L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Ten (Part Two) - 11. February. 1789

“Are you not frightened?” she asks.

“Frightened of what?”

“L’Ange de la Mort.”

Gabriel’s hands grip tightly around the reins. “Should I be?” 

“I’m not sure. He’s threatening the palace and the safety of the courtiers. Do you not know anything about him? He can’t have shown up out of nowhere. Have you heard which part of the city he comes from? Or why he’s decided to make himself known? Do you know—”

“Mademoiselle,” Gabriel cuts in, shoulders tense, “is there a particular reason why you are so interested in L’Ange de la Mort?”

Lizabeth stops, swallowing thickly. Oh, God. Did she ask too many questions? Or sound suspicious? Has she already ruined the opportunity so soon? Why is she so awful at this? “No reason, really. I’m simply new to the palace, and I thought—well, I suppose you could say I’m a bit worried.”

Gabriel’s shoulders relax. “From what I’ve gathered, L’Ange de la Mort only targets members of French nobility who are widely known to cause trouble. Seeing as you are neither French nobility nor someone who causes trouble, you needn’t worry.”

Lizabeth brushes off the comment about not being someone who causes trouble, choosing instead to focus on his other information. “So, you do know about L’Ange de la Mort? Is there anything else you know?” 

“I’m not sure what you wish for me to say. I apologize, but I have no further information on the matter. I know only what is general knowledge among the courtiers. If it’s more detailed answers you seek, I suggest you look for them elsewhere.” 

“Oh.” Lizabeth swallows back a frustrated grumble. As much as she would like to push Gabriel a bit more, she can sense he doesn’t wish to continue the conversation, and nothing good will come out of being a bother to the heir to one of the most respected families in France. Next time. She will get more information out of him next time. “My apologies. I was merely curious.”

“No apology necessary,” Gabriel says. His voice is quiet and reassuring, carrying faintly in the light breeze. “May I ask why you were out in the forest at this time of day?”

“I needed some fresh air is all,” she says, not ready to admit how quickly Versailles’ gilded claws have begun to squeeze the life out of her. She thought she’d be free this far away from her mother’s suffocating touch, but the crushing pressure to succeed and prove she can do something right makes her feel more trapped than ever.

Lizabeth waits, craning her ear toward Gabriel’s mouth to better hear him lest he respond, but the only sound she’s greeted by is the clop of horse hooves.

“You’re profoundly horrid at keeping up a conversation, you know,” Lizabeth says.

Gabriel’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter. “Yes, I believe I’ve been told that a few times.”

“Aren’t all French gentlemen supposed to be good at conversing?” Lizabeth asks. She waves a hand in the air for added emphasis and regrets it a second later when the motion causes her to lose her balance on the horse.

She shoots her hand out to grasp at Gabriel, and her fingers scrape against his back as she pulls him down along with her. To save them both from falling, he makes a sudden, harsh tug on the reins, and the horse stops, allowing the two to right themselves.