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

Chapter Eighteen - 22. February. 1789

“Oh yes, that must be the reason,” Charles replies. 

“It is.” 

“As I said, I’m sure it is.” Charles grins. “But I think it would be better for Gabriel to answer his own questions, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fear blooms in the back of Gabriel’s throat. Do not falter. Do not falter. Do. Not. Falter. “Jean is correct. I was feeling a bit poorly earlier, but there is no need to worry because I am much recovered.” 

Charles studies Gabriel, eyes running from his leather shoes to where his hair is tied into an immaculate queue at the back of his neck. There is no blood on Gabriel’s clothes, nor any dirt on his skin. But Charles’ gaze feels like it’s searching for something other than an exterior flaw. It’s less like he’s looking for dirt on Gabriel’s skin, and more like he’s looking for dirt on Gabriel’s soul. 

“May I speak with Jean?” Gabriel asks, placing his nearly full champagne glass on the lacquered table. “It will take but a moment.” 

Charles frowns. “What about?” 

“Charlotte de Fontin,” Jean speaks up. “Gabriel promised to talk to her lady’s maid on my behalf so I could snatch up a few of her soiled underthings and use them for—” 

Charles holds up his hand. “You truly are disgusting. I haven’t the slightest idea what I did to deserve such a disgraceful younger brother.” 

 “Right, so”—Jean takes hold of Gabriel’s arm and steers them in the opposite direction—“I’ll return in a moment.” 

“Jean, Gabriel, wait!” Pierre calls out, shoving his empty glass in Charles’ hand.

Knowing it will only raise more suspicions to refuse him, Gabriel waits for Pierre to catch up before they continue across the salon. 

“You wish to steal Charlotte de Fontin’s underthings?” Pierre asks while the three weave through the crowd. The courtiers they pass speak in low, harried voices, colorful betting chips and golden coins abandoned on the gaming tables like soiled kerchiefs. “That’s a bit much. Even for you.” 

“Over there, it’s Mademoiselle de Laval,” Jean says. 

Pierre stops mid-step and whips his head to the corner of the salon, where Sophie, Marguerite, and Lizabeth stand together, all whispering as their lace fans flash in the candlelight. Gabriel’s heart lurches at the sight. He didn’t expect to see Lizabeth only a few hours after they parted, and her presence stirs something odd and unidentifiable in his chest. 

He fled to the gardens earlier, unable to stomach the thought of returning to Versailles after being responsible for yet another death. While there, the quiet air and the light breeze and the endless expanse of stars shoved their way under Gabriel’s skin, and he found himself crying. For how could the night be so beautiful when everything else around him is so wretched? 

Then there had been Lizabeth, with her summer-green eyes and soft smile. She knows nothing of his past—of Henriette’s disappearance, the note she left him, or the way the responsibility of it all had rotted his mind until he could think of nothing but having her smile, her laugh, her teasing words, back again. 

Somehow, the fact that Lizabeth doesn’t know him made Gabriel want to spill everything to her all at once. Made him want to show her his tears.