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Alex had insisted theyblindfold Chevalier before leading him into Paris. She hadn’t wanted him to know the secret entrance they used to avoid the guards at the gate. She’d used it on numerous occasions, and she didn’t want to find the guard lying in wait for her the next time she squeezed through.
She didn’t trust Chevalier any more than she had the day she’d met him. The league wanted to believe Chevalier was just a pawn in Robespierre’s schemes, but she’d been skeptical. Yes, he seemed uncomfortable with the bloody turn in Robespierre’s revolution. He also still seemed loyal to the ideals of the revolution. Perhaps the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of the Duc du Mérignac had twisted him so he no longer cared about justice and only wanted revenge.
When she and Dewhurst returned to the safe house, she focused on making plans to move, once again. She’d argued they were not safe now that Chevalier knew who she really was. Ffoulkes had cautioned her to give the man time. In answer, Alex had called him a fool and stomped off to devise an escape plan for Louis Charles with Laurent, the former Marquis de Montagne, who knew the Temple Prison better than any of them.
She and Montagne were still arguing about the best way to smuggle the boy out of the prison when Ffoulkes stood in the attic doorway. Alex ignored him. “He may be small for his age, but I cannot carry him. Perhaps if we found a real washerwoman, one who has built up that sort of strength.”
Montagne shook his head. “We can’t trust any of them.” He was too handsome with his glossy dark hair, his deep eyes, and his soft lips. His cultured French was so smooth she likened it to the best brandy she’d ever had. Even though she called him Montagne or occasionally Laurent, she still thought of him as Monsieur le Marquis. And his life was in danger every single moment he stayed in Paris. But he would not leave—none of them would leave—until the little son of Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI was safe. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “But there are still members of the king’s retinue in Paris. We might contact one of the loyal kitchen maids—”
“We shan’t need a washerwoman or to gallivant about Paris looking for people who do not want to be found,” Ffoulkes said, his shoulder braced casually on the doorjamb. “Citoyen Chevalier will help us.”
Alex and Montagne had been sitting at the table, but now she rose. “Are we back to this again? My lord, I have spent considerable time with Tristan Chevalier, and believe me when I say he would go to the guillotine before aiding any member of the nobility, especially Louis Charles.”
Ffoulkes nodded sagely. “You made a direct appeal on behalf on Louis Charles, did you?”
“Yes!” She stabbed a finger on the table. “And he was quite unmoved. He...” Her hand went limp and she rested it on the table. “How do you do that?”
Ffoulkes strolled into the attic and sat on one of the beds. “I’m a spy. It’s my job to ferret out information.”
Alex sank into her chair. “I know I was not supposed to say anything. I didn’t mean to. What has happened? Has he reported to Robespierre? Has Louis Charles been moved?”
Ffoulkes shook his head. “On the contrary, I believe your appeal affected Monsieur Chevalier. He will visit the Temple Prison tonight.”
Alex jumped up again. “What? Why?”
“The reason he stated when he applied for the pass was”—he dug in his coat—“I have it here somewhere. Ah. To ascertain the child’s health and well-being.”
Alex stared at him. “You did not know I told Chevalier. You assumed because he applied for a pass to the Temple.”
“And you confirmed my suspicions.” Ffoulkes rose from the bed. “And the only reason I am not charging you with insubordination and sending you home this moment is because telling the man of the boy’s plight seems to have worked. If my assumption is incorrect, you can be assured I will banish you back to England and see you placed—forcibly, if need be—on the first packet.”
Alex swallowed. She had no reason to assume Chevalier would be moved by Louis Charles’s circumstances. He might very well go to the Temple and inform the guard of the plot to rescue the boy king. But she couldn’t believe that. She’d seen compassion in him. He too had been a boy abused by those more powerful than he. Surely he would have pity on Louis Charles.
She couldn’t believe it for another reason as well. If she were wrong, she would be returning to England. Though she still thought of it as home, she had not lived there in ten years. She’d come to Paris with her parents and never looked back. Even when they’d returned at the start of the revolution, she had stayed behind. Paris was home. The People’s Theater was home. There was nothing for her in England.
Nothing and no one, for if her parents still lived, Alex had no idea where they lived or if they even cared to ever see her again.
Her family—Dewhurst, Honoria, Montagne, and even Ffoulkes—was here in this house. If Ffoulkes sent her back to England, he would be doing more than stripping her of her place in the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He would be taking away the only family she had left.
She could not allow that to happen. “I have to go out,” she said, and not waiting for a reply, gathered her skirts and started for the door of the attic.
Ffoulkes beat her to it. “Not a good idea, Miss Martin. I do not want you anywhere near the Temple.”
She glared up at him. “I don’t intend to go to the Temple.”
“Then what do you intend?” Montagne asked.
“I will visit Citoyen Chevalier at his residence. If I go now, I will be there when he returns from the prison.”
“If you go now, you will not be able to return before the curfew,” Montagne pointed out.
But Ffoulkes said nothing. Alex looked at him. “Do you not have some objection?”
Ffoulkes shrugged and stepped aside. “If you want to see the man again, I doubt I can prevent it.”
“I want to discuss Louis Charles with him, sway him to our cause—”
“You want to go to bed with him,” Foulkes interrupted.
