“You mean you are one of the representatives on the Congregation,” Veronique said, though she sounded unsure.
“Of course.” Philippe grinned, his teeth showing white in the dimming light. “My mistake.”
But Philippe de Clermont did not make mistakes. It was one of the insights into his grandfather that Fanny had been at pains to share with Marcus, back when he was younger and still getting to know the family and how it operated.
“I think you are ready to attend the university in Edinburgh, Marcus. The anatomy lectures there cannot possibly be more bloodthirsty than the company you are keeping in Paris.” Philippe handed Marcus a key. “Matthew is in London, and will be expecting you.”
Marcus stared suspiciously at the ornate metal object.
“The key to your house. It is near St. James’s Palace. Outside the city walls, where the air is less polluted and where you can have more privacy than you do here. There is a park nearby for hunting,” Philippe continued, still holding out the key. “Mrs. Graham and her husband have a house nearby. She is not well, and you will be a comfort to William when she dies. When classes resume, you will travel north to Scotland. You will be useful to me there.”
Marcus still didn’t take the key. There were, he felt sure, more strings attached to it than assisting William in the hour of Catharine’s death.
Philippe tossed the key in the air, caught it, and placed it on the corner of a nearby crate that was serving as a chair or a table, as the occasion warranted.
“I trust you are old enough to find your own way to London. Take Fanny with you, and make sure that she stays away. Paris is no longer safe.” Philippe stood. His hair brushed the low ceiling. “Don’t neglect to write to your grandmother. She will worry if she doesn’t hear of you. Thank you for your hospitality, Madame Veronique.”
Having laid out the terms of Marcus’s surrender, Philippe vanished in a flash of brown and gold.
“Did you know about this, Veronique?” Marcus held up the papers.
His lover’s silence said more than words could.
“Jean-Paul is calling for a massacre!” Marcus cried. This was not his idea of liberty.
“They are enemies of the Revolution.” There was something fanatical in Veronique’s flat tone and fevered eyes.
“How can you say that? You don’t even know whom he plans to kill,” Marcus retorted.
“It doesn’t matter,” Veronique shot back. “They are aristocrats. One is much like another.”
“Lafayette was right,” Marcus said. “Marat only wants to stir up trouble. There will never be enough equality to satisfy him. His revolution cannot be won.”
“Marat was right,” Veronique said angrily. “You’re a traitor, just like the rest. I can’t believe I let you inside me—that I trusted you.”
Something dark and terrible had been unleashed in Veronique with all this talk of death and revolution. Marcus had to get her out of Paris, too.
“Gather your things,” Marcus said, thrusting Marat’s manuscript into the fire. “You’re coming to London with me and Fanny.”
“No!” Veronique dug into the flames with her bare hands to retrieve the pages. They were curling and blackened, but not yet totally destroyed.
Her hands, however—her beautiful, slender, agile fingers and soft palms—were a blistered, charred mess. Horrified, Marcus went to her.
“Let me see,” he said, reaching for them.
“No.” Veronique snatched them away. “No matter where I say it—in my bed, or in my tavern, or in my house, or in my city—you respect it as my final word, Marcus.”
“Veronique. Please.” Marcus held out his hand.
“I will not be told what to do by you, or your grandfather, or any man.” Veronique was shaking, her body consumed with shock and anger. Marcus could see her hands beginning to heal as her powerful blood repaired the damage the fire had wrought. “Go, Marcus. Just go.”
“Not without you,” Marcus said. He couldn’t leave her here, where she might fall further under Marat’s spell. “We belong together, Veronique.”
“You chose the de Clermonts,” Veronique said bitterly. “You belong to Philippe now.”
28
Forty-Five
26 JUNE
A plump woman in her midfifties walked along the path by the Seine. She wore stout walking shoes, a flowing cardigan, and a brightly colored scarf knotted around her neck. A heavy bag was slung over one shoulder. Every few steps, she took out a sheet of paper and held it at arm’s length to make out the words on it, then looked at the nearby landmarks and took a few more steps.