Page 49 of Souvenir Heart

“Seven Rouen guardsmen,” the brown-haired soldier said.

“Seven of our brothers,” the blond amended. “Shot, slashed, butchered.”

“Laid out in a farmer’s field, like they were nothing.”

“One man did all that?”

“As far as we know. We’ve tracked him here.”

David, setting his glass down, saw the brown-haired soldier cast a look of contempt at the Parisian soldiers who’d been quizzing him. “Of course, it’s your territory, so you’ll have no trouble finding him and ‘mopping him up.’”

“What’s he look like?”

“Brown hair, brown eyes, no visible scars. Looks like a clerk.”

Which had been what Andre intended when he’d chosen the costume to help Marcus play his part; a dull brown suit, loosely cut to hide a body hardened by long marches and fighting. The sketchbook Marcus almost always had in his hands helped conceal his swordsman’s calluses.

“With that description you could round up half the clerks in Paris.”

David popped another olive into his mouth and chewed, straining to hear how they’d connected Marcus to the bodies in the field and how they’d traced him to Paris. It must have been someone at the stable where they’d rented him a horse.

He glanced back at Andre and Allard and saw they were getting up from their table.

He fished several coins from his pocket, more than enough to pay for his food and drink, straining to hear just a bit more.

“Are you leaving then?” The barkeep asked.

David nodded, reluctantly. The soldiers were still talking.

“His accent. Is it Parisian?”

“Or does he sound like one of you fellows?” The Parisian guardsmen were leaning towards the Rouen soldiers like hounds keen to catch a scent.

Andre and Allard brushed past him, and David knew he’d run out of time to hear more. Slapping the coins down on the bar, he counted to ten, then strode out into the night after them.

Thirty-Three

Normally, when he found himself in a quiet place during a mission, Marcus would take a deep breath and review the progress of his plans. But the alley was so noxious, no sane man would willingly choose to enter it, much less try to breathe there. It was dark, dank, and barely wide enough to accommodate two men standing shoulder-to-shoulder, though from the odor it was clearly wide enough to accommodate a single one pissing.

It was perfect.

Things were going to plan.

Marguerite de Rouvroy had agreed to accept his help. What did it matter if she believed he was rescuing her for money? Or that he couldn’t stop thinking about her?

It had been his choice to find her, he’d volunteered to bring her safely to England. It was only natural that she should be on his mind.

“Watch yourself, Dubois. You nearly knocked me flat.”

At the sound of a man’s voice nearing the alley, Marcus stepped back and tightened his grip on the sand-filled leather bag in his hand.

“I nearly knocked you flat?” Replied a man with the slurred consonants of the cheerfully drunk. “Look at your damn feet. You couldn’t walk a shtraight line if there were bayonets lined up on either side of you.”

A trio of soldiers stumbled past the alley.

“Leading strings,” yet another crowed, “we need to find some leading strings for him.”

“More like a harness.” Laughter drifted back as the men continued on their way.