Trapped by Scandal by Jane Feather

and to anyone on them. He took a step down the hill and then stopped. There was no point going to look for her; she could be approaching from any one of a number of directions, and he could easily miss her. With a muttered oath, he turned back to the house, glancing once more up and down the quiet, darkened street before going inside.

    The great square in front of Notre Dame was usually a crowded public space, but it was quiet when Hero crossed beneath the shadow of the building, heading for the narrow wooden bridge across the river. The clergy were no longer an active presence in the city, or indeed in most of the country, vilified almost as much as the loathed aristocrats, and religious edifices were shuttered if they had not already been ransacked. In the daytime, a thriving market occupied the square, but now, with most of the citizens watching the afternoon executions at the various sites around the city, it was almost deserted. She made her way towards the narrow bridge. It had once been the only pedestrian way across the Seine, but since the erection of the Pont Neuf, it had fallen into disrepair, and the wooden footboards were rotting in places.
    As she stepped onto the bridge, a prickle of alarm ran along her spine. Her footstep hesitated for a second, but then she strode out more confidently, the fine hairs onher nape pricking but her mind clear. If she was being followed, she must not show any sign of awareness or alarm. Halfway across the bridge, she paused, leaning idly against the splintering wooden rail, looking up the river towards the Conciergerie as casually as if she were simply taking an evening stroll, except that every muscle in her body was as taut and rigid as steel.
    â€œ Bon soir, citoyenne.”
    The voice from behind her made her heart race, but she folded her arms on the railing and turned her head, offering the speaker a polite nod. “ Citoyen. ” Her heart was like an out-of-control racehorse, but she remained steadily where she was, and after a moment, the man walked on across the bridge to the Quai de la Tournelle on the far bank, his tall, thin figure disappearing into the shadows.
    Was he following her? Waiting for her . . . waiting to pounce over there in the shadows? Every inch of her skin warned of danger; she felt like a doe, hearing the hunters’ trumpets, the baying of the dogs. And her mind told her, cold and clear, to trust her instincts. The man meant her harm, whether he was an agent of the Committee of Public Safety or simply a man seeing a lone woman as prey. Either way, she was not crossing the bridge now.
    Behind her lay the cathedral and beyond that the bustling lanes and houses of the Île St. Louis. She could lose herself there and find some other way back to Rue St. André des Arts. Without a second thought, Hero swung on her heel and walked fast back across the bridge, prepared now to lose herself in the blood-satiated crowds pouring from Place de la Révolution into the square infront of the cathedral. She didn’t look behind her to see if he was coming back across the bridge again but plunged into the nearest crowd of people, dodging and twisting her way to the maze of crooked streets running behind the cathedral, avoiding the darker ones, keeping to those lit by lamps from house windows. She had no idea of the time, intent only on keeping herself surrounded by people, blending with them as she threaded her way through the maze, finally ducking down a shallow flight of stone steps to the riverbank, where a wherry bobbed against the quay, its owner sucking on a pipe, staring at the black waters of the Seine.
    â€œTen sous to take me across to the steps at St. Michel?” she asked, pulling her red cap down over her forehead with one hand as she dug into the pocket of her grimy apron with the other.
    The wherry man spat into the river, took the handful of coins she held on her flat palm, and untied the little craft while Hero