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Robespierre edged closer. “Are you alone, citoyen?”
Tristan hesitated. If he said yes and Robespierre burst through the door and found Alexandra, he would doom them both. If he said no, it would go no better for him. The nature of the conversation tonight meant Tristan should have revealed anyone else present who might overhear.
“Yes, I’m alone. As I said, it was probably nothing.”
“Bring me that lamp.”
Tristan could do nothing but comply. He took his time, hoping Alexandra was well-hidden, though where she could find to hide in the sparsely furnished room, he did not know.
He held the lamp out to Robespierre but the man gestured for Tristan to lead the way. Tristan walked slowly into his bedchamber, holding the lamp aloft. He scanned it quickly, his mind in turmoil as he tried to fabricate explanations. Robespierre entered after him.
“There’s nothing here.”
The room was empty, and Tristan stifled the urge to peer about, looking for Alexandra. A cat meowed, drawing their attention to the window. The open window. The cat sat in the window and licked his paw.
“Is that your cat?” Robespierre asked.
“No. It belongs to the shopkeeper below.”
“You’d better close your window or the cat will come inside.”
Tristan went to the small window and looked out. He would not have been able to fit through, but Alexandra was small and slender. She might have managed it. He lingered long enough to pet the cat, using the opportunity to search the roof. But there was no sign of Alexandra.
“Now that I know you have such a soft heart,” Robespierre was saying, “I will see what I can find for you to do to help the children of Paris.” He moved out of the bedchamber and collected his hat.
“Thank you, citoyen. I will see you tomorrow.”
Robespierre took his leave, and Tristan sat heavily in the chair at the table. That had been too close. He hated this new game he played. He detested danger and intrigue, and somehow he’d found himself in the middle of it. Tristan tried to think of a way out, but all he could see was the small, thin figure of Louis Charles marching about his foul, cold cell.
And he knew, noble or not, he could not leave that boy to die.
Eleven
Alex had barely hadtime to take a few sips of coffee the next morning when a knock sounded on the door. Thankfully, she was the only one downstairs. Since Hastings had left with the abbé, she had to maintain the pretense that she was living alone. That meant the neighbors would have been suspicious if they heard talking or saw people moving around. Dewhurst, Ffoulkes, Honoria, and Montagne were careful to keep mainly to the hidden attic. Alex knew why such an arrangement was necessary, but it meant most of the cooking and housekeeping were left to her.
And, of course, she was the only one who could answer the door. She hadn’t yet gone to the attic to ask Honoria to help her dress, so Alex pulled her wrapper around her and padded barefoot to the door. It was after ten in the morning, but it still felt far too early for visitors.
