Page 3 of Souvenir Heart

Andre elbowed him in the ribs, creating another jagged slash in the drawing. “Have I ever told you about the time…” But whatever story he was about to launch into was cut short by the neighing of horses, the clatter of their hooves, and a voice demanding, “Everyone out. Show us your papers.”

A moment later, the Berlin’s door swung open to reveal David Aylesworth, a blond giant standing by the coach’s now unfolded steps. The four occupants gathered up their papers and climbed out.

Marcus was the last to descend, tossing his sketchbook onto the seat and whistling Beauvarlet-Charpentier’s jaunty Christmas carol, 12 Noëls avec un Carillon des morts. He studied the loose circle of national guardsmen surrounding them. To his veteran soldier’s eye, they looked more like a street gang than a troop of disciplined soldiers.

In addition to the captain, a young man with an uneven roll of curls below his ears, small eyes and an under bite that made him look like a rabbit, he counted five: two in blue uniform jackets, the others in a mix of red tunics, loose trousers, and the conical red liberty caps that, along with the tricolor rosette, had emerged as a symbol of revolutionary allegiance.

“You,” the rabbity captain said, looking pointedly at him as his men moved past him and began searching the coach with exuberant abandon. “Your papers.”

The papers, required for traveling even the shortest distances, included passports, signed testimonials from sponsors regarding the purpose and direction of one’s travel, and in some cases, a security card as well. Without them, a traveler might be returned to his point of departure, or to his maker, depending on the mood and suspicions of the guards.

Marcus reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew the required documents and handed them to the captain. His papers declared him to be a personal secretary en route to Marseilles. He was dressed for the part in a sober brown suit, his sable hair pulled severely back in an old-fashioned queue, and his long aristocratic nose adorned with a pair of clear glass spectacles. As he whistled, his gaze drifted over the guardsmen who were tossing items from the coach’s interior into the road, and, from the sounds of it, slashing the upholstery with their knives. His face bore the expression of a long-suffering man for whom life was nothing more than an endless parade of tedious indignities.

In actuality, like a hawk circling above its prey, he hadn’t taken his eyes off the captain or his men since they’d been pulled over.

“Are these all of them?” The captain squinted at the assembly of papers he’d been handed.

Marcus was confident the documents would pass muster. Not because they were genuine—far from it, but because he’d forged them all and he was unquestionably the best in the business. He had an exquisite eye for detail, a near perfect ability to recall images even after the briefest scan, and artistic skills honed over a decade of rattling about continental art salons following the decidedly dismal end of his service in the American war. Each and every document in the captain’s hands featured an impeccable array of falsified official signatures and seals.

“You are textile merchants?” the captain said, slapping the pile of documents with the back of his hand.

Continuing to whistle, Marcus reflected that he was less confident about how well their cover story would hold up. Certainly, avarice was a reasonable enough explanation to be traveling in France at this precarious time. The English demand for fine French fabrics, always high, was skyrocketing as the Revolution made them increasingly difficult to buy. French weavers, for their part, were increasingly desperate to sell as more and more of their best customers were trundled off to the guillotine.

Still, it was risky. Made more so by the fact that while James, the son of a duke, and Lady Elizabeth both spoke fluent French, both were distinctly…English.

Decidedly not the best thing to be at a time when France’s new government could hardly be called stable.

“We’re hunting Girondins,” the captain said.

“Girondins?” James repeated, turning the name of one of the Assembly’s leading political factions into a question.

“They’ve been plotting to restore the monarchy. Paris has ordered all the members of the party arrested. But some of the bastards have managed to escape the net. And we’ve had reports that a pair of English spies—a tall blond man with a scarred face and a young woman with dark hair, who may be working with them, are operating in this area.” The captain’s gaze lingered meaningfully on the angry slash a dueling blade had left on James’s cheek. “I’m afraid we’ll have to detain you for questioning,” he added in a tone that didn’t sound the least bit regretful.

The crash as his traveling desk was tossed to the ground, followed by the sight of his sketchbook flying through the air, made Marcus stop whistling. Delays. Complications. Those he could deal with, all part of the spy business. But people making free with his things—particularly his art supplies…

The guardsmen snickered.

“I am sorry that this unfortunate development has delayed your travels, gentlemen.” James, their team leader, looked pointedly at Marcus. He added in his cultured tones, “I trust your journey will continue smoothly once my wife and I have accompanied these officers back to Paris.” He brushed his left cuff with the tips of the fingers on his right hand, the signal to leave they’d agreed upon in the event of trouble.

Although they hadn’t discussed exactly how far the team should go. Marcus’s lips curved in a whisper of a smile. It was James’s first mission with the team, and Marcus, still feeling out the man’s skills, hadn’t asked. Asking for permission wasn’t his strongest suit. Nor was asking for forgiveness.

“We will miss your company, citizen,” he said, with a discrete nod at James. Tipping his own tricolor rosette-adorned bicorne at the skinny young captain, he added. “But we have no doubt justice will prevail.” Then he turned, nudging the comte forward, and addressing him by the name they’d agreed to use. “Armand, if you and David will ready the horses, Andre and I will be on our way.”

“We’ll need to collect our things first,” Andre interjected. With the sure-footedness of a man who’d spent a good portion of his life climbing in and out of bedroom windows, he stooped to retrieve Marcus’s writing desk. It lay unfolded, one hinge bent, in the dusty road along with the rest of the luggage the guardsmen had thrown about with the destructive contempt of men who assumed their power was absolute. He held it out, the question in his eyes as clear as their startling shade of blue: What next?

Marcus took the box, muscles he hadn’t even realized were tensed, relaxing slightly upon discovering that while many of the pastels were broken, the drawers and the secret compartments David had designed to conceal his forging tools were intact. He glanced around for his sketchbook but didn’t see it.

“Don’t forget this.” A guardsman in a red tunic was dangling a lace shirt from his right hand. He was leaning on his musket, his left hand wrapped around the barrel—Marcus noticed the lock was filthy, and the firing pan was askew.

“Amateurs,” Marcus murmured, ignoring the guard’s offering. He scanned the positions of the other soldiers, memorizing them, before turning towards the coach. It sat door ajar and stairs unfolded.

“Amateurs with guns.” Andre, who was following close on his heels, amended softly.

“Can’t even mount a guard properly. They’re more interested in Elizabeth than us.”

Andre glanced over his shoulder at the slender young woman. “In fairness, she is a proper distraction…”

Marcus slipped the fake spectacles into his pocket. His focus, as he bent to fold up the coach steps, remained on the men. “Six of them. Three of us. Two each?”