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“That’s not what I had in mind,” she said, color rising to her cheeks because the thought wasn’t altogether alien. “And when did you become my guardian?”
He held up his hand to ward off more spluttering objections. “I simply want to remind you that what you do is purely your choice and should not be done on behalf on the league.”
She stabbed her hands on her hips. “Because we are too lofty for such tactics?”
Ffoulkes rose. “Because they do not work. No man likes to feel he has been used. No more than any woman. Bed him for your own pleasure, not for the sake of Louis Charles. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” she said icily.
Ffoulkes opened the door and brushed past her. Alex did not follow. Instead, she turned back to the room and found Montagne looking at her.
“You are playing a dangerous game,” he said.
“Aren’t we all?”
“I don’t think any of us has quite so much to lose.”
He was not talking about her life. His was as much at risk as hers. He was speaking of the life of Louis Charles. One misstep could damn the boy.
“Then I suppose I had better win.”
She swept out of the room and went straight to her room to wash and dress. She did not intend to go to Chevalier’s bed, but she doubted she could resist if he asked.
***
TRISTAN ARRIVED ATthe Temple Prison after dark. Robespierre did not like for anyone to be seen going in and out, and one of the stipulations of his visit was that he go after dark and alone. Another was that he not pay a visit to Citoyenne Capet, the daughter of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, who was also a prisoner in the Temple.
Tristan agreed. After all, it was Louis Charles he wanted to see, though as he stepped from his carriage, he wondered why Alexandra Martin had not expressed any concern over Marie-Thérèse. Why did she only worry for the welfare of the former king’s son?
The head of the guard came forward and saluted. Though he’d been told of Tristan’s visit, he still asked to see his papers. Tristan handed them over to the small man with broad shoulders and a wide chest, then looked about him as the guard studied the papers by torchlight.
The Temple structure had been built in the Middle Ages by the Knights Templar. It was by no means pleasing to the eye, not like Notre-Dame or Versailles. Its imposing gray walls, with the narrow slits that he supposed served as windows, or in periods of war as defensive positions for archers, had stood the test of time. Tristan thought one of the former king’s brothers, perhaps d’Artois, had lived in the Temple when he’d resided in Paris. The royal residence had been lavishly appointed and was undoubtedly comfortably furnished. But Louis Charles was certainly not being held in those apartments. He was held in one of the forbidding stone towers, and Tristan had no idea the condition of those buildings.
Finally, the captain of the guard had finished his perusal of Tristan’s papers. The compact man shoved them back at Tristan. “Citoyen Simon won’t be pleased.”
Tristan assumed he meant Antoine Simon, the former shoemaker who had been given charge of the orphan. “And why is that?”
“Because the boy should be asleep. And Citoyen Simon doesn’t like Citoyen Capet awakened unless he does it himself.” He gave a malicious smile then, and Tristan wondered what he had missed.
“But orders is orders. Come on then.” He gestured toward Tristan. “I’ll take you to him.”
He led Tristan across a dark yard, lit only by the occasional torch. The shadow of the towers seemed to all but obliterate the night sky and the walls around the structure muted the sounds of the city. Tristan could almost believe that he had stepped back in time to a Paris of several hundred years before.
Finally, he was presented to a guard outside one of the towers. The guard moved aside, and the captain fished a large key from his coat and placed it in the lock. With an audible creak, the lock turned and the door swung open.
“This way,” the captain said, moving into the dark tower. He started up the stairs, but after a few steps looked over his shoulder. “Wait here. I had better have Citoyen Simon wake the boy. He can tell you the boy’s daily routine.”
Tristan agreed and shoved his hands into his pockets while he waited for the captain to return. The tower was drafty and cold, which was not unexpected. It had been used as a prison before, and Tristan had never thought anything of it. But now he considered the children living here, and the accommodations seemed rather harsh.
Or perhaps that was Alexandra Martin speaking. She would have every noble dining on sweetmeats and drinking brandy while reclining on silk-upholstered chaises longues. These children were the offspring of the former king and queen and as such dangerous to the new republic. They must be kept imprisoned, and surely they had food and a fire and daily fresh air. It was more than many of the poorest in the land could boast.
Finally, the captain returned with a large red-faced man who reeked of wine and tobacco. Tristan nodded at him. “Citoyen Simon?”
“That’s me.”
“I am sorry to disturb you, but I am here on behalf of the republic. I need to take a look at the boy.”
Simon spat on the floor, narrowly missing Tristan’s boot. “Seems to me you might have waited until after I’d finished my dinner. I deserve a few minutes’ rest, I do. I work hard all day.”
