Lizabeth
Even though Lizabeth injured Marie at the inn and injured François minutes ago, she doesn’t expect there to be so much blood. Though she can’t see it well in the darkness, she can feel it. Coating her hands and running down her arms, making her fingers slippery where she still holds the dagger. Gabriel lets out a pained gasp and stumbles into her before sliding to the ground.
What has she done? What has she done?
“There.” Lizabeth stands and wipes her bloodied hands on her skirts. Her fingers tremble like mad, and she hides them in the folds of her gown. “I’ve done what you asked.”
François looks at Gabriel, and Lizabeth prays it’s too dark for him to see the steady rise and fall of Gabriel’s chest.
He lets out a quick burst of laughter. “Gabriel wasn’t lying?”
“No, he wasn’t lying.” François merely stares at her, and she continues. “I came to Versailles to kill L’Ange de la Mort.”
The words taste rotten on her tongue.
“I heard you but— Did you not try to save him earlier?”
“I was worried you might kill him, and I am the one who must.”
He frowns. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Lizabeth swallows. Her mother and Baptiste are working together. That’s the reason you were sent to Versailles in the first place, Gabriel had said.
If she can convince François she’s on his side, she might have a chance.
“Do you not hear my accent?” she says, forcing her expression to remain nonplussed. The longer she stays here, the more blood Gabriel will lose. But she can’t show any fear on her face, nor allow it to seep through her tone. “I’ve been told it’s quite obvious I’m not from France. I’m English, and Rose Morgan is my mother. Has Baptiste not mentioned her?”
“He has,” François says, eyebrow quirked. His pistol dangles loosely from his hand. “But why would Rose Morgan have sent you to finish the job? You look like you have the fighting skills of a pigeon.”
“That’s precisely why I was sent. No one would ever suspect a lady to be a killer. But they will trust me when I tell them the true identity of L’Ange de la Mort.”
“That’s your plan? To kill him, and then expose him to the court?”
Lizabeth nods. Her heart thrashes against her eardrums. “But we’re wasting too much time. You have to return to the group and tell them it’s been done. Guards are still patrolling the grounds, and you will be caught if you linger here for any longer.”
Please leave. For the love of God, please leave.
François hesitates, and Lizabeth thinks she has convinced him. But then he turns the pistol on Gabriel. “I should shoot him now, don’t you agree? To make sure he’s truly dead.”
Lizabeth’s heart flies to her throat. Her breath catches against her lungs. Her stomach fills with lead. But all she says is, “If you wish, but it will only alert everyone of your presence here.”
As if to underline her point, a series of frantic shouts echo in the distance.
François curses, lowering his weapon. “I better not find out you’re a lying bitch.”
“You won’t,” Lizabeth says. “I came to France on my own accord, because I want L’Ange de la Mort dead as much as you do. Ask Baptiste. He will tell you. He and my mother have been discussing my presence in Versailles for months.”
YOU ARE READING
L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)
Historical Fiction{Wattys 2018 Winner - The Contemporaries} Versailles, France 1789: Where the only things more prevalent than opulence and wealth, are secrets. At the dawn of the French Revolution, Paris is divided. In the glittering palace of Versailles, courtiers...
