Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
“Time’s up, Citizens.” The door flew open, the heavy iron latch banging against the plaster wall, and the guards stepped inside the room.
Marcus had sized them up earlier, first in the courtroom and then as he passed them in the hall: Two guns, one knife, no swords, easily distracted.
They hadn’t bothered knocking, not that he’d expected that they would.
He turned to look at Marguerite. The color drained from her face. Her shoulders sagged the way they had when Fouquier-Tinville held up her sketchbook. This time, however, he was close enough to catch her.
He stepped around the table, as if unaware he was blocking the squat guard reaching out to grab Marguerite, and clasped her wrist in both his hands. She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip.
He bent and whispered in her ear, “Have faith.” She stilled, but he could feel the wild beating of her heart beneath the soft skin. He slipped the cylinder of paper and pencil he’d tied with his queue ribbon out from under the cuff of his sleeve and beneath the lace of hers. “We will come for you.”
“Hey!” The guard with the battered nose grabbed his elbow. “What are you doing?” Marcus resisted the urge to throw a punch and flatten it further. “Who are you?”
Releasing Marguerite’s wrist, Marcus turned with an ingratiating smile, reached into his waist pocket, and pulled out a card which he held out with a flourish. “Citizen Tisset. Master painter of fine miniatures and consolation portraits.”
“How did you get in here?” The second guard demanded in a nasal tone that seemed to whistle through his reedy frame.
Ignoring the man’s question, as well as the urge to snap him like a twig, Marcus withdrew several more cards.
“I’m newly arrived in town, but I assure you my work is as good as any artist’s in Paris.
Country rates for city style! And I offer a special deal to servants of the people; my work is free to patriotic guardsmen such as yourself, if you will but return the favor by spreading the word to potential customers such as the citizeness here and her lawyer. ”
The squat guard turned the card in his hands, frowning as thoughtfully as his blockish face would allow.
Marcus fished out several more cards, but this time with a folded assignat tucked between them and handed it over.
The guard slid the cards and the bill into his white uniform waistcoat. “I’ll keep your work in mind, citizen,” he said, patting the soiled edges of his pocket. “But for now, Henri and I,” he cocked his head to indicate the reedy man, “have our own work to do.”
“Citizeness.” He motioned to Marguerite. “Step forward. Hands behind your back.”
He unhooked a length of rope from his belt. Turning her roughly around, the guard began tying the coarse hemp around her wrists, knotting it tightly, so that it pinched her skin.
Marcus saw Marguerite’s fingers clasp the lace edge of the sleeve—the one he’d slipped the sketch paper into. As if sensing his eyes on her, she turned her head; though her posture was straight, the dark eyes that met his were as wild as the pulse he’d felt beating beneath his fingertips.
He wished there was more he could say, more he could do. But for now, he knew, he could only stand by and watch as the guards seized Marguerite de Rouvroy by her arms and dragged her from the room.
Leaving him staring at the bustling hallway and the door they’d left gaping wide behind them.
“What was that?” Andre said, stepping forward and closing the door.
“My simple plan to rescue Joley’s daughter gone to hell.”
Andre snorted. “Regardless of what you told Dinsmore, you knew this was never going to be simple.” He looked pointedly at Marcus’s hands. “And you know very well that I’m asking about the rather obvious sleight of hand you just performed.”
“Not that obvious.” He said defensively, “the guards didn’t seem to notice. Though they probably weren’t trained by professional thieves.” He looked pointedly at Andre, then added, “Though I’ve never understood why ladies’ gowns don’t have pockets.”
“Because women are like magpies. They’d just fill them with shiny things and rubbish. You clearly haven’t seen the inside of those pouches they wear tied around their waists beneath their skirts. And don’t try and change the subject. Pockets are not what I was inquiring about.”
“Paper,” he admitted, “blank paper and a pencil.”
“Paper?” Andre arched a single brow. “From your sacred sketch book?”
“She’s an artist. I thought she might find it comforting in a difficult situation.”
“An artist in a difficult situation.” Andre repeated dryly, “because of her art.”
Do not tell me of your heart, fair one, but show me your art. Marcus winced inwardly, feeling somehow as if he was at fault. As if she’d been acting on his advice. He should never have resold the damn book. He should have burned it.
“What a marvelous idea. Were you trying to speed her trip to the guillotine?” Andre continued. “Hoping she’ll…I don’t know…draw Danton as a frog? Because I don’t think snatching her off a tumbril will be easier than smuggling her out of prison. It’s been tried. And it failed.”
“I thought it might provide a bit of solace,” Marcus said gruffly.
“A chivalrous gesture, from Marcus, by God,” David declared, slipping into the room. “We are living in revolutionary times...” He closed the door with far more care than the guards had.
“Indeed,” Andre agreed. “And here I was thinking he despised her. Particularly after the way he tore into her about her fish drawing.”
“Did he?”
“He was practically spitting. Apparently decided to jettison the charm offensive in favor of simply…offensive.”
David turned deceptively guileless eyes on Marcus.
“I thought the sketch was a rather clever bit of satire. Though unfortunately for the lady, a too remarkable likeness. If only she was less talented, you might have convinced the justices that she’s just an ichthyologist with a peculiar sense of humor. ”
“Those so-called prosecutors are about as familiar with the science of fish as they are with the practice of investigating a suspect’s innocence.
” Andre shook his head. “But I’ve no intention of arguing anything with them.
I bought us some time, but our best course is to keep her case from coming back before the tribunal. ”
“Word in the hallways is that for a sum slipped to the right person, you can have a prisoner’s name disappear from the prison register.”
“That would be helpful,” Marcus interjected, almost as grateful for the change in the topic of conversation as he was for this extremely useful information. “Any idea who the ‘right person’ might be?”
“I’m working on it.”
Work faster, he wanted to say, but instead asked, “How much time do you think she has?”
“Days? Weeks?” David sighed. “Gossip in the courtroom says it depends on how backed up the queue for the tumbrils is, how quickly the paperwork gets passed, and whether some more interesting victim—no pun intended, cuts the line.”
“We can’t take chances. It must be days. As few as possible.” Even if they had roughly two weeks left before their rendezvous with the rescue sloop, he doubted Marguerite had that much time left before the tribunal took her case back up and issued a sentence of death.
“Andre and I have changed the look of the coach, and I’ve got it safely hidden away. I need to repair the damage the guards did to the interior, but thankfully they didn’t find any of the compartments.”
Marcus repressed the memory of the dead soldiers crammed into those compartments. He couldn’t think of that now. Or of the likelihood that the authorities in Rouen were looking for them.
“I’ve got a connection with a hostler who can let us have a team at a moment’s notice, and who has agreed to keep us abreast of any changes in security procedures at the city gates,” David continued.
“Good. We need to alert the network along our escape route as well…”
“We started the process on our way here.”
Andre reached into his sleeve and pulled out a series of crumpled paper squares, “And I’ve picked up a few new samples of passes and seals for you.”
Marcus thought of how Andre had entered the courtroom, the way he’d placed his hands on people, steering them out of his path rather than weaving around them. Although he suspected he already knew the answer, he asked, “You didn’t pick pockets in the courtroom, did you?”
“So much opportunity, so much to choose from.”
Shaking his head, Marcus took the papers from Andre, rifling through them before slipping them into his sleeve; there were several he hadn’t seen before. But he had no intention of encouraging Scott’s penchant for dare devilry by complimenting his actions.
“Do you think she’ll do as you ask?” Andre asked.
“Request permission for us to visit?”
He nodded, his bright blue eyes sharp.
“After being betrayed and denounced?” Marcus shrugged with more assurance than he felt. “What choice does she have?”