Page 58 of Souvenir Heart

Marcus closed his eyes, stifling a groan. Curling his hand into a fist, he planted his foot and began to pivot. It was now or never. He’d have to take his chances.

“Laurent? Are you there?”

Marcus swung around to see a man standing in the doorway. A man with winged eyebrows and a long nose which combined to give him an expression of disbelief that the rest of the world could be so hopelessly incompetent.

Not that Fouquier-Tinville was wrong in Laurent’s case

The captain scrambled up from under the table, striking his head in the process. “Citizen Prosecutor,” he sputtered, a pisspot clutched in one hand.

“I have a question to ask of one of your prisoners.” Fouquier-Tinville gave the captain a name and cell number.

“Allow me to escort you,” Laurent said, setting down the pisspot. He turned towards the row of keys hanging on the shelf behind his desk, knocking several to the floor in the process. “Shit,” he muttered, wobbling into a crouch, searching amongst them for the one he needed. The empty wine bottles beside his chair rattled precariously.

“Ah hah.” Waving a key triumphantly, he rose and stumbled around the table. “This way, citizen prosecutor, if you’ll follow me.”

Fouquier-Tinville cast a brief glance at Marcus with an expression on his face that suggested whatever business Marcus had with the captain, it was far less important than his own. Then turning back to Laurent, he gave the man a curt nod, and the two headed off, leaving Marcus alone in the captain’s office.

Fouquier-Tinville might be far from Heaven-sent, but he was as close to a miracle as Marcus Tyndale was going to get. And by God, he’d take it.

Thirty-Seven

Where was he?

Although everyone was abed, the dark cell was far from quiet. Marguerite usually slept—or managed what passed for sleeping in prison, with her pillow pressed against her ears. But lying there, blanket pulled up to her chin, sweating in the layers of her stolen guard’s uniform, she was keenly aware of every snore, every whimper, every restless stirring of limbs on straw mattresses.

She hated waiting. Lying there, doing nothing. She tried to alleviate the feeling of ants crawling beneath her skin by reviewing everything she had done so far.

She’d wrapped her fichu around her breasts, flattening them as best she could, pulled on the shirt and waistcoat, and wriggled into the breeches, buttoning them over her plainest stockings. She’d knotted the stock around her neck and shrugged into the uniform jacket reeking of a stranger’s sweat.

She usually slept with her hair in a loose braid. But she plaited it more tightly than usual, looping it up and tying it back the way some of the more old-fashioned soldiers wore their hair. Her hands shook as she wrapped it with Marcus’s black queue ribbon; remembering the feel of Marisol’s deft hands arranging her hair, the artless sound of her voice.

In her final hours, she’d worried about dying with her debts unpaid, including her debt to Marcus for the miniature she’d commissioned. Pressing a small, embroidered purse into Marguerite’s hands, she said, “you’ll find a way to get this to him, won’t you? They say it’s a sin to go to your grave owing someone money…”

Marguerite hadn’t told Marcus about the money, even when she’d seen him freeze as his eyes swept over Marisol’s empty bed.

Did mercenaries feel pain? She hoped so. She wanted someone to share her outrage and grief that an innocent woman had been executed for the crime of trying to earn an independent living. That no one had sworn to save her.

And Marcus’s cool, handsome face had looked stricken, if only for a moment. She traced the outline of the coin-filled purse in her pocket, recalling his expression when she’d said, “Did you think she would wait?”

His pain hadn’t made her feel better. If anything, it had made her feel worse.

Marguerite shook her head. She wouldn’t allow hopelessness to turn her into one of the living dead; one of those prisoners sitting unmoving on their mattresses, staring at nothing, waiting for the moment when their names would be called to join the line for the tumbrils.

And yet, here she was, waiting. For instructions, for the right moment, for the right man. She shook her head; she was waiting for an unreliable mercenary.

His kiss might reduce her to a witless pool of wax, but Marguerite de Rouvroy had two strong—albeit slightly shaking, legs, a guard’s uniform, and a clever mind.

She could damn well save herself.

She touched the ribbon around her braid, checking to make sure it was secure. His ribbon. The one that he’d wrapped around his gift of sketch paper and a pencil.

After they’d led Marisol away, she’d taken them out. Tried to sketch the bright sparrow-like face from memory. But her hands had trembled hopelessly over the paper. Now paper and graphite were tucked in the pocket of her uniform jacket. When this was all over, she would draw again. She would paint again. She would paint Marisol, surrounded by angels.

On impulse she reached for the graphite. Dragged her fingers along the point, then under her nose and along her chin—all the places a young soldier’s beard might begin to show after a long day of work.

She wished she had a mirror to check her appearance. Then told herself to trust she looked the part. Trust herself.

She drew out the pocket watch he’d given her. She’d examined it earlier; it was enclosed in a simple silver case, without an adornment, had a simple, though easy to read face with large Roman numerals. Indeed, the only thing distinctive about it, was the portrait inside the lid of a pretty young woman, her lightly powdered hair dressed in the style of the 1750s. Marguerite opened the lid now, tilting the watch face this way and that, trying to see the time: 8:45.