Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
The need to catch her before she fell was instinctive; but Marcus was a man who placed experience before instinct. There was no way he could vault the six rows of people and two railings to get to the lady in time. Much less deal with the chaos that would ensue.
And so, he stopped, hands curling into fists, arms tight against his sides, and watched as Andre reached out to catch Marguerite de Rouvroy as she fell. He was less successful at controlling the unexpected growl that slipped through his gritted teeth.
The lady, however, seemed to think she had no need of assistance.
Waving aside Andre’s hand, she caught herself, straightened her spine and, once again, lifted that curiously determined chin.
The only evidence that she’d faltered for even a moment, was a single rebellious curl that escaped the red scarf woven through her hair.
Her blue and white striped gown with its red sash appeared as unruffled as the lady herself.
“Hey there, step back, you’re not the only one who wants to see the traitorous whore.” A man grabbed Marcus’s elbow; a man with a body like a bag of turnips and a red cap that looked as if he might have stitched it himself.
“Pardon, citizen.” Marcus suppressed the urge to grab the offending hand and twist the man’s arm backwards. He instead pulled his sketchbook out of his pocket. Waving it in a way that further impeded the man’s view, he added. “Documenting the people’s justice. For tomorrow’s papers.”
Ignoring the man’s muttered “I’d like to chop his head off,” he thought about the way Marguerite had looked at him earlier.
How she’d stared at his hands and then at his body, with an intensity that made his skin feel as though he were standing too close to a fire.
The way her eyes had widened when they’d met his.
The sudden shift in her expression—from curiosity to shock, as if she somehow recognized him.
Which was impossible, of course, because they hadn’t met. He frowned at Marguerite, who was looking up at Andre and nodding, a hint of a smile curving her lips. At least, he didn’t think they had.
Still, this operation was turning out to be full of surprises. The lady’s raided apartments, her arrest, now that damned portrait of Marat as a fish.
Dangerous surprises.
No, it had been a good thing he hadn’t leapt forward to catch her. He needed to tread cautiously. Keep his wits about him. He had Andre and David with him now.
It was a relief that Andre was standing beside her. Andre always knew what to say to charm women and they adored him. Trusted him. Which just proved that most of them had more straw in their heads than in their summer hats.
Not that Marguerite was wearing a hat.
Marcus shook his head. His wits were wandering again.
Marquerite de Rouvroy was the target of this mission. And at this moment, she was on trial for her life.
If they were going to save her, she’d have to trust all three of them. Not just Andre. Marcus thought of the way she’d stared at his hands; there was something he could do that the ever-charming Andre could not. Flipping open his sketchbook to the back, he tore several pages free.
“His drawings are probably shit, just like he is,” the lumpy man in the red hat, who was still clearly annoyed that Marcus was blocking the view of his countrymen’s humiliation and despair, said in a stage whisper.
Marcus placed his pencil at the edge of the pages, then rolled everything together in a tight cylinder.
Holding it in one hand, he reached up with the other, tugged the ribbon of his queue free, and used it to tie the tiny bundle together.
Slipping it into his sleeve, he glanced back to where Andre and Marguerite were standing.
Andre was stepping forward to address the justices.
They craned their heads, listening. After a few moments, Fouquier-Tinville looked over at the entrance to the courtroom, snapping his fingers to attract the attention of two blue-uniformed guards, who were standing on either side of the door.
When they turned to look at him, he motioned for them to approach.
In another moment, the two guards were escorting Andre and Marguerite de Rouvroy away from the bench, down the aisle between the spectator’s gallery and the rows of the accused, towards the exit.
As Marcus moved to follow them, he heard the disgruntled spectator beside him hiss, “The aristo bitch won’t escape justice.”
His hiss turned to a hiss of pain, as Marcus ground his boot into the man’s foot. “Cleared the view for you, citizen,” he said.
Maneuvering through the rows of spectators, he continued to step on feet—though not intentionally, issue empty apologies, and to shoulder aside anyone who failed to get out of his way.
He saw Andre glance back over his shoulder, catch his eye, and give an almost imperceptible nod of his head in the direction of a doorway on his right.
Increasing his pace, he brushed past Andre, Marguerite, and the guards. As he did so, a folder of papers tucked under Andre’s arm spilled open, documents with official-looking seals, fanning out across the floor.
Marcus strode on, ignoring the fluttering papers, flapping arms, and a thunk that sounded suspiciously like skulls connecting as Andre and one of the guards bent to retrieve the contents of the folder.
Reaching the door Andre had indicated, he grasped the handle, cracked the door open, and slipped inside.