Chapter Seventeen
They were now in a better room. Unable to discover the reason for the change, Anthony lay on his bed, while Philippe slept. Whatever the reason, the beds were welcome as was their first decent meal in days, the water fresh and plentiful.
He lay dozing when their cell door opened. A man entered with a candle. He silenced them, a finger to his lips.
“You must come with me,” he whispered. “Make no noise.”
“Where do we go?”
“Away from this place, if all goes well.”
“You are helping us escape?” Anthony wondered if he was dreaming. He placed a hand over Philippe’s mouth. Motioned for him to rise.
Phillippe nodded and struggled up, fear in his eyes.
“This man will help us,” Anthony murmured in his ear. “We must be quiet.”
Philippe attempted to stand. His knees buckled.
“For the Lord’s sake, hurry, we only have a few minutes before the changing of the guard,” the man hissed.
With an arm around his waist, Anthony hefted Philippe through the door and into the dark corridor. The sobs and moans from the wretched prisoners, followed them.
“This way.”
Why would this man help them? Not yet allowing himself to hope, Anthony hitched Philippe against his shoulder and they shuffled after their rescuer, following him down a stairway.
Laughter floated up from below, and the man paused. “Our superior has his woman here,” he muttered. He blew out the candle, and they stood in the dark. Anthony listened to the thud of his own heartbeat, and Philippe’s strained breathing as he fought to stay upright.
The man tapped Anthony’s arm. “Slowly.” He continued down with them behind him, step by agonizing step. Beside him, Phillippe hissed through his teeth, but doggedly shuffled on.
The man produced a large key and unlocked a heavy iron door. When he struggled with it, Anthony stepped forward to help him. The door creaked open, and they stared into the dark misty night. An iron grill barred their way. The man unlocked it and ushered them out onto the moss-covered steps. Anthony could hear and smell the Seine below them. He gasped. He wasn’t dreaming.
* * *
Verity licked her dry lips. Her nerves jangled worse than her stage debut. Henrietta fidgeted beside her.
“I’ve caught my gown on a nail,” Henrietta said pulling at it.
Something flipped in the water. Remi had thrown in a line and caught a fish! He pulled the small slippery body aboard and removed the hook.
He grinned. “Dinner!”
The metal gate squeaked. Three men crowded onto the steps. Anthony! Verity grinned at Henrietta, whose face was alive with happiness.
Remi jumped onto the bank as Anthony and the Frenchman struggled down to them. The baron was unsteady and in danger of falling. Anthony held him up, an arm around his waist, clutching the iron rail.
Jean-Paul came down behind them. He squatted and held out both his hands. Henrietta reached up and placed the sapphire necklace carefully into them. Nodding, he shoved the jewel necklace into his pocket, turned and disappeared inside. The metal gate slammed shut behind him.
“Papa!” Henrietta’s urgent whisper carried over the water.
Remi signaled for quiet. He organized where each of them sat to better balance the boat. The baron was next Henrietta. A big familiar body wedged in beside Verity.
“Verity?” Anthony stared down at her, confusion in his eyes. He was barely recognizable with a dark beard, gaunt cheeks, and razor-sharp cheekbones. He stared at his daughter where his companion slumped against her shoulder. “Hetta?” he whispered, incredulous. “What the Dickens?” He shook his head as if to clear it.
Remi dug in an oar and turned the boat about. It was riding alarmingly low in the water. The current was with them this time. Verity watched the walls of the asylum vanish as they were swept along.
“We came to France to rescue you, Papa.” Henrietta’s voice trembled.
