L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Nineteen - 26. February. 1789

Lizabeth

“I saw Monsieur le Tellier in the salon, talking to Charlotte de Fontin!” Sophie sobs, bringing her arm up to catch the fat tears falling from her amber eyes. “At the party last week, he told me he wished to court me. If that is true, why would he be talking to Charlotte?”

Marguerite lays a comforting hand over Sophie’s arm as she blows her nose into a monogrammed kerchief. 

“That salope needs to be stopped,” Marguerite hisses. “I’ve hated her since she had the audacity to kiss me at the ball last year then never speak to me again.”

Sophie nods, tears transformed into hysteric sniffing. “Do you”—sniff—“think it’s”—sniff—“because I’m”—sniff, sniff—“ugly?”

Marguerite gasps and smacks Sophie with her closed fan. “Don’t you dare say that foul word out loud. Besides, you’re not”—she lowers her voice to a whisper—“ugly.”

Beside the pair, Lizabeth walks along the gardens’ gravel pathways, trying to feign interest in Sophie blubbering over Pierre. But she can hardly concentrate on the conversation. Though she left Madame du L’Angelier’s shop with a newfound confidence, it was smothered a mere handful of days later like water tossed onto a raging fire. L’Ange de la Mort killed another courtier on the streets of Paris, and she’s no closer to discovering his identity than she had been the first day she arrived at Versailles. 

Her friends and the other nobility may be convinced they will remain unharmed if they stay within palace walls, but Lizabeth can’t be so certain. Perhaps when the next death comes, it will be when everyone least expects it. 

And it will all be Lizabeth’s fault. 

“Liza, what do you think?” 

She snaps her head to Marguerite. Sophie has resumed crying, big splotches of red marring her pale skin. 

“I . . .uh . . . think it’s a wonderful idea?” Lizabeth says.

Marguerite claps her hands together in delight. “Well, then that settles it! We shall tell everyone Charlotte has syphilis straight away!”

“Wait, Marguerite—” Lizabeth starts, but Marguerite is already walking away, arms linked with a suddenly cheerful Sophie.

She hikes up her skirts, preparing to catch up to her friends, when a soft laugh comes from the trees. She whips her head toward the noise, and her eyes fall on Gabriel de la Marche, sitting on the ground with a book of poems at his side.

Lizabeth stumbles back in surprise, heat rushing to her face like a sudden fever. She casts a fleeting glance at her friends, but they have yet to notice her absence.

“Have you been there this entire time?” she asks.

Gabriel nods, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Pierre fancies Mademoiselle de Laval, you know. It’s best to tell her that before half of Versailles believes Mademoiselle de Fontin has syphilis.”

Lizabeth continues to stare at Gabriel, unable to form a coherent sentence. She’s rummaging around in her mind for some kind of response when Gabriel grabs her wrist and drags her behind the line of trees, putting a finger to his lips to silence her squeak of surprise.