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was vaguely … disappointed.
    Enough. She turned to the Duc d’Avignon, crossing from his carriage, quizzing glass raised to survey the crowd and the burning house that shared a wall with his own, much larger dwelling. She must be mad to think of asking him for help. The wicked duc would do nothing for her. But no one could help her once she’d been arrested, so he was her only hope.
    “Please help me, Monsieur.” She hated that her voice was small and pleading.
    His quizzing glass turned toward her and her two burly guards, magnifying his eye until he looked like a monster. This was the first time he had even noticed her in all the months he’d lived next door. She blushed, acutely aware that her skirts were torn and covered with soot.
    “You mean to call him ‘Citizen,’ do you not?” Madame Croûte asked through gritted teeth. “We have no forms of respectful address for the nobility. France belongs to the people.”
    The quizzing glass was turned on Madame Croûte. The duc frowned then surveyed the burning building. “Really, this crosses the line.” His voice was quiet, yet somehow the crowd around her subsided. Only the roar of the flames filled the night air. They must be reacting to that electric energy he always seemed to give off. She had watched him secretly as he went out every evening for months now. One could not help but be riveted by him. He was a handsome devil who seemed much more alive than everyone else. He flaunted his wealth and taste in the teeth of the revolutionary zealots as though he were fearless.
    He cast his gaze over the crowd. “You’ll burn down the Marais, and, more importantly, my house, with your nonsense.” His dark eyes seemed to glow red in the light from the flames. “Put it out.” His voice almost echoed in the night.
    To her shock, the four men nearest him began exhorting the crowd to put the fire out. The crowd milled uncertainly, then gained purpose.
    “To the mews! The stables’ll have buckets.”
    “Take ’em to the fountain.”
    The crowd split into purposeful streams. This enraged Madame Croûte. “Citizens!” she screamed.
    “This refuge of
    antirevolutionary sentiment must come down!” But the crowd wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. She turned on Robespierre.
    She was a handsome woman with a fine figure, albeit with a rather long face and slightly protuberant pale blue eyes. She was dressed in the style of a poor woman, with apron and cap, but the fabrics were rich and very clean, unlike those of her followers.
    “Citizen,” she accosted Robespierre, “Do something.”
    The duc looked over her shoulder. “Ahhhh, dear Robespierre, what brings you to this sordid scene?” He glanced to Madame Croûte. “And your minion as well.”
    Madame Croûte glared at him.
    “Rooting out a traitor,” the little man said primly. He was dressed with the greatest propriety in sober black, plain wool, his hair concealed by a modest wig with only two rolls over each ear. He wore a ribbon on his lapel with the revolutionary colors.
    “I wonder”—the duc sighed—“that the Committee of Public Safety should be involved in starting fires. It seems such a contradiction.”
    The little man drew himself up, frowning. “You make light of our sacred charge, Citizen Foucault, but the cause of freedom must be protected at all costs.”
    “So I’ve been told.” The dark eyes flicked back to Françoise and away. “And an old woman is certainly a worthy target of your wrath. I positively quake to think that I lived next door to such a dangerous character.”
    Was it her situation that caused Françoise’s wobbly knees? Or was it whatever had disconcerted her at the edge of the crowd?
    She shook her head again. She couldn’t remember what she had seen. But she had a feeling she had done all this before, in a dream perhaps.
    “But what has my ward to do with all of this?” the duc drawled.
    Had her attention wandered? What ward? The duc lived alone in the