Careful to stay out of sight, Fairchild lifted the guard’s arm and gave it a little shake to make it look as though he were waving his agreement.
“Fine, fine. But be quick.”
A sigh of relief wanted to well up within him, but he didn’t dare release it. Instead, he eased the door mostly closed and handed off the unconscious man to the waiting servant. From within the apartment he could hear the incessant chatter and laughter of the ladies, nothing within it to grab any particular attention.
Not until he heard the words he had been waiting for, rising above the rest. “Hush, ladies. Let us leave my daughter to nap. You get your rest, ma chérie, and that headache will leave you. I shall return to check on you in a few hours.”
The click of an interior door sounded, and then there was a chorus of whispers—the kind that would require young women to put their heads together and so obscure their faces with the brims of their hats.
Fairchild pushed the door all the way open for the group, each heartbeat a prayer that the men inside would not bark out a sudden, “Arrêtez!” That they would not notice there were now seven young ladies instead of six, two in a neutral cream dress rather than one.
But they all exited without garnering such a command, and the marquis pulled the door closed with visible relief.
Fairchild scarcely noticed the crowd. His gaze homed directly in on the new addition, even as those unforgettable glacier eyes lifted and found him. Only when he felt her fingers in his did he realize he had stretched out a hand. But once he held hers, he saw no reason to let go. Nay, rather he lifted it so he might kiss her knuckles even as he pulled her down the hallway. “We must hurry.”
As soon as they gained the out of doors, the maid who matched Julienne separated from them and headed back for Lady Poole’s rooms. The rest headed for the stables, where the marquis’s carriage waited.
Julienne squeezed his hand a little tighter with each step. She, like him, must fear that at any moment the duc or his men would jump from the shadows with a gun aimed at her heart. But they made it to the carriage with no surprises.
One of the servants opened the door for them and helped Julienne up. Her mother quickly followed, and Fairchild took the seat across from them.
Lady Poole leaned out, her brows drawn. “Père, are you certain you will not join us? Please. I fear the duc will know you helped us.”
The marquis smirked. “I imagine he will. And I imagine he knows there are some yet in the court he cannot touch, lest he lose all the power he holds so dear. I am safe from him, ma chérie. I’m only sorry I have not better kept my two most precious ones safe as well.”
“Promise.” A tremble quivered her lips. “Promise you will visit us.”
“I will try, ma fille, if the king can spare me.” His eyes, only a shade darker than Julienne’s, moved to Fairchild—and hardened. “If a hair on their heads is harmed, I will kill you myself.”
He sent the man a rueful smile. “If a hair on their heads is harmed, monsieur, it will be because someone else has already beaten you to it.”
“We will be well, Grandpère.” Julienne leaned over her mother to press a kiss to the man’s weathered cheek. “Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime, ma fifille.” The marquis turned away, but not before Fairchild saw a telltale shimmer in his eye.
His chest tightened. Why must one family be broken for another to be reunited? Why must there always be loss for there to be gain? But there was no choice, not now with the duc as an enemy. Their hope would have to be that the marquis’s missing them would outweigh his loyalty to Louis. And that being forewarned, he could avoid the danger Fairchild felt certain was brewing.
The door closed, and the driver clicked up the horses. Lady Poole stared out the window at the world passing them by, but Julienne shifted to the seat beside him and turned her face into his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut.
He put his arm around her and anchored her to his side. And his mind flew back a decade, to another trio escaping imminent danger, another face he loved turned into a solid shoulder. Not his, not that time. He had been only an observer when Winter, Ben, and Freeman fled the City of New York. An enemy, really.
One who could not bear to see his friends come to harm.
Never had an ounce of regret plagued him for helping them leave with their lives, despite the fact that General Arnold would have had him drawn and quartered had he learned of it. Some things transcended politics, just as this did. No matter if France had long been the enemy of England. The heart knew no such claims.
But man—man did. And if the wrong men caught them anytime between here and when their ship eventually reached England…
Fairchild squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.