‘How … unexpected.’
‘Indeed. A day of many unexpected things,’ agreed Camille. ‘Not least of which there was no record of a Citoyenne Aubespine ever being held at the Conciergerie. I checked, you see, after we couldn’t find her. A mistake, I thought. Perhaps the poor girl was in some other prison. The Luxembourg, the Saint-Lazare. But no one seems to know anything about her. Though’ – she paused, glancing at the streets on either side of the church, then took a step forwards – ‘I did find one more unexpected thing. There was something left behind in the cell at the Conciergerie. A mask made out of metal. Fitted, it seemed, to close around the entire head.’
She met the duc’s eye, watching for any flash in his ice-blue irises. A muscle in his jaw flickered. Pleasure flared in her gut. Got you, you lying bastard.
‘But, of course,’ she continued, ‘that couldn’t be anything to do with your daughter. So perhaps you’re right, and I got the wrong cell.’
The duc gave a sour smile.
‘A mistake, as you say. Obviously. They must have moved her.’
Camille bit the tip of her tongue to stop a smile rising to her own lips. Her situation was precarious, she knew, but watching the duc squirm was so satisfying.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, readying an appropriate expression of dismay and sympathy as she made her excuses to leave. But before she could, the duc spoke.
‘It seems our deal is not yet complete. I have already furnished you with a significant float to finance your exploits, at no small risk to myself, as you say. I expect to see a return on my investment.’
The satisfaction drained out of her immediately.
‘Then get better information. I can’t rescue a girl who’s not there.’
‘So find her. You seem to have your fingers in every grubby little prison in Paris. You have more than enough money to keep you in gin and bread, Camille du Bugue.’
Camille froze, eyes wide behind her mask. How did he know her old name?
‘Yes, I know who you are. In fact, I know quite a bit about you and your so-called battalion. A deserter. An aristocrat in hiding. A runaway daughter. All people who would rather their business be kept private, yes? Find the girl. Bring her to me.’ He bit off each word like a bullet. ‘Or I might find myself telling your Revolutionary friends just who’s been liberating their most valuable prisoners. Think of it as a penalty for failing to deliver to agreed terms.’
Camille’s mouth had gone dry, that familiar anger roiling in her chest.
‘We never agreed terms. Your side of the deal is as weak as mine. You’re not telling me everything, and that risk nearly cost my battalion’s lives. I’m not so interested in playing your game any more.’
‘Keep your nose where it belongs. I’m paying you. I expect even an arrogant girl like you to do as she’s told.’
She took a step forwards, hand drifting to her pistol. ‘She’s not your daughter, is she?’
An unpleasant smile flitted across his face.
‘Oh, no, I assure you. She’s very much mine.’
‘I’m not interested. Get someone else to do your dirty work.’
‘Watch your tongue around your betters, girl,’ growled Dorval. He had stayed silent until now, watching, calculating. His gaze made the hair at the back of her neck stand on end.
‘Or what? This is the Revolution, citoyen. There are no “betters” any more.’
Dorval hesitated, studying her. ‘You call yourself “Laroche” now. Like you’re some common girl from a back alley. But we know who you are, Camille du Bugue. We know who your family is. Or should I say, was. I saw what happened to your mother and father. I saw their heads roll into that basket like every person before them. Like the heads of your battalion will, if you don’t watch your step.’
Camille lunged forwards, teeth bared as her hand found her pistol. Wrenching it from her belt, she pressed it into Dorval’s stomach.
‘I watched them die too. I’ve seen almost all the people who raised me sent to their deaths in this Revolution. I’ve seen people stabbed, and beheaded, and strangled, or simply crushed to death in a riot because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. You think you can threaten me? Scare me?’
She leaned closer. She could see the broken veins in his nose and the nicotine stains on his teeth. The image of loosing a bullet into his gut flooded through her, the impact, the wet splatter of intestines, the heady tang of blood.
He tried to back away, but she jammed the gun harder under his ribs, savouring the shock in his eyes.
‘There’s nothing left in me to scare.’
She stepped back, lifting her gun clear. Dorval’s grin widened. She felt the weight of his full attention on her and she hated it.
