Chapter 16
Sixteen
“There she is.” It had taken the redhead less than a half hour to find Suzanne.
She was leaning against the wall near an alleyway, a pipe clenched in her small white teeth.
She was a little slip of a thing, with a mop of brown curls, a figure which could—and occasionally did—pass for a boy’s and yes, a mole beneath her right eye.
He caught the flash of recognition in her ever-watchful eyes before she concealed it behind the facade of a speculative fille de joie on the clock.
“That’s Suzanne.”
At the sound of her name, Suzanne straightened and took a step forward, her blue and white striped skirt swirling around her trim ankles.
The redhead turned to Marcus, her palm extended. “Now where’s my money?”
Shifting the portmanteau over his shoulder, he fished in his pocket for the requisite number of coins.
As he dropped them into the woman’s none-too-clean hand, he found himself hoping the safe-house they paid Suzanne Bonneuil to maintain had access to fresh water and soap.
Whatever the fashions of the day, he needed to make himself a bit more presentable if he was going to convince a comte’s daughter to leave Paris with him.
The redhead departed, but only after carefully inspecting, counting, and recounting her payment.
“That one would make Legendre proud.” He mused, as he watched her sashay back the way they’d come.
“Who?” Suzanne asked, removing the pipe from her mouth, tapping the contents against the wall, and tucking it somewhere within her skirts.
“French mathematician.”
“Never heard of him,” Suzanne said following the direction of his gaze. “But there’s nothing ‘legendary’ about that one. She’s as common as they come.” She extended a hand towards the luggage slung over his shoulder. “You look like a pack mule. Need help with any of that?”
He considered her slight figure. “I can manage.” She shrugged. “Suit yourself. My rooms are about three blocks from here.”
Suzanne led the way down the street, weaving in and out of both human and wheeled traffic. Marcus followed, glancing at the windows of the shops they passed to catch the reflections of anyone who might be surveilling them.
“I hadn’t expected you back so soon,” she said, dodging a chattering pair of maids carrying wide market baskets
“Hadn’t expected to be.”
“What brings you back to Paris?”
“A woman.”
“A woman?“ She glanced back with an expression on her face that seemed to say you? “Is it a matter of the heart?”
He shook his head. “You know me, all business, no heart. Work.”
“I thought as much. Where are the others?”
“On the road.”
“All by yourself, are you?”
“So it appears.”
“Not the best place to be on one’s own, these days.” On this crowded street, it was as close as either one of them would come to making mention of the arrest of the Girondins.
As they reached the door of the safehouse, Suzanne placed a hand on the doorknob, then paused. Turning to look at him, she amended her earlier statement. “Truly, not the best place to be, at all.”