‘Bonsoir, citoyen,’ she replied. The duc’s lips tugged into a momentary sneer at the revolutionary epithet. ‘Bonsoir…’ Camille glanced questioningly at his companion.

‘Monsieur Dorval,’ the duc introduced him. ‘An associate.’

‘How do you do?’

The man nodded in acknowledgement.

‘I trust it is a good evening?’

‘Oh, fair to middling, I’d say.’ Camille looked at the darkening sky. A sliver of moon was making itself known among the clouds. ‘Don’t think the rain will last, which is all any of us can ask for. Paris can’t afford another bad harvest.’ She smiled pleasantly. ‘Quite literally.’

The duc’s hand twitched as though wanting to tap restlessly against his stick.

‘If you’re angling for more money, I will need some assurances that you have safely retrieved my daughter.’ The duc made a show of looking around. ‘It would seem she hasn’t made it this far. May I enquire as to her whereabouts?’

‘Not where you told me she’d be, as it turns out.’

The duc tensed.

‘We raided the prison. She wasn’t there.’

The plan had come together in her mind during the walk from the Au Petit Suisse. She wasn’t going to hand Olympe over, whatever Al said, and she wasn’t keen on letting on they had her. But she didn’t want to tell the duc they’d failed to get into the prison either. That was just kicking the problem down the road: he might end up asking her to go in again. So this was the option left after all other choices had been scratched off her list.

‘The directions I gave you were very precise. Did you make some error of comprehension?’ The duc’s finger was twitching against his thigh, rapping out a stucco rhythm. Camille hoped for his sake he didn’t play whist.

‘I can read quite well, thank you. The room you sent me to was empty. No sign of where she might have been taken.’

The duc pursed his lips.

‘How … unexpected.’

‘Indeed. A day of many unexpected things,’ agreed Camille. ‘Not least of which there was no record of a Citoyenne Aubespine ever being held at the Conciergerie. I checked, you see, after we couldn’t find her. A mistake, I thought. Perhaps the poor girl was in some other prison. The Luxembourg, the Saint-Lazare. But no one seems to know anything about her. Though’ – she paused, glancing at the streets on either side of the church, then took a step forwards – ‘I did find one more unexpected thing. There was something left behind in the cell at the Conciergerie. A mask made out of metal. Fitted, it seemed, to close around the entire head.’

She met the duc’s eye, watching for any flash in his ice-blue irises. A muscle in his jaw flickered. Pleasure flared in her gut. Got you, you lying bastard.