“Aruzzio,” provided Mlle. Griscogne helpfully. “Although I doubt any of them have been any nearer to Aruzzio than Bourgogne.”

André looked about for the rest of his family. “Where are Gabrielle? And, er, Cousin Philippe?”

“In the tavern with Jeannette. They’re having breakfast with the rest of the troupe. Both have already assumed their roles.”

“What roles?” asked André warily.

“We’re to be actors!” exclaimed Pierre-André. “And live in a house on wheels!”

His son evidently thought this was all a grand idea.

“Actors,” repeated André.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” said Mlle. Griscogne. “People who pretend to be something other than what they are. Only in this instance, it involves a stage and a costume. I shouldn’t think you should have too much trouble with that.”

André took in the gaudy wagons. “Hardly inconspicuous.”

“Call it escaping in plain sight.” She looked anxiously about. “Where is Monsieur Daubier? Don’t tell me you didn’t bring him?”

“Monsieur Daubier—” André scanned the courtyard. He finally spotted the old artist, huddled on the steps of one of the wagons, hunched over as though his limbs had given out on him. “Monsieur Daubier is over there.”

“What did they do to him?”

André took his son by the shoulders and turned him towards the tavern. “Go see if Jeannette has some bread and honey for you.”

Pierre-André looked at him suspiciously. “Are you going away again?”

André shook his head. “Only with you. I’ll be there in a moment. Tell Jeannette to order a coffee for me?”

Pierre-André nodded importantly and scampered off.

“Well?”

André took a deep breath. “They broke his hand.”

“His hand.”

“His right hand.”

“His—oh.” Her face blanched as the full implications of it dawned on her.

“Finger by finger,” said André grimly. “They cracked the knuckles and shattered the bone.”

“Will he ever paint again?”

André shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Was there no way to stop them?”

It was what he had been asking himself. “If I had come a day earlier. Maybe.”

She had asked for that day, that day’s grace period, to make her arrangements, whatever those arrangements might be. André had used that day for purposes of his own, to tie up his own loose ends and cobble together a series of backup plans in the event his governess proved untrustworthy.

He had never thought that Delaroche would act so quickly. Usually, he preferred to begin with more mental methods, working slowly from mind to body, savoring the experience of playing with his prisoner. He had acted too fast this time. A sign of his own instability—and André’s failure.

“If you had freed him right away,” Mlle. Griscogne said unsteadily, “we might have hidden you while the hue and cry arose. We could have secreted you away somewhere.”

“All of us?” said André. “A whole household? De Berry and Daubier and the children and Jeannette? Delaroche would have been on us like ants on honey.” Red strands of wool snagged against the brown leather of his gloves as he grasped her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. “We didn’t know.”

Mlle. Griscogne shrugged away, not meeting his eye. “I suppose you’ll want to hear the plan,” she said in a rough voice.

Fair enough. She didn’t like to admit weakness any more than he.

“I have papers for everyone.” She didn’t say where she had acquired them. André didn’t ask. “We are a theatrical family fallen on hard times. Monsieur Daubier is my father. Jeannette is your stepmother.”

“Nicely cast,” commented André. “She’ll enjoy that.”

Mlle. Griscogne’s lip quirked a bit at that. “The—er, Philippe, is your younger brother. Gabrielle and Pierre-André are our children.”

“Which makes us?”

“Husband and wife.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “For the duration of the journey.”

“Hmm,” said André.

“There wasn’t any other way,” she said defensively. She fussed with the edges of her shawl. “It would have looked very odd for us to be traveling in such a large group without . . .”

“Familial ties?” he provided.

“Precisely,” she said gratefully. “It was simply a matter of expedience.”

That certainly put him in his place. “So we are to be acting offstage as well as on.”

Including the bedchamber. He didn’t know much about theatrical troupes, but he imagined they would be living in very close quarters. André looked over his shoulder at the wagons. All of them were far smaller than the smallest of the salons in the Hôtel de Bac.

Very close quarters, indeed.

“If you are to be my wife—for the duration of the journey—,” he amended, before she could do it herself, “I should probably call you Laura, shouldn’t I? Unless we are to be assuming other names.”

