He raised his hands slowly toward her neck as if he meant to squeeze it. The group inched forward. He cleared his features and lowered his arms. “Then you know what is about to happen when I do this!”

He shook one arm down, grabbing at the knife handle in his right palm so fast his movements blurred, and brought his arm up in one sweeping motion toward her neck.

But a hand stopped him, a uniformed hand at his right.

Matteo had rushed forward as soon as he saw the downward shake of Robespierre’s arm, recognizing it from his own practice. But now he jerked to a stop, looking from Robespierre to the guard and back.

Robespierre resisted the restraining hand, pulling his arm, twisting to loosen the grip. “What is the meaning of this? Release me at once.” The veins on his neck began to swell and his face turned a deep shade of red.

The guard wrenched Robespierre’s arm, squeezing at the wrist until he dropped the knife. “Not so fast, citizen. You have crimes to answer for, against the people of France.”

Scarlet’s gasp sounded small, but Matteo felt it hit his chest. Her eyes were wide, watching the guard in hopeful wonder.

Could it be him? Finally, the Pimpernel come to rescue them?

Matteo inched forward, ever closer. Whoever it was, he sensed danger could turn at any moment, so tenuous was the hold on power by either group.

The guard grabbed Robespierre by the collar and jerked his arm behind his back, reaching for the other to tie them together; but Robespierre used that moment and shook his left hand down, grasped his other knife, and whirled, cutting into the flesh on the guard’s forearm.

Scarlet gasped. “No!”

Then Robespierre turned and grabbed a handful of Scarlet’s hair, forcing her to her knees, knife at her throat.

Matteo ran forward, a crazed urgency filling him, his heart pounding, but the group closed in front of him. He was stopped, pushed back by a crowd of prisoners and guards all of the same mind, some with knives of their own drawn and pointed at Robespierre.

“Stop!” Robespierre shouted, wrenching Scarlet’s head to the side, by her hair. “Stop it now. I would happily spill her blood right here.”

They paused, everyone, in their rush to disembowel him.

Matteo only adjusted his direction and made his way slowly around behind the man.

“Stop, Matteo. I see you. Stop, or she dies!”

He froze and raised his hands.

“Drop your knives. All of you, drop your knives.” Then, leaning over the top of Scarlet, he said, “Clever Seamstress. Everyone benefits from your insidious genius, do they?” He jerked her head back so that a long stretch of bare neck was visible. “But now what will you do”—he ran the cold blade along her soft, rosy skin—“knowing you will die from one of your own tricks?”