‘It’s symbolic. The Revolutionaries rule the National Convention, so they will rule over the festival from the mountain top.’ Gerard gave a smug smile. ‘That is the calibre of patron we attract, you see. Only the very top.’

Al pulled her arm. ‘So fascinating. We’ll be getting on our way.’

They passed the back of one wing through a door, tucked under the thunder-run where cannonballs were rolled down a series of slopes to create the sound of thunder.

‘Who’s Alexander?’ she hissed, giving Al a sideways look.

‘Call it a nom d’espionage. Don’t exactly need to broadcast that a wanted aristocrat is free and alive, wandering around Paris.’

‘I didn’t think.’

He scoffed. ‘Please, give me a little credit. Just because you think I’m bad at what I do, doesn’t mean I actually am.’

Beyond was a corridor, and a series of doors with name cards in place. They stopped at one labelled Léon and Al gave a rhythmic series of raps before going in.

The room was lavishly decorated with rugs and screens and paper fans. Léon was an attractive man, a couple of years older than Al, with a firm jaw and grey-green eyes. Camille could see how he was Gerard’s star turn.

He greeted Al with a smile as Al slid onto his lap to kiss him.

‘Darling, why have you brought a spectator? I told you, I don’t give private performances.’

Al pulled away long enough to wave Camille over. ‘Alas, Camille is a theatrical heathen and has absolutely no idea who you are.’

Léon looked at her with one brow finely arched. ‘How refreshing.’

‘I do know that you’re someone with information,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘Information we’d pay well for.’

‘Is she always like this?’ Léon asked Al.

Al nodded. ‘All business. Better just tell her what she wants and make her go away.’

Léon sighed and tipped Al off his lap. He crossed the room to a squat set of drawers and took out a snuffbox. ‘Very well, then. Aloysius said you were interested in news of the Duc de l’Aubespine.’

‘Or someone calling himself that.’