Page 7 of Souvenir Heart

Half-French and half-English, Marcus had grown up in both cultures but had never been truly at home in either. There’d been a time when he’d longed to put down roots, indeed, thought he’d found the woman with whom he could do so. But now?

He had an empty house he didn’t consider a home—a bloody great pile in the middle of nowhere that he rarely visited and could barely keep up, even if he cared to.

“A fortune,” the comte persisted.

Marcus didn’t have a fortune; what would he do with one?

He could level the warped floors of the great hall he used as his studio and rebuild the massive fireplace so the room would be kept warm year-round. For the briefest moment he imagined a large, light-filled space filled with canvases, and redolent of oil paint and linseed oil.

Like the Parisian studios he’d wandered through after the war in the colonies.

The studios where he’d learned to sketch and paint but also come to understand that no matter how hard he worked, he’d never have the talent to create the masterpieces he so admired.

He shook his head. Drafty halls and uneven floors were sufficient for a forger and artistic dabbler, such as he.

“She’s my child.” Joley’s voice was close to breaking. “She’s alone in Paris. Surrounded by madmen. My only child.”

It was the word ‘child’ that moved him. The thought of an innocent, caught up in machinations that had nothing to do with her; her life destroyed in pursuit of someone else’s cause. As if it didn’t matter. Marcus knew what that felt like. Releasing the shards of graphite in his hand, he rose. “I’ll go.”

Four

The silence that met Marcus’s declaration stretched so tautly between the two men that for a moment, it wasn’t clear whether it was the bees nearby or the very air that thrummed.

It was James who broke it. “Forgive me,” he said, in a voice dripping with contempt, “but did you just say you would go?”

“I did.”

“How strange. I could have sworn you were a gentleman. But it seems I was mistaken. Honor means nothing to you, sir; lucre, it seems, is your true master.”

Marcus stiffened at the insult. “I care nothing for the money. Monsieur may keep his fortune.”

“So you say now,” James sneered.

“And so I will say when I return with the girl.”

“Thank God,” exclaimed Joley.

“If you return with the girl,” James continued, as if the comte had spoken. “If Marat and his people are seeking to bring down the Girondins, Paris will be more dangerous than usual. Think, Marcus, there will be checkpoints everywhere, searches will be more intensive, ruffians will be roaming the streets, spoiling for an excuse to shed blood. Rushing after Marguerite without a plan, without any idea of what you may be getting yourself into. It’s⁠—”

“A death sentence,” Andre supplied.

“Yes,” Marcus agreed, “a death sentence for Monsieur le Comte if he refuses to leave with us, very likely a death sentence for his daughter if she remains in Paris. But it’s my life, Dinsmore, my choice.”

“Might I remind you, Marcus, that Lord Grenville placed me in charge of this company and this mission, and I have sworn to see it through. Your life and the lives of everyone here are my responsibility.”

“Are you suggesting the responsible course would be to leave an innocent woman to die?”

“I agree, we cannot in good conscience turn our back on Monsieur de Joley’s daughter, but if anyone goes back for her, then as leader of this mission, it is my responsibility.”

“No!” Elizabeth cried.

“Is it the money?” Marcus countered, “I have heard it said your family’s rather strapped.”

“Don’t,” James said in a voice as sharp and cold as a shard of ice. “Don’t think you can provoke me into sending you off by insulting me. I’m quite willing to sign anything you or Monsieur de Joley might require relinquishing any claim to his fortune.

Elizabeth stood, her skirts sweeping the debris of the picnic. “If you are going, then I am going with you.”

“You cannot,” Marcus and James said in unison.