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Chapters (86)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Contents
  7. Paris, June 1794
  8. PART ONE
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. PART TWO
  17. 1
  18. 2
  19. 3
  20. 4
  21. 5
  22. 6
  23. 7
  24. 8
  25. 9
  26. 10
  27. 11
  28. 12
  29. PART THREE
  30. 1
  31. 2
  32. 3
  33. 4
  34. 5
  35. 6
  36. 7
  37. 8
  38. 9
  39. 10
  40. 11
  41. 12
  42. 13
  43. 14
  44. 15
  45. 16
  46. 17
  47. PART FOUR
  48. 1
  49. 2
  50. 3
  51. 4
  52. 5
  53. 6
  54. 7
  55. 8
  56. 9
  57. 10
  58. 11
  59. PART FIVE
  60. 1
  61. 2
  62. 3
  63. 4
  64. 5
  65. 6
  66. 7
  67. PART SIX
  68. 1
  69. 2
  70. 3
  71. 4
  72. 5
  73. 6
  74. 7
  75. 8
  76. 9
  77. 10
  78. 11
  79. 12
  80. 13
  81. 14
  82. Postscript
  83. A Ship in Le Havre Port
  84. Acknowledgements
  85. About the Author
  86. About Zephyr

‘I’m afraid I have some business to attend to as well. You’ll understand that I can’t leave you to roam freely…’

Ada’s heart sank. Her opportunity to escape was rapidly vanishing.

He took the key from the door. ‘But I think we can allow you at least this change of scenery. You may remain downstairs to complete the accounts.’

She sagged in relief. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is so nice to have you back around the house, my dear Adalaide.’

He left, and she heard the key turn in the lock.

Heart hammering, she sat at the writing desk, fingers twitching in her torn skirt as she allowed enough time to pass to hear the front door slam again and for both her father and Dorval to be a good distance away. Then she pulled the quill from her skirts and hurried to the door.

Ada smiled as she set to work.

Her father was a fool, and she was desperately glad of it.

8

Place de la Révolution

The smell of blood was far too familiar for Camille. It ran glistening through the sawdust and cobbles, staining shoes and mixing with horse dung and ale and piss. There was a good turnout to see the day’s executions, the crowd at least five-deep around the guillotine. It was in part down to the weather, warm and bright and clear. No one wanted to stand around in the mizzle to watch a few dirty prisoners meet their end. But a bright morning, and a fresh crop of heartless aristos – well, that was something Paris would turn out to see.

Camille skirted the crowd, making for the far side of the Jardin des Tuileries and the Salle du Manège where the National Convention met. She’d dispatched James to watch for the tumbrils leaving the prison and follow Al, ready to create their distraction. Camille had her own target. Soon Comtois would leave the National Convention meeting to watch the day’s executions.

She’d given her father’s pistol to James, opting for one of Guil’s knives instead. For defence, she’d said. Easier to use in close quarters. But the truth was she didn’t know how she felt about the pistol any more. For months it had been her touchstone, the smooth pearl and wood under her hand as calming as any amount of Al’s laudanum. Now, it only filled her with a sense of wrongness, and the dread that the way she’d viewed the world was completely askew. She had chosen not to mention Molyneux’s accusations to James – god, that their parents had been having an affair – and when he knew, perhaps he wouldn’t thank her for putting the pistol in his hands.