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her into marriage, but he would have never signed the agreement if he had not approved of the Moreaus in the first place.
    “I would never send anyone into danger. So, you will do it?” She could feel precious seconds evaporating with every frantic heartbeat. Jemma grabbed the door handle and opened the door a few inches. Planting her hand on the stranger’s waist, she urged her out into the rain.
    Wheaton was still hunched on the driver’s box. She watched him tip his head back as he pressed the mouth of a bottle to his lips.
    Just when Jemma thought the girl was about to run for the carriage, she paused once more, turned back, and with a worried sincerity in her eyes asked, “If I take your place tonight, what will you do?”
    Jemma could see that the girl was about to falter. She needed just the right answer, something that would convince the fugitive that going along with the plan was the right thing to do.
    “I will fulfill my wildest dream. I want to be a nun.”
    It was a bald-faced lie, but it worked. Relief and acceptance washed over the dark-haired girl, as if she had been waiting for some sign that it was all right to agree with the scheme. The thought of freeing Jemma to follow a religious calling had done the trick.
    Jemma stiffened when she saw Wheaton pocket the bottle and glance over at the church. He placed one hand on the back of the seat, about to climb down.
    “Hurry!” Jemma shoved the girl again. “Keep the hood over your face.”
    “But—”
    “Go!”
    The dark-haired girl pulled the edges of the cloak close and drew the hood around her face. Jemma could not afford to waste time to see whether Wheaton would discover the switch. She turned and ran for the side door. The vestibule floor was slick with the muddy water they had tracked in. She took care not to slip.
    Heading for a side door near the altar, she ran down the center aisle of the church, rounded the front pew, and skidded to a stop. She ran back to genuflect hastily before the altar, crossing herself with a wave of her hand before she was off again. The door banged shut behind her.
    The cold rain was a shock. She took a deep breath to clear her head. The heady scent of incense had given her a headache. Her heart was pounding. She was alone on the streets of one of the most exotic, crowded, dangerous cities in the world.
    It was positively exciting. It was absolutely thrilling.
    “I hope you’re watching over me, Grandpa,” she whispered as she started running up a busy street behind the church.
    Go, girl, go
.
    Quickly she lost herself amid the crowd, mingling with the well-dressed pedestrians. Snatches of conversation hummed about her, a lyrical sound, a strange combination of French and English and something more. Beneath many of the balconies overhanging the street, dark-eyed beauties took shelter from the rain on the arms of their escorts.
    Jemma kept the hood of her cloak up as she zigzagged between the couples and small clusters of pedestrians who vied for space on the wooden walkway that kept them out of the quagmire on the muddy street. She slipped between two groups, hoping each would think she was with the other.
    The street was crowded with carriages. Daring a glance over her shoulder, Jemma breathed an audible sigh of relief. There was no sign of Wheaton or the hired carriage.
    Sheltered from the rain beneath a balcony, her interest was piqued when she noticed a crowd gathered around a very tall man in a black hat. His leather clothing appeared to be adapted from the style of an Indian tribesman, made of pieces of well-tanned hide stitched together.
    Intrigued by the woodsman, frustrated because she was behind him and couldn’t see the big man’s face, Jemma edged along the front of the building, keeping in the shadows but drawing closer to hear what was being said.
    The man was apologizing to a dark-haired, sloe-eyed Creole gentleman who was apparently very angry. In a move Jemma thought more than foolish, the