Lizabeth
The ride to the inn is the closest Lizabeth has ever become to living in a nightmare. Though she should be happy—because of what she just learned, because Marie knows the whereabouts of Gabriel, because she might find a way to be free—she can’t quit thinking about all the ways this could go terribly wrong. Gabriel could be dead. Or if he isn’t, he could decide he hates her when they are reunited. Marie could be planning an ambush to kill them all. No matter what happens, she may never shake herself free from her mother’s chains.
Everything has crashed and burned before, what is to say it won’t happen again?
“Are you quite sure she must ride with me?” Jean yells to where Lizabeth rides a few meters behind him and Marguerite.
Though Lizabeth is on a horse of her own, Marguerite and Jean are sharing, and Jean looks none too pleased about the outcome. Not that Lizabeth can blame him. Though Marguerite is sitting in front of Jean, she’s leaned back as close to him as she possibly can. The single curl trailing down her neck flies in the wind, brushing across his face with no reprieve.
“I’ve already told you,” Lizabeth says. “This is far more believable. Madame du L’Angelier said the innkeeper is loyal to Baptiste, so he will become suspicious if someone who works at the inn happens to spot us on our way and we don’t have an excuse for traveling there. Pretending Marguerite is injured is the only way, and if she was injured, why would she be on my horse instead of receiving care from a man?”
“A strong, handsome man,” Marguerite purrs into his ear.
Jean glares at her over his shoulder. “Well, if she gets any closer, I’m shoving her off this animal, gentleman or not.”
“It’s straight ahead!” Marguerite lifts her head from Jean’s shoulder and points to a clearing in the forest.
There, the inn stands along a near empty street, a building of peeling wood and faded bricks that looks rather foreboding despite the sun and bright cerulean sky.
“As expected,” Marguerite says, “I’m always correct.”
Jean frowns. “All right, now what?”
Lizabeth tugs the reins on her horse to bring it to a stop, Jean following the motion right after. She dismounts, tying the horse to a tree. “Once we get there, we must find a way to sneak past them while looking for Marie. If we’re spotted, we can simply pretend Marguerite is injured and needs help.” She glances at Jean. “You’re certain no one will recognize you?”
“I only ever accompanied Gabriel on his kills. I never attended the meetings.”
“Well, let’s go then!” Marguerite huffs. “I promised Sophie we would gossip about Charlotte de Fontin tonight.”
For once, Lizabeth agrees. Each minute they spend talking is one more minute Gabriel is put in danger. It’s already been a week since he was taken, which is more than enough time for Baptiste to have gotten rid of him. If his wounds haven’t done the job first.
No. Lizabeth bites down on her lip. Gabriel is alive. He has to be.
As the group advances on the inn, they pass by a few workers who give them quizzical looks, surely not accustomed to seeing three courtiers outside the confines of Versailles. Behind Jean, Marguerite is already playing her part by letting out low moans of pain intermittent with high pitched wails.
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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...
