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Alex kept her gaze down, and Tristan could almost feel the panic rising off her. If Élodie looked past Dewhurst and saw her, all of their lives would be in danger.
“Nothing to see here.” He handed Alexandra’s papers to the blond. Tristan almost reached out to take them, but he gripped the reins tighter, trying to act as though he was completely unconcerned.
The blond looked at Alexandra’s papers and then handed the entire stack back to Tristan. “You’d better hurry if you want to make it before nightfall.”
“Oui, citoyen.”
Tristan called to the horses and the cart started forward. His back burned as he felt the gaze of the guards on it. He clenched his fists to resist the urge to look back at Dewhurst. Alexandra gave a small moan, the only indication she had begun to weep. Tristan reached over and took her hand. “He will be fine. He’s resourceful.”
She nodded, wiping her eyes. “He’ll be fine.”
He wondered if she’d heard the lie in his voice as clearly as he’d heard the one in hers.
Twenty-Two
“?Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,’” Tristan quoted as he strolled out of the theater with Alexandra on his arm. It felt strange to walk freely through the streets of London so late in the evening. In Paris, the curfew would have been in effect and anyone out and about without a pass would have been arrested. But here men in beaver hats with ebony walking sticks strolled by, smiling at the pretty girls they passed. Ladies climbed into coaches that clogged the already congested streets. Somewhere the bells of a cathedral rang, and a hawker advertised pasties in a voice rough from use.
He’d forgotten what freedom felt like.
“So you liked the play, then?” Alexandra said, smiling up at him. She was dressed in scarlet, a color she wore very well. When they’d arrived in London, lodgings and clothing had been waiting for them, as well as a position as a French tutor for himself. Tristan hadn’t asked questions. He knew when the Scarlet Pimpernel had a hand in something by now.
And just this morning a letter had arrived from Austria thanking Miss Martin for the safe delivery of the sheet music. It had caused much joy for the recipients and would be treated with the utmost care. Alexandra had burned the letter after she’d showed him. They embraced as they watched it burn, knowing the king, Montagne, and Miss Blake had succeeded on their journey.
They’d had no news of Dewhurst or of Ffoulkes. She’d made inquiries, what few she could, but no answers had been forthcoming. At Tristan’s urging, she’d also made an attempt to locate her parents. She had more luck with that search and had written to them at their last known destination, hoping they’d receive the letter when they traveled back that way. Tristan had agreed to attend Shakespeare’sJulius Caesartonight in part because he wanted to take her mind off the friends she’d left behind in Paris. Also, because he didn’t hate Shakespeare as much as he’d led her to believe.
But there was no reason to drop the ruse now. “The play was tolerable.”
She scowled at him. “You sound more and more British by the day.”
“I attended the play you wanted to see, and this is the thanks I receive?”
“I’m sorry, but you have to admit it’s the perfect production for the time. A tyrant is murdered, which leads to civil war and ultimately to more tyrants. That must sound familiar.”
“Vaguely.”
They’d reached the edge of a park—Tristan couldn’t have said which one—and he decided this was as good a place as any. He gestured to an empty bench. “Sit with me a moment?”
