Chapter Sixteen
“Traitor!”
Verity didn’t answer. She took Henrietta’s arm and led her away down the street.
Outraged, Henrietta pulled away. She stood on the wet cobbled street the sound of her heartbeat thrashing in her ears and stared at the actress. Danton had sent Verity to London to meet her father. For what reason? To bring him to Paris? Was Verity’s interest in this affair merely to suit her own ends? Henrietta had placed her trust in this traitorous deceiver. A dreadful sinking feeling settled in her stomach. She was afraid she’d be sick.
Her fingers coiled into her palms. She wanted to slap Verity, but held back aware of the curious looks from those walking past. “You work for Danton,” she hissed as she backed away.
Verity drew her off the street as a carriage rattled past. “We will talk, Henrietta, but not here.”
Henrietta shrugged her off. “How can I believe anything you say?”
Verity blinked as rain began to fall. “You have no choice,” she said, in an edgy tone.
Henrietta put her hands on her hips. “Don’t I? I can go to the British authorities, or throw myself on the mercy of the National Assembly.”
“Try that and you’ll end up in prison. The British consul has withdrawn from Paris.” She shook her head. “I have an idea of how to rescue your father. Are you with me or not?”
Henrietta angrily swiped her eyes flooding with rain and tears. “I’ll stay, because you are my only hope of rescuing him.Ifthat is truly your intention. But I will be watching your every move.”
“Why else would I be putting myself though all this?” Verity asked. “I might be enjoying a coffee with friends instead of standing here arguing with you in the rain. Come away, before we are completely soaked.”
Numb, Henrietta stumbled after her. Why did Verity care that her father was imprisoned in Paris? She could walk away having done what Danton asked of her. Why did Verity agree to it in the first place? Could Henrietta believe anything she said?
There was nothing to do but follow Verity’s lead. Once the plan to free him from this prison succeeded, not only would she never trust the Frenchwoman again, she would work against her.
Verity’s was searching for a fiacre. “I have little confidence the man will keep his word and treat them well.” Verity said. “We must come back tonight.”
Finally, an empty fiacre rattled down the avenue. Once settled inside, Verity turned to her. “I am not responsible for your father’s plight, but it’s true, Danton did send me to London. He has had my father thrown into prison but promised to release him if I obeyed his order.” She spoke with passionate urgency, but Henrietta didn’t feel inclined to believe her. She eyed the Frenchwoman as if she was confronted by a snake. “Oh? Where is your father?”
Verity’s face crumbled. She sucked in air. “In the Conciergerie dungeons, which is part of the Palais de Justice. Prisoners there await the guillotine. I am not allowed to see him, and I can’t find out if he still lives.”
The pain and sadness in Verity’s eyes had to be genuine, actress or not. Watching her, Henrietta suffered an unwelcome tug of compassion. “I’m sorry. Your plight seems as bad as mine. What is the plan?”
Verity sighed, closed her eyes for a moment. “My friend, Jean-Paul Aubrac might help us. But I intend to spend what’s left of the day inquiring after my father. You can wait at my home. I advise you to rest.”
“Rest? I’m not in my dotage,” Henrietta said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You needn’t.”
“But I want to.” She didn’t intend to let Mademoiselle Verity out of her sight.
Verity tapped the roof of the carriage. “First, we will eat luncheon. We must keep up our strength.”
They left the carriage and entered a gallery of shops. In a corner café with red check curtains, they ate bread and soup and drank coffee they could ill afford, while ignoring the provocative glances of the men at the bar and sitting at the tables.
“Are you in love with my father?”
Verity frowned. “That is a private thing between your father and me.”
Henrietta flushed and fell silent.
* * *
They had the cell to themselves now. Anthony worried about where they’d taken Josette and how she was treated. He knew Phillip did too, but he said nothing. It had begun to rain. Anthony leapt up and held onto the bars. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he stared out from the high window. Below them the brown waters of the River Seine swirled away through Paris. He struggled painfully to hold the small bowl out between the bars. Rainwater splashed onto his face and ran down his arm, soaking his filthy shirt. He hung there until his arm gave way then dropped back to the floor. After drinking from the bowl, he repeated the action.
Anthony knelt at Philippe’s side. Philippe drank a little water from the bowl then pushed it away. His eyes were half closed, and he shook his head. “You must drink it, Anthony. I’m not going to make it.” He was flushed and sweaty, his wound inflamed.
