Page 10 of Souvenir Heart

“Silly, I know, but I feel naked without it. Some people keep a diary; I have my sketchbook. Instead of writing down my thoughts, I draw them. Need milk? I draw a pitcher and a cow…” The babbling was getting worse, she knew, but it was either that, or scream, Get the hell out of my house!

“You seem…distracted. Let me fix you a bite to eat.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Marguerite said, though she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Sometime before she’d found the note. Should she tell Victorine about the note? She opened her mouth. Tried to form the words, but no sound came out.

“Well then,” Victorine said, moving past her, uninvited, to occupy the settee. She started to spread her skirts but stopped as she noticed a smear of ochre paint on the brocade. Carefully avoiding the stain, she patted a space beside her. “Come. Sit. Let’s have a little visit.”

“No.” Marguerite struggled to keep her voice calm, to avoid looking at the bundled shawl. “I can’t. I was just about to go out…important errand…”

Victorine patted the space on the settee. More firmly this time. “Whatever it is, surely it can wait. We haven’t had a good chat in ages…”

Marguerite glanced around the room, desperate for a convincing excuse to leave. “I must get some linseed oil; I’ve gotten paint smeared all over one of my skirts—that’s why I bundled it up in the shawl there and I really must deal with it before it sets…”

Victorine studied the bulging bundle. “A skirt, you say?”

“Well, really, more than a skirt. An entire gown, fichu, shawl—I somehow managed to upset a wet canvas and when I tried to catch it, the whole thing tumbled down and…such a mess.” She gathered up the bundle and stepped back. “So, you see, I really must do something about it as quickly as possible.”

Victorine’s eyes narrowed as she considered the three canvases set on easels in front of the window. None of them, Marguerite knew, showed any evidence of smearing. Then her gaze shifted, moving towards a small table between the easels that held a glass full of brushes, a palette, rags and a small bottle of yellow fluid. Gesturing towards it she asked, “isn’t that linseed there?”

Marguerite caught her breath. “Yes, but…it’s really not enough for the mess I’ve made. Please excuse me Victorine, but I really must go now.”

“If you’re so concerned about the stain setting, why don’t we take what you have into the kitchen and set the clothes to soak in a tub first?”

Could the woman not take a hint?

As if to confirm she could not, Victorine rose and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

Margurite’s arms tightened around her bundle of clothes. If she wanted to make a run for the door, she’d have to dodge around the woman. But what other choice did she have? Her heart beginning to hammer again, she took a step forward.

There was a crash as her front door was thrown open. A pounding of booted feet across the parquet floor. The shards of porcelain would be nothing more than powder now, she thought madly, as the horrifying cacophony rose into the stairwell. A troop of men, shouting as they ran. “There’s the mark upon the door. The traitorous bitch is here!”

Six

“Idon’t like this, Marcus,” James said.

The two men were standing so close together that Marcus could feel the heat of the man’s frustrated fury. Aware of Dinsmore’s reputation as a swordsman, he shot a glance at the man’s hip to make certain he hadn’t armed himself since the fight with the national guardsmen. He could hear Andre and David getting to their feet behind him. Lifting his eyes to meet Dinsmore’s, he caught sight of Elizabeth and Joley standing a short distance away.

“You’ve made your disapproval plain,” Marcus said. “It’s getting tedious…”

Dinsmore’s jaw tightened, the dueling scar on his cheek rippling like the Devil’s whiplash. He’d granted Marcus leave to go, but only because he had no other choice. When Lord Grenville had explained their mission, he’d made it clear that the team was expendable, but the comte was not.

“You’re wasting more time arguing when we ought to be on the road. We’ve already lost precious time dealing with that patrol. There might be others ahead. And the cutter is waiting…”

“You realize that once it sails, you’ll be stranded in France.”

“There will be other ships.”

“Are you so certain?”

“When he gets over his rage, Grenville will most assuredly send one,” Marcus said, offering up a silent prayer that his years of service and invaluable forgery skills would outweigh what his master would undoubtedly consider ‘going damnably rogue.’

“But there’s no telling when,” Dinsmore reminded him. “In good weather, it’s a 24-hour crossing. In bad and with French patrols, there’s no telling how long you may have to wait.”

Marcus did a quick calculation in his head. “Three weeks. Give me three weeks. Tell Grenville I’ll be waiting at the rendezvous on the coast in three weeks.”

“So, you have a plan?” Dinsmore asked, in a tone that made it clear he very much doubted that Marcus did.

“Ride to Paris, find the comte’s daughter, bring her back to England.”