Chapter Eighteen
Christian entered his rented room in St Germaine. He changed his clothes, becoming a modestly dressed citizen of Revolutionary France dressed in taupe breeches stained slightly at the knees, an indifferent gray waistcoat and badly cut olive-green coat. His cockade pinned to his tricorn hat, he headed to a tavern where a contact he’d cultivated would supply him with all the important news.
Since La guillotine had become the official method of execution, it was in constant use in the Place de Grève beheading Aristocrats and other unfortunates deemed an enemy of the French Republic. A ghoulish mob crowded in to watch them. They clustered around the Tuileries, waiting for a chance to ridicule the king and queen. Even with the understand that these people had starved under the ancien regime, he was horrified by the level of bloodshed.
His contact, Henri Lamoure at the Black Boar had heard nothing of a new English lady in Paris. Christian hadn’t expected him to, for Henrietta appeared to be traveling in disguise. Henri promised to keep his ear to the ground. He did know of an English nobleman who was held for treason in St Germaine Asylum awaiting the tribunal. Justice from a tribunal could not be relied upon. Lamoure did not like his lordship’s chances.
Christian downed his tankard of ale and left, heading for the prison. If Beaumont was in St Germain, he had a fair idea Henrietta wouldn’t be too far away. He found the asylum in chaos. He asked a frantic, sallow-faced clerk and received a garbled reply. It appeared that two prisoners had escaped.
Amazed, Christian looked at the fortifications. “How did they manage it?”
“By boat, monsieur!”
“Ingenious.”
“Ingenious as you say. Now we will lose our heads. Except the man who brought it about. Jean-Paul Aubrac has left France.”
“Wise of him.” Christian tried to push through the man’s rising hysteria. “Who was it that benefited from this daring exploit?”
“It couldn’t be worse. The man was wanted by Monsieur Danton. An English lord by the name of Beaumont. And with him, an aristo, Baron St André.”
“By boat you say?” Christian hid his mounting excitement under a well-practiced, cool exterior.
The clerk pulled at his hair. “Oui.During the change of guard at eleven. The mist was so dense no one saw them go.”
Christian doffed his hat and left the clerk to his desperation. He walked along the avenue and turned into an alley which led to the river. From there, he could see the rear of the asylum and how it might have been done. Impossible to have crossed the river because buildings encroached on the opposite bank. That meant traveling further, either up or down the river. A busy bridge crossed the Seine to the west and would overlook them. He headed east.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast, after a restless night, Verity announced her decision to return to the city. “Uncle François has arranged a carriage and driver from the village.”
Henrietta jumped up. “I’ll go with you.”
“Not this time, Henrietta.” Verity looked imploringly at Anthony.
“Best you stay here, Hetta,” Anthony said. “Verity can move about with comparative safety. You cannot.”
Henrietta frowned, and opened her mouth to argue, but at the expression on her father’s face she lowered her head.
Henrietta didn’t trust her and wanted to keep her within sight. She sought to distract her. “I’ll bring some costumes back with me. One for each of us. We must travel in disguise when the time comes.”
Anthony’s smiled and shook his head. “I refuse to be Columbine. Or shall I be his father, Pantaloon?”
Her heart warmed to see him smile. “Whatever I can find.”
Philippe’s health improved daily, even though he fretted over Josette. François expressed the view that another week or two would see him on the mend. Josette’s treatment had probably saved his life. “The inflammation has faded. He needs rest now.”
Stripped to the waist, Anthony shaved and washed his hair in a barrel outside the back door. Verity worried that he still looked tired. She’d heard him prowling at night outside the room she shared with Henrietta. He would become sick too if he didn’t rest.
When the carriage arrived, he escorted her inside. “You will be careful?”
He had no idea how dangerous Paris had become for her. She patted his cheek with her gloved hand. “Paris is my city.”
“No longer the city of your memories. Do everything you can to come back safely.” Anthony kissed her hand, his eyes searching hers. “God speed.”
He shut the door. As the carriage rolled away down the lane, she looked back to see him standing with his hand raised in farewell. She searched in her reticule for her handkerchief to wipe away the flood of tears. Her fingers touched the reassuring cold steel of her pistol. She wondered if word had reached Danton that she’d returned to Paris. He would now know Anthony had escaped capture, and he would be suspicious of her. She needed to think carefully and keep one step ahead of him.
The iron-shod horses’ hooves clattered over the pebbled road alongside the river. The trees were turning russet and gold, the air crisper. She gripped her handkerchief at an overwhelming sense of urgency. Madness to delay too long. They must be gone before the rivers froze and snow banked up along the roads.
