Lydia could see Georgiana’s reflection in the pane, her expression frozen in shock and recognition.
“Lydia,” she said evenly, “there is someone in the alley.”
Lydia hurled herself across the room to peer out the window as well. Her heart leapt for a moment—perhaps it was Jasper, come with reinforcements from the Home Office—perhaps Arthur would not need to face Davis alone.
But it was not Jasper in the alley. It was a couple—a woman in a maroon walking dress and a portly man, balding under his beaver hat.
Claudine and Didier Thibodeaux.
A dozen thoughts crowded her mind, her emotions knotting, her breath catching in her chest.
If the Thibodeaux were here, that meant they were not with Arthur at St. Saviour’s. It meant, perhaps, that Arthur was safe—or at least, as safe as he might be.
But—the Thibodeaux were here? How had they known to come to Belvoir’s?
She wondered dizzily if perhaps they had been workingwithJasper and not against him. Perhaps she had been wrong; perhaps they were not Bonapartists.
And then, from the window, she saw Didier Thibodeaux withdraw an iron bar from his coat and begin to prise open the back door. Within his jacket, she recognized the glittering metallic flash of a firearm.
No. They were not Jasper’s allies.
Her heart started to beat again, double time, crashing painfully against her rib cage.
“We have to leave,” Georgiana said, her voice still calm and even. “Right now. Down the stairs and out the front entrance—we’ll blend into the parade-goers outside. They’ll never see us.”
Yes. Georgiana was right. The streets were crowded with people, with horses and carts and pedestrians decked with flowers. If they ran now, the Thibodeaux would not find them.
But if they ran—if Belvoir’s was empty when the Thibodeaux made their way inside—what would the couple do next?
Her brain flicked through the possibilities like engravings in a book. The Thibodeaux—the empty office—St. Saviour’s and the tower. Arthur.
She moistened her lips and forced the words past the thickness in her throat. “You… you go.”
Georgiana turned sharply from the window, where they could see Didier Thibodeaux still striving at the door. “What do you mean?”
Lydia’s mouth felt dry, her fingers numb. “If no one’s here, they’ll realize something’s wrong.”
“Let them realize! We will not be here to face the consequences.”
“But where will they go from here?” She tried to swallow and could not quite manage it. “They might go to St. Saviour’s. They might find Arthur there. But if I remain here, I can keep them distracted. You and Selina can send reinforcements to capture them and—and Arthur will be safe.”
Even as she said the words, she could hear her plan for the mad impulse it was.
She could run with Georgiana. Sheoughtto run. That was the safer choice by far.
But she could not do it. She had to try to protect Arthur—there was no possible course of action other than that. She would never run—never—if running meant putting the man she loved at risk.
She had thought of herself for so many years as a wallflower—as someone who hid from the sight of others, who kept herself in shadow. And perhaps, in some ways, that was true. But that was not all she was.
She had stood beside her friends when scandal had broken over them. She had written her pamphlets despite the risk. She had, in her own quiet way, worked to make the world a better place.
She knew when the risk was worth the potential for disaster. And protecting Arthur was worth any sacrifice she might make.
She could stop the Thibodeaux. She knew she could.
“Lydia.” Georgiana’s voice cracked on the word, and Lydia met her friend’s agonized gaze. “I cannot abandon you.”
“You must.” Didier had pried open the back door partway; there was a splintering sound audible even through the window. “Selina’s footman is downstairs—he’ll try to stop the Thibodeaux if he realizes what’s happening. Go downstairs, take the footman, and run to the Stanhope residence. Tell Selina to send the Home Office. I’ll keep the Thibodeaux busy here.”
