She changed into a sober gown of dark blue linen, added her cape and a straw bonnet, and left for the Gaite theatre.
* * *
“Mademoiselle. I am glad you came. The season ends. I must look to the next.” Monsieur Morel glanced over Verity’s shoulder. “And where is the beautiful Henrietta today?”
“She has not been well, monsieur. Can I contact you about the play, or do you need a firm answer now?”
“There is time.” He sucked his pipe, a shocking habit, Verity thought, since theatres so often burned down.
“I came to ask you for a further favor. Would you ask around about my father? I understand he has been held in the dungeons of the Conciergerie, but now...” She faltered, unable to continue.
He patted her back. “A terrible time, mademoiselle. I doubt anyone in that prison survived the massacre.” He scratched his head. “There is so much confusion it will be difficult. I can’t promise anything. A stagehand has a relative who works as a guard there. If you please wait, I’ll go and ask him.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Morel. I am most grateful.”
Verity wandered around the room and searched through the costumes. A pile of soft caps and sashes lay on a table. She snatched them up and wrapped them in her shawl.
Monsieur Morel returned. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. He has gone for the day. If you could come back tomorrow?
Verity left the theatre with her bundle. She dabbed at her eyes. Strange, she’d shed few tears since her father had been dragged away, she’d been so focused on getting him released. And even when she’d begun to doubt he ever would be, the ice in her heart refused to thaw. Now she was like a watering pot.
As she tucked her handkerchief in her reticule, a man dressed in shabby clothes barred her way. She glared at him and was about to order him to stand aside when he bowed. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to find you at last, Mademoiselle Garnier.”
Verity’s heart skipped a beat. Beneath his almost impeccable French, which would fool many, she detected a language of which she was familiar. English. “And you are, monsieur?”
Blue-gray eyes searched hers. “We share a mutual acquaintance.”
“I hardly think so. Who would that be?”
“We don’t have time to dice with words, mademoiselle.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a deserted laneway. “When I last saw you, you were in the company of a certain young lady.”
She shook her arm from his grasp and moved away. “What might you want with her?”
“I intend to help her.”
“What makes you think she needs your help?”
“If she remains in France, then that is self-explanatory I should think.”
“And why do you wish to help her?”
“Suffice to say, I knew her in a better time.”
“We are talking at cross purposes, monsieur.”
A man passed the laneway entrance and gave them a curious glance. “Such are the times, mademoiselle.”
They studied each other while Verity wondered where she’d seen him before. Would it be foolish to trust him? “You wear the cockade. What is your name?”
“No need for names. Why did you and our mutual acquaintance come to Paris?”
Verity’s heart galloped. Was it an open secret? Would Danton hear of it? “What interest is it of yours, monsieur?”
He’d read her thoughts, his gray eyes grave. “Your secret is safe with me. I am a friend.”
“Where did you meet this, acquaintance, of mine?”
“London. Where I first saw you, in fact. You performed a piece from Shakespeare’sHamletat the home of Baroness Le Trobe.”
