Read Chapter 22: The Duel of Wits

Élodie pressed her back against cold stone, one hand clamped over Ashworth’s mouth as boots echoed through the tunnel ahead. His breath came hot and shallow against her palm, labored through the wound in his shoulder. The flare of a torch kissed the curve of the passage wall before them, then receded.

“The tunnel bends left,” she whispered, lips nearly touching his ear. “There is a service room the revolutionaries used for storing papers during the Terror.”

“Filled with soldiers, I suppose.” His voice was weaker than she liked, barely a rasp.

“Let us hope not.”

They crept forward, ankles burning from the constant crouch, and found the iron door exactly where she remembered it. Élodie pressed her ear to the rusted surface and heard nothing. Only silence. She worked the latch—someone had oiled it recently, which made her stomach clench—and swung it open into a low-ceilinged chamber.

A dozen faces turned toward her at once.

French soldiers. They sat at trestle tables, cards frozen mid-hand, rifles stacked against the far wall. A lantern hung from a beam, swaying slightly, casting long shadows across uniforms of the Imperial Guard. And in the center of the room, rising from a chair with the slow grace of a man who was never truly surprised, stood Lefèvre.

“Madame Marchand,” he said. “You are persistent. I will give you that.”

Élodie’s blood turned to ice, but she did not let it show. Instead, she stepped fully through the door, dragging Ashworth with her, allowing the torchlight to fall on the blood-soaked wrap across his shoulder and the pallor beneath his stubble. She held him upright with an arm around his waist, her own shoulder taking more of his weight than he knew.

“Inspector,” she said, letting her voice pitch toward breathlessness. “You are a hard man to find. I have been searching every tunnel beneath Paris for you.”

Lefèvre’s eyes narrowed. His gaze slid to Ashworth, lingered on the wound, then returned to her face.

“You have found me. Congratulations. Now explain the Englishman before I have you both shot and save myself the paperwork.”

“He is not my prisoner,” Élodie said.

“Then what is he?”

“My insurance.” She adjusted her grip on Ashworth, letting her fingers dig into the wool of his coat as if steadying herself. “You threatened to destroy everything I hold dear, Inspector. You thought I would fail you. But I did not.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

“I captured him.”

A murmur rippled through the soldiers. Lefèvre’s expression did not change, but something flickered behind his eyes—uncertainty, perhaps, or grudging interest.

“You,” he repeated slowly, “captured a British intelligence officer. Bleeding and barely standing.”

“I did not say I captured him cleanly.” She let a note of pride—no, of vindication—creep into her voice. “He tried to flee when he realized I was bringing him to you. He fought. The wound is his own fault. Stupid man tried to run through a window.”

Ashworth’s body went rigid against hers, and she tightened her arm, praying he understood. Praying he would not open his mouth and ruin everything.

“You planned to deliver him to the Prefecture at dawn,” Lefèvre said. “You were under house arrest.”

“You placed me under house arrest, Inspector. You did not think I would honor it. And you did not think I would find another way to prove my loyalty.” She lifted her chin, fixing him with a stare that mixed defiance with deference. “I am bringing him to Paris for execution. The guillotine does not care who delivers the prisoner—only that he arrives. If you wish to take the credit, be my guest. I only want my silence purchased with his corpse.”

The room went very quiet. A soldier by the far wall set down his cards. Ashworth swayed, and Élodie gripped him harder, digging her nails into his hip to keep him conscious.

Lefèvre studied them. His gaze traced Ashworth’s face, the dark hair, the hollow cheeks, the unmistakable British cut of his jaw—then dropped to his hands.

“He wears no officer’s uniform,” Lefèvre observed. “He wears the clothes of a tradesman. Why would an intelligence officer dress as a laborer?”

“He was hiding in the cellar of my inn,” Élodie said. “He had been there for days, watching me, waiting for an opportunity to slip into Paris and meet his contact. When I found him, he tried to bribe me with British gold.” She laughed—a short, bitter sound. “I have buried a husband because of men like him. I do not accept bribes from them. I settle accounts.”

Lefèvre’s mouth thinned. She could not tell if he was convinced or merely amused, but he took a step closer. Then another. Soon he was close enough that she could smell the tobacco on his breath, could see the threads of silver in his black hair.

“You would turn over a man who saved your husband’s life?” he asked quietly, so only the three of them could hear.

Élodie’s heart stuttered. She felt Ashworth’s weight shift, felt him gather strength to speak, and she dug her fingers hard into the muscle above his hip.

“My husband is dead,” she said, each word sharp as glass. “What good is a debt owed to a corpse?”

Lefèvre stared at her for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached out and seized Ashworth’s chin, forcing his head up. Ashworth groaned, his knees buckling slightly, and Élodie had to brace to keep him from falling.

“What is your name, Englishman?” Lefèvre demanded.

Ashworth’s eyes were glazed with pain, but he managed a ragged smile. “I am nobody, monsieur. Just a man who made the mistake of trusting a widow with a generous heart.”

Lefèvre laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.

“She has no generous heart. That is why she is still alive.” He released Ashworth’s chin and stepped back. “You say he was in your cellar. How did you seduce him out of it?”

“I did not seduce him.” Élodie let her cheeks flush slightly, playing embarrassment. “I told him I knew where his contact was hiding. A place in the catacombs. He believed the prize was worth the risk.”

“And the prize was a trap?”

“The prize was always you, Inspector.” She lowered her voice, bidding him into conspiracy. “I thought you might want to interrogate him yourself. Before the execution, I mean. There is information in his head—codes, names, ships. It seemed wasteful to send him to the blade without letting you wring him dry first.”

Lefèvre’s eyes narrowed, but behind the suspicion she saw greed. That was the lever she needed. Greed always ruled such men.

“He is in no condition to be interrogated,” Lefèvre said, gesturing at the blood soaking through Ashworth’s coat sleeve.

“He will be, Inspector.” Élodie allowed a thread of steel into her voice. “He is stubborn, but he is not immortal. Give me a room and some clean bandages, and by evening he will be singing well enough for the Opera.”

Lefèvre considered. She watched his mind move behind his eyes—calculating whether she was lying, whether this was worth the risk, what she might gain. She prayed he could not see her trembling.

At last, he turned to the soldiers.

“Clear the eastern passage,” he ordered. “Two men escort the widow and her prisoner to the guard room at the end of the tunnel. No one speaks to them. No one touches the Englishman. He is my property now.”

Élodie almost sagged with relief, forced herself to keep her back straight.

“You will come with me to the Prefecture later this evening,” Lefèvre said, turning back to her. “We will discuss the details of the execution, and your reward.”

“I expect nothing less,” she said.

But as she helped Ashworth stumble toward the passage the soldiers had cleared, she saw the lantern light catch something at Lefèvre’s belt. A familiar glint of blue enamel, carefully hooked next to his pistol.

The watch. Mathieu’s watch.

The one Sauvage had claimed to possess, the one that could prove the signed order had been forged—the one that had never been on Sauvage’s corpse because Lefèvre had already taken it.

Élodie kept her face blank, her steps steady, but her heart became a stone in her chest. The inspector was not merely corrupt. He was methodical. He had been cleaning up loose threads long before she had ever picked up a blade.

She leaned close to Ashworth as they passed into the darkness, whispering so low that only he could hear.

“Do not die on me yet. I think we have only seen the beginning of this game.”