She seized on his businesslike approach with relief. “The—my friend thought it best that we keep our own Christian names. They’re common enough, and we’re less likely to stumble on them. Our surname is Malcontre.”

“Ill-met?” She had reason to consider it an ill day that she had fallen in with them. From governess to fugitive in one easy misstep. “They might agree with that, once they’ve seen our acting. There might be a reason we’ve fallen on hard times.”

“Cécile—their Columbine—is the only one who knows we aren’t what we say. But that’s all she knows. Just that we needed safe passage to the coast.”

“Columbine. The maidservant?”

“You do know the Commedia dell’Arte, then.”

“I was young once too.” Like all young men, he had frequented the theatres, just as he had the debating societies and taverns. He had always preferred the formal stage to the exaggerated routines of the Commedia dell’Arte, but he was familiar with the form. A series of stock characters acted out various pre-plotted scenarios, mostly variations on the same themes. There were invariably young lovers, overbearing fathers, and saucy maidservants.

“With no scripts to memorize, it shouldn’t be too difficult to pretend for the month it will take us to get to Dieppe,” said Mlle. Griscogne earnestly. No, he reminded himself. Laura. “I have Gherland’s book of scenarios in the wagon. As for the other troupe members, I’ve told them that Jeannette was our wardrobe mistress. And Monsieur Daubier—Monsieur Daubier was our set painter.”

“If he’s to be your father,” said André, “you shouldn’t go on calling him Monsieur Daubier.”

“A fair point,” admitted Laura. “We should begin as we mean to go on. The children have already been instructed to call him grandpère. They have,” she added, “taken to this rather well.”

Guilt caught at André’s tongue, silencing him. It seemed to him the basest of ironies that actions taken in the grand name of his children’s future should have come to this. He had meant to make the world safer for them. Instead, he had cast them into exile, with no set future before them. Even if they escaped, what then? He wasn’t one of the Comte d’Artois’s own. He had no faith in the gratitude—or the means—of the Duc de Berry. In the very best case, they would arrive in England as refugees, dependent on their wits for their bread, scrounging out a living as best they could.

It was a far cry from the Hôtel de Bac.

On the other hand, it was better than being guillotined. They owed a great deal to Mlle. Griscogne. Er, Laura. He looked assessingly at the former governess, her tired face at odds with her gaudy clothes. Droplets of rain sparkled on the red wool of her shawl, damping the white linen bodice beneath. She had gone to a great deal of trouble for them. Not just trouble, danger. There was every chance that she might have walked away from this all unscathed. Delaroche wouldn’t waste that much time on a governess, especially one who had been in residence for fewer than three months.

By escaping with them, she placed her own neck in the noose. It was either an act of astounding generosity—for Daubier, he reminded himself; all for Daubier—or his former governess had unfathomable motives of her own.

Motives and connections.

“It was clever of you to think of this,” he said abruptly.

Not only clever, but expeditious. To come up with a plan, acquire false papers, and engineer a new set of identities for six people within the course of twenty-four hours was no mean feat.

She hitched her shawl higher around her shoulders. “Don’t say that until we’re past the gates.”

“And after we’re free of the city?” André asked.

“The troupe’s route takes them through Dieppe. If all goes well, a ship will be waiting for us there in one month’s time.”

“That long?” A great deal could go wrong in a month.

“It would cause talk if we barreled through without actually performing. The other actors would start to wonder. If we have to,” she added, “we can always break away from the troupe and travel on our own.”

“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” Better to transport Daubier in the relative comfort of a wagon rather than tramp across the fields by foot. Pierre-André and Gabrielle might find walking the fields and sleeping rough an adventure for a day or two, but it wouldn’t take long for them to tire of it. It might be cold inside the wagons, but it would be colder outside of them. “How soon do we leave?”

“If all goes well, we should depart within the hour. Would you like to go inside and meet the troupe?”

“I probably ought . . . Laura.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Begin as we mean to go on,” he reminded her.

The ghost of a smile drifted across her face. “And we are past liberties. André.”