbé asked.
“A friend,” she said, putting her hand on top of his. “Forgive me if I do not say more. It is better if we do not tell you our names.”
Her voice had a softness, a compassion Tristan found almost novel. She obviously felt a benevolence for this man, although she had never met him and might not ever see him again after this. When had the people of France lost their compassion? When had they began to love vengeance more than compassion?
“Where is he taking us?” Tristan asked, indicating the coachman. He kept his voice low, though it would be impossible in such a small, enclosed space for the abbé not to hear.
“The abbé has a ship to catch tomorrow evening. He must leave the city tonight.” She had drawn the hood of her cloak up about her face again, but he could see the outline of her face in the shadows.
“Are you mad?” he demanded. “The gates are closed. We risk our freedom as it is, being out after curfew.”
The abbé glanced at Tristan, then Alexandra. “I do not wish anyone harmed on my account.”
“Do not trouble yourself, abbé,” the woman told him. “This has been the plan from the beginning.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” Tristan asked. “I would have told you leaving the city at night is impossible.”
“Not if you know the right people,” she said, her gaze steady on his.
Tristan slumped back on the seat as though a fist had punched him in the chest. They planned to use him—his name and connection to Robespierre—to escape the city with the abbé. Not only would Tristan be associated with the unauthorized release of a prisoner, but he would be associated with the man’s flight from the city.
“I won’t do it,” he said flatly. He had already decided if he was questioned about the abbé he would claim the release papers were part of a large volume of papers he received from the Convention each day. They must have been given to him mistakenly. As he did receive a large quantity of papers each day and as mistakes were frequently made with prisoners—usually sending them to the guillotine without trial, not freeing them—this excuse would be believed.
