1
The Parlour, Au Petit Suisse
16 Prairial Year II, four days until the deadline
‘Fiancé?’ Al looked from Camille to Ada to James, eyebrow raised. ‘That’s … illuminating.’
Camille felt hot and cold at once. This was impossible. This couldn’t be happening.
‘What are you doing here?’
James gave a sheepish grin, running his free hand through tousled damp locks.
‘I know, it’s a bit mad, isn’t it? But I’ve been so worried about you – the whole family has.’
He took her hand in his, giving only a passing confused glance at her Sans Culottes outfit. She let him hold it like a limp rag.
‘I’m serious, James. How did you find me?’
His face fell a fraction. ‘You – you put your address on your letters.’
‘But why are you here?’ Her voice was brittle. She could feel the whole battalion watching her. Ada watching her.
‘I told you, I was worried. The last letter you sent said you were going to get your father out of prison, and then we never heard anything else. They reported his death in the papers, but they said nothing about you and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things that could have happened – so I had to track you down. I’m so sorry about your parents—’
‘Well, I’m fine. You’ve checked up on me. You can go home now.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve just got here.’
She flicked a glance at the others. Guil was hiding behind an old copy of Marat’sL’Ami du Peuple. Al on the other hand was watching delightedly, popping pieces of walnut in his mouth as if he was at the theatre.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Ada.
‘We need to talk.’ She grabbed James’s arm roughly. ‘In private.’
Before he could say anything else, she barrelled him from the parlour and along the corridor into her bedroom.
‘Don’t get any ideas.’
He glanced at the rumpled sheets and arched an eyebrow. ‘When am I not the perfect gentleman?’
She shut the door behind them and rubbed her hand over her face. ‘When you said you’d follow me anywhere, I thought you were being romantic. I didn’t think you meant it.’
‘I was being romantic.’ He smiled, skin crinkling around his blue eyes. ‘And honest.’
He peeled off his dark red broadcloth riding coat and waistcoat, dripping rainwater over the floor. Beneath, his shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest.
Camille folded her arms, keeping her distance. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’
‘So you said.’
‘So go home.’
‘I am home, if I’m with you.’
He pressed a kiss to her lips. She could feel the heat of his skin through the wet fabric, smell the rain in his hair. His lips were chapped and a little rough, and in a flash she saw herself younger, kissing James under the shade of a willow tree, thinking nothing could be more perfect.
She pulled back, guilt rushing in.
