The Escape by Kristabel Reed Page A

Theodore,” she snapped back, uncaring how she stoked his temper. In fact, she wanted to. “I want to know where the men I love are buried.”
    He glared silently at her, hands fisted at his sides. A vein pounded in his temple, red and angry, and his jaw clenched. Rather than striking her again, he turned away and stalked the few steps to his desk. Not as large or ornate as they once possessed, but Theodore didn’t seem to care so long as he retained a measure of his former power.
    “If our uncle were still living,” he said over his shoulder, loathing in every word, “I’d see him guillotined for allowing you to sully yourself at the Hellfire Club.”
    “As I recall,” she snarled, adjusting her hat, “you also took your pleasures at the Club.”
    “It’s different for me than you,” he snapped, turning back to face her. He seemed to truly believe that, and Gabrielle hated him for it.
    “Why?” she demanded. “Because you’ve sold me to the general as a virgin ?”
    “I’ve made an alliance to keep us both alive,” he retorted. “Not begging and scrounging on the streets as so many we know are forced to do.”
    What he didn’t say was that most of their acquaintances had been beheaded, rounded up by Robespierre’s fanatics. She believed that those who still lived either hid in the catacombs of Paris, where the Hellfire Club had a long established presence, or died, nameless, on the streets. They’d likely not survived with the revolution’s mobs combing every Parisian avenue for Royalists.
    Gabrielle sighed heavily and turned from him. She didn’t make the mistake of trying for the door. When Theodore was in this mood, he’d likely beat her no matter who called on her this afternoon. And Gabrielle knew the servants lurked directly outside the study door, straining for every shred of gossip they could hear.
    She’d never make it to the foyer.
    “Why do you not want me to know where they’re buried?” she asked softly. Her hand brushed the base of her throat, where she once wore a locket. It had been a gift from them, painted with their likeness. One of many personal treasures lost to the revolution’s prisons. “They’re dead,” she said, trying not to choke on the word. Trying not to cry at the knowledge her lovers would never again hold her. “What harm could there be in visiting their grave?”
    “Gabrielle,” he said, and she heard him move to stand behind her. Her shoulder’s straightened but he didn’t attempt to touch her. “You don’t understand. There is harm in even inquiring about them or attempting to visit the Club. We don’t know if Robespierre and his men have found it and guillotined the members already.”
    His hands rested on her shoulders, then, and Gabrielle stiffened beneath his touch. It wasn’t always so, once upon a time they’d been close, had laughed together, enjoyed the privileges of Parisian society as members of the ruling class. Things had changed when she’d come of age to join the Hellfire Club. Theodore had changed.
    “We don’t know,” he continued in that same soft tone, dropping his hands from her shoulders, “if the catacombs are being watched. If you went there, you’d expose yourself and me. Let them go. Resign yourself to the life I’ve made for you. General Fortier is a good man and his daughters have been kind to you. You’re a lucky woman to have them.”
    Only her brother managed to insult her and make her feel guilty in one breath. Gabrielle truly did adore the Fortier sisters, but this was not the life she wanted for herself, not the one she envisioned. Swallowing, she steeled herself and turned to face him. “Yes, they’re kind, but they’re near ten years my senior. What am I to do with a man of the general’s age?”
    “Marry him,” Theodore said shortly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Be a good French wife and Citizen.”
    Gabrielle moved forward, wanting to argue with him, but he stopped her with