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Tristan reached into his pocket, sliding his hand over the letters he had copied. They were not enough to condemn Robespierre, but they were the beginning of a stockpile of ammunition his opponents would need in order to depose him.
Robespierre, who had been like a brother to him, who had dined with him, with whom he had worked side by side, with whom he had discussed grand plans for the country and the new republic. It sickened Tristan to betray his friend thus. And then his gaze strayed to the windows of the café. Not far away, in the Place de la Révolution innocents died under the blade of the National Razor. Further away, men like Jean-Baptiste Carrier executed hundreds daily in Normandy, using creative methods, each crueler than the last.
The man who condoned such actions was not the man Tristan had known. He might wear his face and speak with his voice, but his words were those of a stranger. This stranger did not seek justice but power, and Tristan could not stand by and allow the abuses to continue.
Tristan swallowed the bile in his throat, withdrew the papers, and slid them under the table into Allié’s waiting hand.
“You have done a great service to your country,” Allié said, rising and tossing several coins on the table to pay for the coffee he had not drunk. “A great service.”
Tristan watched him go. “Then why do I feel as though I’ve just signed the papers for my own execution?” he muttered.
Two
“We have him now,” SirAndrew Ffoulkes said, slapping a stack of papers on the table where Alex sat cleaning her pistol.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s unwise to startle a woman holding a loaded weapon?”
Ffoulkes glanced at the pistol. “My nanny drilled it into me daily, but your pistol isn’t loaded.”
“This one is.” She pointed to the one she’d finished cleaning and set aside.
“In any case, you heard me come in.” He took a seat opposite her in the cozy attic room above the house she’d rented on a narrow street off the Boulevard du Temple.
The new safe house was close to the theater, which made it convenient for work. It was also near the lodgings of other actors, which made it inconvenient. She’d taken it anyway because the attic was large enough to accommodate half a dozen and the house was built in such a way so that the uppermost room was not visible from the street below. The National Guard had a penchant for searching private residences, usually in order to loot weapons and food, but they often stumbled upon fugitives and former nobles in hiding as well.
Before Alex had moved in, with Lord Edward Hastings acting as her lover, several agents of the Scarlet Pimpernel had made structural changes to the house so that secret panels opened in the walls allowing access to the attic from an internal stairwell. They’d also created an exit from the cellar to the alley behind the house. Washing was always conveniently hung out to dry here, providing cover so the members of the League might leave without being easily spotted.
Then they’d furnished the attic with a small stove for warmth, three narrow beds, a dresser, a washstand and basin, a table and chairs, and an escritoire with a very wobbly leg Honoria complained about whenever the table and chairs were full and she was forced to use it to make forged documents. Alex rather liked the attic space and spent more time here than she needed, considering she had access to the entire house at any time. The room was small and dark, but comfortable.
Except for the fetters hanging on the wall.
But she preferred not to look at those or consider their purpose. This was the fifth safe house Alex had lived in over the past year, and she was rather weary of moving. She was rather weary of Paris, but the Pimpernel needed her for this mission. She could not let him or the little king down.
At present, only she and Ffoulkes occupied the attic space. Dewhurst had gone out with Hastings and Honoria and her marquis were resting—or so they’d said—in the bedroom below. The other members of the League had moved to another safe house. Alex did not know where it was, and she did not want to know.
A week or so ago, she had passed Sir Edward Mackenzie on the street, but they had not even glanced at each other.
