She’d secluded herself in a nook, waiting for Comtois’s telltale black among the brighter colours of the Convention members, but he came out alone. She was assessing the ebb and flow of the crowd, judging where she could draw the most attention, when the point of a knife against her ribs stilled her instantly.

She looked back. Dorval.

‘What do you want?’ she spat, trying to ignore the insistent press of the knife on her skin.

Dorval’s smirk grew wider, and he looked over her shoulder. She turned to follow his gaze. The first tumbrils were arriving at the guillotine.

‘If you’re trying to annoy me, you can do that any time. I’m a bit busy right now.’ She tried to wriggle away but he followed her with the blade. With his free hand he felt along her side to find the knife in her sash, tossing it away.

‘I want you to watch.’

‘Watch what?’

Dorval turned her, keeping the knife nestled under her ribs. ‘Oh, just your hopes as they fade away.’

The first prisoners were being led out. Camille felt a flutter of panic. Was Al among them? Was James waiting for her distraction? No – no blond heads in this batch.

‘Why?’ she snarled. ‘This has nothing to do with Olympe. Or you.’

‘Ah. You would think.’

He smiled wider as the knife bit into the fat of her side. With the blade under her skin, Dorval pushed her further down the alley.

‘Come on, girlie. I want a talk with you.’

9

The Madeleine Church

Each step was marked by threat of pain. Camille stumbled, held upright by Dorval’s arm around her, knife grazing the cut he’d opened in her side. She could feel a trickle of hot blood dripping down her hip. Nobody paid them any attention as they left the alley and cut down the Rue St Honoré towards the ruins of the half-built Madeleine Church. To passers-by, she must look like a drunk, being supported home by a friend.

Dorval took her down the side of the foundations to the quiet back corner where she’d met him and the duc a few days previously. He kicked her feet so she was teetering on the edge of the pit, then gave her shoulder a shove so she fell backwards. Her back slammed into the hard earth; the air was forced from her lungs.

He jumped into the pit, landing next to her in a billow of frock coat and dust.

‘Time’s up. Where have you stashed the girl? Must I go back to dear Mademoiselle Ada and tell her you abandoned her? Ah, well, I will look forward to … how shall I put this … getting to know her better.’ He leered.