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Twelve
“Ithink you know everyone,” Alexandra said after leading him to the attic through a secret panel and a narrow staircase. Tristan wondered how many other residences had features like this and whether the National Guard knew of them. And then he wondered why people would feel the need for such features. Was this really liberty?
Tristan bowed at the quartet gathered near a table on which wine and glasses had been placed.
“Can we at least attempt civility?” The tall, slim man with the refined accent rose, managing to look both weary and expectant.
“Very well,” Alexandra said. “Tristan Chevalier, may I present the former Marquis de Montagne.”
“Citoyen.” Tristan nodded his head. He’d known at first sight the man was a noble, and he already disliked him for it.
Montagne sighed. “You should have presented him to me.”
Ignoring him, Alexandra gestured to the other woman in the room. She was an indisputable beauty with eyes the color of violets. “Miss Honoria Blake.”
She curtsied slightly. “Sir, a pleasure,” she said in English.
Montagne moved closer to her, and Tristan understood the warning to keep away.
“This is our leader”—Alexandra indicated the blond man who looked to be the youngest of the group—“Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.”
“Welcome, citizen,” Ffoulkes said, also in English. Tristan nodded and turned his attention to the black-haired, broad-chested man he’d met when they’d freed the abbé.
“And you’re Dewhurst, I believe.”
Dewhurst smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Lord Anthony Dewhurst. I know how important titles are to you.”
Tristan gritted his teeth. He was practically surrounded by nobility. He would have laughed if he didn’t think they’d all be dead in a few days.
Ffoulkes gestured to the table and they all crowded around. There were four seats, so Ffoulkes stood at one end and Dewhurst moved to a corner near the door. Across from Tristan, Montagne leaned back as though the chair was a throne while Miss Blake arranged her skirts gracefully and Alex perched on the edge of her seat beside Tristan.
“Do you mind if we continue in English?” Ffoulkes asked. Tristan shrugged.
“Good. Now that you have seen the error of your ways and come over to our side,” Ffoulkes began. Tristan stiffened and Alex laid a hand on his arm. Ffoulkes went on. “We need a plan to rescue the king.”
“You don’t have a plan?” Tristan stared at the group, incredulous.
“Our plan was to recruit you,” Montagne drawled. He pointed to Tristan. “Check.”
Ffoulkes frowned. “That’s not the whole of it. But it was difficult to plan much further without knowing all of the variables. Since you are—how to put it—rowing in our boat, we will be able to utilize some of your unique qualities.”
Tristan looked to Alexandra to translate.
“He means he wants to take advantage of your position and proximity to Robespierre.” She looked at Ffoulkes. “But we may already benefit from that. Chevalier was inside the Temple prison last night.” She cut her gaze to him. “Was it only last night? In any case, he can describe the security around Louis Charles.”
“I don’t have a good...image of where he is being held. I followed the guard to his cell.”
“Leave that to me,” Montagne said. He lifted a hand. “Dewhurst, my sketch.”
Dewhurst didn’t so much as blink. Montagne sighed, rose, and crossed to the escritoire. He slid open a drawer and pulled out a roll of paper. Then he unfurled it on the table, smoothing it with long, elegant fingers. “This is a map of the Temple prison.”
Tristan rose and studied the detailed drawing of the interior of the prison. Every room was drawn to scale, labeled, and doors and windows noted. Staircases and guard stations had been identified as well as what looked like secret passages.
“Mon Dieu.”Tristan stepped back. If Robespierre had any idea the league had something like this, he would not sleep until he caught every last one of them.
