Chapter 49
Forty-Nine
“Forgery?” Unbidden, the lines of the ridiculous verse scrawled in the margin of the De Arte Graphica popped into her head: Do not tell me of your heart, fair one, but show me your art. She scowled at Marcus.
“Shocking, I know.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Nearly as dangerous as drawing Marat as a fish.”
That damn doodled fish. Would he ever let it go? As if he’d never done anything that he regretted later.
Andre studied them both for several long moments. Then he flipped the last omelet onto a plate, divided it, slid half onto the plate in front of Marguerite, and took a seat at the table beside a massive man with honey-blond hair.
Downing the last bite of his omelet, the big man tossed back the remainders of his tea and began clearing away his utensils.
“You.” She’d been about to take a bite of egg and cheese, but hesitated, staring at him with growing certainty she’d seen him before. “You were in the courtroom. You made a windmill for a small boy.”
“Man’s forever tinkering.” Andre shook his head. “I’d say it keeps him out of trouble, but well,” he glanced around the room, “it doesn’t. Still, bad habit if you ask me.”
“I’m fairly certain I didn’t ask you.” The big man flashed white teeth. “And my tinkering has saved your neck more than once.” Turning back to Marguerite, he gave her a bow that was surprisingly graceful for such a large frame. “I’m at your service Madame de Rouvroy. I’m…”
She held up a hand. “Are you about to offer me a fake name?”
He shrugged. “A necessary evil in this business. Just David will do.”
“Just David, were you driving the coach last night?”
“I was.”
“Then I thank you for your timely arrival.”
“It was a team effort, madame.”
“A team that still has work to do,” Andre slapped David on the back. “I have to come up with a way to make this giant disappear in a crowd. Well-nigh impossible, but at least the national guard isn’t on the hunt for him. Not like that one.” He cocked his chin in Marcus’s direction.
She shot Marcus a worried look. The man was eating his omelet with no apparent sign of concern. Were they searching for him because of her? Surely it was too soon for anyone to have made the connection.
“Please God, something other than a Les Halles fishmonger,” David grumbled good naturedly.
“With those shoulders, you should be glad it’s so easy to disguise you as a sans culotte. All you have to do is slap on some dirt and a leather apron, et voila, centuries of good breeding disappear. Whereas in my case…” With a mock sigh, he swept a hand from his head to his knees.
“Ah yes, you’re right, it’s so much more difficult to conceal centuries of fornicating noble scoundrels.”
Andre laughed.
“Could you at least manage clothes that don’t smell like fish or offal?” David asked, as they headed towards the door.
“Think of the odor as an advantage—sleight of nose, if you will. Keeps folks from looking too closely at your face.”
“I understand how sleight works; I’m just wondering why your disguises are never quite as odiferous or as uncomfortable as ours.”
“Alas, we can’t all smell like sunshine and leather.” He glanced over his shoulder at Marcus and winked.
Marcus picked a greasy bundle off the table and tossed it at Andre. “Since you’re on your way out, give this to the dog.”
“Bloody beast always tries to bite me.”
“I’ll do it.” David plucked it out of the air, mid-arc. “The dog likes me best.”
“Only because you’re always feeding it.”
“Dogs can smell sincerity.”
“Is that what that odor is?” Andre sniffed dramatically.
The two men left, bantering amiably; Marcus moved his art box to the center of the table, unbuckling the clasps. He pulled out pastels and chalk.
Marguerite’s hand drifted to her chest; the sight of them made her feel if a weight was pressing down on it. “I…” she wondered if she should tell him that whenever she attempted to draw her hands shook so much, she couldn’t even manage a solid line? As they were starting to do now.
But if he noticed, he gave no sign, bending down to pick up a leather artist’s bag from the floor. He peered inside it, dark brows drawn together.
Her bag. Blood pounded in her ears as she took in the familiar pattern of paint smears and scratches on the leather. The bag he’d taken from her apartments. That he’d used to smuggle pieces of the uniform she’d worn during her escape.
She wanted to ask if he’d taken anything else from her apartments. He’d seen her work. Had even praised it. Had he saved any of it? But the question died on her lips. He’d been paid to save her life. Not her art. She would make more. Wouldn’t she?
The pressure on her chest increased; it felt like trying to breathe through a pinched straw.
