AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Alex rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s champagne and orgies every night.”
Montagne sighed. “Ah, the good old days.”
Honoria hit him, and he laughed. Alex suspected the marquis did miss the privileges that had come with his former life, but she knew he would not trade Honoria to have them back. She envied the two of them and not just because they frequently sneaked away for time alone. Although after what Chevalier had made her feel last night, she was keenly aware of how long it had been since she’d had a man in her bed. She missed the physical release, but more than that, she wanted the emotional connection she saw between Honoria and Montagne. She did not know that she wanted that with Chevalier. He was certainly the worst possible choice, but she would have to tread carefully with him or risk more than her life by inviting him in.
Her heart would be in jeopardy as well.
***
THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICSafety had been meeting for two hours and Tristan was falling asleep. The members were debating some new measure, whose implications probably should have horrified Tristan, but he really wasn’t paying attention. Instead of taking notes for Robespierre, his mind wandered back to the night before.
Alexandra’s skin had been so soft, her body so perfectly formed, her reaction to his touch all that he could have wanted and more. He’d like to damn Robespierre for the interruption, but his superior had most likely done him a favor. If he had taken Alexandra Martin to bed, what then? It was bad enough that he’d agreed to help the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel—he glanced up at the committee guiltily even as he thought the name—but he dared not take one of the members as a lover. He couldn’t afford to harbor tender feelings for her. She might betray him at any moment, and he might very well do the same to her.
They would rescue the boy king or die trying. If they succeeded, Tristan would almost certainly have to flee the country. It would be easier to do so without having to look back.
“Did you hear me, Chevalier?”
Tristan blinked and focused on Robespierre, who was staring at him behind his tinted spectacles. Indeed, the entire committee was staring at Tristan.
“I’m sorry, citoyen. What did you say?” Tristan ruffled the blank pages before him.
“I asked if you could read back Citoyen Saint-Just’s earlier proposal.”
“Saint-Just’s proposal?” Tristan pretended to scan the pages. The back of his neck felt warm, and he had the urge to loosen his neckcloth. After a few seconds of silence but for the paper rustling, Saint-Just cleared his throat.
“I can repeat it. I said—”
Tristan leaned close to Robespierre. “Excuse me, citoyen. I’m not feeling well.”
“Go get a breath of fresh air,” Robespierre muttered, his focus still on Saint-Just. “And when you return, citoyen, I expect you will be cured.”
“Yes, citoyen.”
He left the room quickly, exiting the salon in the Tuileries where the committee met, and walking the short distance to the Palais-Royal. The autumn breeze felt refreshing after the closed room stuffed with committee members. Tristan walked past the coffee shops, where men had once debated philosophy, government, and economics. He’d often sat for hours listening and speaking and arguing. Men still sat and drank, but they no longer jumped on tables and expounded on their views. Now they spoke to one another in whispers and hushed tones. If any of his friends from those days were here now, they would probably look down and hope he didn’t acknowledge them.
Vendors still stood by stalls, advertising their wares, but it seemed even fewer had goods to sell. He saw half a dozen stalls offering tricolor cockades. These were a necessity, as no one ventured out without proof of their loyalty to the republic.
And of course there were the ever-present prostitutes. Only a few moved about at this time of the day, but the mall would be filled with them later. One of them smiled at him and gestured for him to approach. He shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal before realizing it had not been a prostitute at all.
Alexandra stood leaning against a pillar, the hood of her red cape pushed down and a spill of blond curls about her shoulders. He knew it must be a wig, but it was a good one. For a moment he had not recognized her. He started toward her, unable to stop himself from wondering what she wore under the cape.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking for you.”
“But how can you have known—”
She tucked her arm through his. “Let’s walk. The ladies here will think I am stealing their business.”
They strolled along the wide walks as though they had not a care in the world. Finally, he repeated his question. “How did you know I would be here?”
“I didn’t. I followed you.”
He glanced at her and then away, disgusted with himself for not even having noticed he was being followed.
“There’s no need to berate yourself. I’m very good at not being seen.”
“Is that why you’re wearing that wig?”
