Page 88 of Souvenir of Love

“Jones, endeavor to remember that you are talking about my sister,” Rafe said grimly. “And that if she is with Dinsmore, then she’s in France.”

“France.” Jervis whistled through a space between his teeth. “Christ Almighty. You should have killed the man when you had the chance.”

“If he’s still alive, I will. If not…” He stopped, unwilling to finish the sentence he had begun.If not, then Elizabeth is probably dead, too.

“So, you’ll be wanting me to make for Hartsdale as soon as possible,” Jervis added quickly. “Do a bit of reconnoitering, then report back to you…”

Rafe nodded.

“And I’m guessing you’d prefer I didn’t mention any of this to Lady Alix?”

“While that would be preferable, I’ve long ago learned the folly of keeping secrets from my wife. She’s not been sleeping well, what with the babe’s constant movement and her concerns for Elizabeth.”

Jervis’s hand went instinctively to the deerskin pouch he wore tucked in his breeches. “If she’s not sleeping well, I’ve got some herbs that would fix her up right. I could brew them up in two slaps of a beaver’s tail…”

“Most kind of you, Jones, but it won’t be necessary.”

“I can fix her a dose before I leave,” he persisted. “No trouble at all.”

“Not for you, perhaps”—Rafe arched a brow—“but Alix would never forgive me.”

James turnedto look at Marcus. The silence stretched so tautly between the two men that, for a moment, Elizabeth was not sure whether it was the bees nearby or the very air that thrummed. “Forgive me,” James said in a voice dripping with contempt, “but did you just sayyouwould go?”

“I did.”

“How strange. I could have sworn you were a gentleman. But it seems I was mistaken. Honor means nothing to you, sir; lucre, it seems, is your true master.”

Elizabeth stared at Marcus, wondering how he’d respond to the harshness of this insult. He drew himself up stiffly, and she realized the slender scribe was gone; in his place stood a lithe, muscular athlete. “I care nothing for the money. Monsieur le comte may keep his fortune.”

“So you say now.”

“And so I will say when I return with the girl.”

“Thank God,” exclaimed Joley, who had been watching the two men as closely as Elizabeth.

“Ifyou return with the girl,” James challenged him. “If Marat and his people are seeking to bring down the Girondins, Paris will be more dangerous than usual. Think, Marcus. There will be checkpoints everywhere, searches will be more intensive, ruffians will be roaming the streets, spoiling for an excuse to shed blood. Rushing after Marguerite without a plan, without any idea of what you may be getting yourself into. It’s?—”

“A death sentence,” Andre supplied from his place on the blanket.

“Yes,” Marcus said, “and it’s a death sentence for Monsieur le comte if he refuses to leave with us now, and most likely a death sentence for his daughter if we leave her behind.”

“And dashing off on some ill-planned adventure that is unlikely to succeed puts usallat risk!”

“It is my life, Dinsmore; it is my choice.”

“Let me remind you, Tyndale, that Lord Grenville placed me in charge of this company and this mission, and I have sworn to see it through. Your life and the lives of everyone here are my responsibilities—responsibilities I take quite seriously.”

“Are you suggesting we leave an innocent woman to die?”

“I agree; we cannot in good conscience turn our back on Monsieur le comte’s daughter, but ifanyonegoes back for her, then as leader of this mission, it ismyresponsibility.”

“No—” Elizabeth cried.

“Is it the money, Dinsmore?” Marcus countered. “I have heard it said your family’s rather strapped.”

“Don’t.” James’s eyes glittered, sharp and cold. “Don’t think you can provoke me into sending you off. I’m quite willing to sign anything you or Monsieur de Joley might require that relinquishes any claim to his fortune.”

Elizabeth stood, her skirts sweeping the debris of the picnic. “If you are going, then I am going with you.”