“You’ll want to start with these,” he said, placing graphite and chalk beside her hand, either unaware, or ignoring that her hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists. “But feel free to use anything else you might find in the box.”
Reaching inside his coat, he drew out the sketchbook he’d been holding the first time she saw him. He held it out to her. When she didn’t take it, he set it down alongside the pencils.
He was speaking. But pinpricks of light were gathering at the edges of her vision, and she couldn’t make sense of his words. She focused instead on the timbre of his voice, steady and warm. The weight on her chest began to ease.
“Feel free to use anything you find in the box.” He slid out a narrow drawer from its base.
Her gaze sharpened as the sparks of light dancing on the periphery of her vision winked out. “Are those…secret compartments?”
“David’s handiwork,” he said. “As you noticed, the man’s always tinkering. He’s a wizard at this sort of thing.”
“And your talents are…?” Her eyes drifted to his hands, shaped like an artist’s, but hardened like a soldier’s.
“Diverse,” he said, one corner of his severe mouth curving up. He spread out wax, seals, engraving tools, and a small pile of documents on the table in front of her.
“Are you really mercenaries?”
“Does it matter?” He studied her face with those fire-lit, cognac eyes.
She pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t have asked. Why should it matter who or what he really was? Once they reached England, she’d probably never see him again.
The weight on her chest returned, sharper, heavier.
“Study these,” he said, tapping the pile of documents with his index finger. His eyes met hers. “Take as much time as you need.”
She suspected it might take far longer than a few hours.
“Familiarize yourself with the composition, the color, the odd details. Try to forget you’re the brilliant artist Marguerite de Rouvroy.” He tapped a pass with a seal featuring a bare-breasted woman holding a pike. “Look at all the glorious imperfections, the shaky lines, the clumsy proportions.”
Shaky lines? Bad proportions?
“Confidence and imperfection, those are hallmarks of the finest forgeries.”
Imperfection she might manage, but… “Confidence?”
“If you’re going to forge a signature, make it big, like the thought of being caught never entered your mind. “Believe in yourself.” He looked at her as if casting down a gauntlet. “Be audacious.”
She studied the curious dichotomy of his artist/warrior hands, her gaze traveling up his arms, the muscles visible through his cotton shirt, to his broad shoulders and heart-stoppingly handsome face. He was like his art box, she thought. Full of hidden surprises.
She wasn’t ashamed of wanting him, of having kissed him. But he’d made it clear that he didn’t want her. Hadn’t he?
Marguerite picked up a pass and examined it. The printing and the design of the seal were rudimentary. Nothing like what she’d been trying to achieve in her studio. She felt the intensity of his gaze on her and looked up. “Do you really intend for me to become a forger?”
“It never hurts to explore new skills while you’re figuring out what comes next.”
Her heart, which had begun to beat faster, skipped a beat.
He picked up a jacket slung over a chair and shrugged into it.
“You’re leaving…” The words tumbled out, but she pressed her lips together before she could complete the sentence, me alone.
“Only for a short time. There are things I must see to, in order to ensure our escape goes smoothly.”
She fought the urge to beg him to stay. Lifted her chin, reminding herself she’d been through far worse things in recent days than a few hours on her own in a stranger’s house.
She steeled herself, waiting for him to turn and walk out the door. Instead, he stood, surveying the contents of the kitchen, dark brows furrowed. In another moment, he began gathering up the things he’d laid out for her on the table and placing them beneath it.
“What are you doing?”
Striding over to a large set of shelves, he pulled out a thickly folded tablecloth, shook it open, and flung it out over the table. He circled the table, tugging it here and there so that its edges hung nearly to the floor on the side facing the kitchen windows.
Stepping back, he studied his handiwork. Then he lifted a corner of the cloth as if it was a tent flap and gestured for her to enter.
“You want me to get under the table?”
Nodding, he held out his hand, “Your studio awaits, Ma?tre de Rouvroy.”
She studied the lines of his severely handsome face closely but could detect no mockery in his expression. Grasping his hand, she bent down and entered the linen-draped haven he’d created for her. The filtered sunlight through the tablecloth settled around her like a fine lace shawl.
“Not to worry,” he said, kneeling beside her, his fingers tight around hers. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’ll add the price of my interior design services to your father’s bill.”