Page 6 of Souvenir Heart

“News travels slowly to these parts and none too accurately. It’s possible the soldiers were mistaken about the Girondins.”

James’s tone was reassuring and patient, far different than the one Marcus would have taken, which was probably why he wasn’t in charge.

“Ousting all the members of a political party and imprisoning them? Surely, there are laws forbidding such a thing…”

“Laws,” the former minister said scornfully. “You speak of laws in the same breath as you speak of these animals? There were laws against murdering the king⁠—”

“You said your daughter was married to a Girondin,” Elizabeth persisted.

“He died last year.”

“Then she may be safe.” Elizabeth hesitated, “Unless…is she a Girondin?”

“I don’t know her political views, or how publicly she’s expressed them.” The comte admitted stiffly. “We have not been on the best of terms in recent years.”

Estranged, then. Which would explain why he hadn’t taken her on the run with him.

“They will begin with the politicians, just as they began with the king and his loyal servants, such as I. But the lust for revenge, for blood, inflames them, and soon enough they’ll move on to the innocent…. I have seen it happen before.” The comte’s voice was full of remembered horror. “I should never have left her; I should have known⁠—”

“You could not have foreseen this,” James said.

Of course he could have. Marcus’s fingers tightened around the stick of graphite in his hand. What kind of father was he? How was it that he was only thinking of his daughter’s welfare now?

“I was a fool to think she would be safe! And now…” The comte’s hands curled into fists. “Now, I must go back.” He bowed towards the company on the blanket as if he were exiting a drawing room. “Gentlemen, I am sorry to have put your lives at risk on my behalf, but I must do this.”

The graphite in Marcus’s hand snapped.

“M’sieur le Comte, if your daughter is in danger, may I ask how you intend to save her? Paris is a long way from here and there are many checkpoints. Are you certain your disguise will suffice? A coachman from Rouen, without a coach, walking to Paris? This will certainly raise questions. And you are not in the best of health,” James said coldly, his polite patience abandoned.

De Joley’s knuckles whitened.

“And if you are discovered attempting to reach your daughter,” James continued, “what then? The estrangement between you, that may still protect her, will be obliterated. She will be tarred with a brush far blacker than association with the Girondins.”

Joley unclenched his hands, he spread them beseechingly. “What else can I do?”

“Continue on with us. Think, m’sieur. It’s only a matter of days before we reach London. By the time we arrive, Grenville’s networks will have a clearer idea of what has occurred in Paris. They may even have word of your daughter’s whereabouts. You will be safe, and you will have access to the resources and to the people who can help bring your daughter safely out of France.”

“But aren’t you those people? I know you are rescuing me for the sake of your government, and I know her life means nothing to your master. But…I can pay. Enough to make any one of you—all of you—wealthy men.” His hooded gaze swept over the faces of the men arrayed on the picnic blanket. “I have a fortune waiting for me when I reach England.”

When his gaze landed on James, Marcus saw the man stiffen. Was he bracing himself against temptation? Dinsmore was a notorious rake, the son of a mad duke, traveling with a woman he’d ruined—the sister of an earl. While this mission, if successful, might repair his reputation, a fortune would lift his family out of debt and might convince Elizabeth’s brother to allow them to marry.

Joley named an outrageous sum.

“Might I remind you, monsieur,” James said coolly, “that you will only have access to the monies you offer so freely if you reach England.”

“A written promise then.” Joley pointed at Marcus. “You there. You are never without paper and writing implements. Write down that I, Amaury de Joley, Comte Verignac, swear upon my honor that I will reward the man who saves my daughter with a fortune.”

“A fortune.” He repeated, when none of the men responded. “Surely there is one amongst you who has need of a fortune? You?” his gaze fell on Andre.

Marcus’s lip curled in a mixture of amusement and contempt.

Andre, the third son of a wealthy aristocratic family, was, as he liked to joke, the ‘don’t care who followed the heir, the spare, and a gaggle of sisters.’ He preferred a life of adventure with no strings attached.

“You?” Joley turned to look at David. David’s family was less prominent than Andre’s, but he’d inherited more money than Croesus. Although the only thing he seemed to spend it on was equipment for his laboratory and materials for his gadgets.

“You?”

Marcus felt the weight of the comte’s gaze fall on him.