Page 2 of To Tempt a Rebel (The Scarlet Chronicle 4)

He was a tall man, though every man was tall to her as she was petite, but he must have been close to six feet. His straight brown hair, streaked with a few lighter strands here and there, had been pulled back into a simple queue and hung down his back to an inch or so below his collar. His eyebrows were dark slashes and his lips a soft peach amid a day’s growth of stubble. She imagined he let it grow to hide the angry red scar on his jaw. In time it would fade and turn white, but her information was that the scar was only a few years old and had been deep enough that it would take considerable time to disappear.

He nodded at her, clasping his hands behind his back. He was curt and perfunctory, and not at all the sort of man she was used to dealing with. “Citoyenne Martin.” His tongue stumbled slightly over her English name, as though he was not used to the harsher consonants of her native language. “How may I be of assistance?”

She paused as she stood before him and smiled up and into his eyes. “You know my name.”

“All of Paris knows your name, citoyenne. You are the famous English actress.” His tone was one of disdain, but Alex kept her smile in place.

“Then you know my work?”

He shook his head. “I do not have time to attend the theater. In fact, I am pressed for time now.”

Alex had not loved theancien régime,but she had certainly appreciated the noblemen’s manners. These patriots had none. “Allow me to accompany you to your carriage.” She hooked her arm through his and waited for him to lead her. He gave her a weary look, one that said he did not have time to pretend he strolled in the gardens, but he placed his hand over hers and led her toward the exit anyway.

“I am afraid you have dealt the company quite a blow today,” she said, her voice pleasant and loud enough to be overhead by any who wished to listen. “Costumes and sets do not come cheaply, citoyen.”

“Then your company would do well not to waste funds on a play that has not been approved by the Committee of Public Safety.”

They stepped into the foyer, where two National Guardsmen jumped to attention and opened the door. Immediately, Alex clamped her teeth to keep them from chattering. It was mid-November, and the weather outside was wet and cold. A gentleman would not have taken her out in it, dressed as she was in a thin costume, her arms bare. But Chevalier was no gentleman.

He stepped outside, and the wind caught her skirts and slapped them against her calves. Her nipples puckered from the cold, but she did not cross her arms over them to warm herself. Instead, she watched Chevalier’s eyes, hoping his gaze might dip to the hardened points of her breasts, thereby proving he was human after all. But his eyes never left her face—or rather, a point just to the right of her face.

“Shakespeare is beloved by everyone, the world over. His plays are considered masterpieces.”

Chevalier’s eyes slid to hers, then back to that undefined point again. “The Committee considers them unpatriotic. You do not wish to participate in anything unpatriotic, do you, Citoyenne Martin?”

And there was the veiled threat. She’d been learning everything she could about Chevalier for weeks. He was known for his ability to offer veiled threats, and even more importantly, make good on them.

“No, of course not. The Committee will not find a more ardent patriot than I, citoyen.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” But his face was a mask of skepticism. She had not fooled him, nor had she expected to. “Good day, citoyenne.”

“Good day. And remember—

Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun's eye,

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.”

He paused, hand on the door to his carriage. “Sonnet twenty-five,” he said, his gaze meeting hers directly now.

She raised her brows in both acknowledgment and admiration.

“Is it a warning?”

“Take it as you will.”

He climbed into the carriage, but looked out the window again before signaling to the coachman to drive on. “You play a dangerous game, citoyenne.”

She smiled. “There is no other kind worth playing. I do hope to see you again, citoyen.”

He looked at her long and hard, as though he might say something more, then he leaned back in the carriage and rapped on the roof.

Alex watched the carriage go, her smile fixed in place. She had not been certain he would know Shakespeare. Even after all she had gathered about him, she still did not know whether he was merely a sheep following the herd or an intelligent man with his own thoughts.

She was not pleased to have discovered the truth. An intelligent man was even more dangerous. It meant he was a true patriot. Such a man was much harder to sway with bribes or blackmail. This Chevalier did not seek fortune and fame but the ideals the revolution had been founded on.

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