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days—and nights—alone with his brother’s bride-to-be would be awkward
enough; it could become a nightmare if the lady got it in her head he was a
threat to her virtue. He dared a single glance in her direction and, to his
relief, found her at the far end of the room, busy packing a knapsack with
bread and cheese.
    He
turned back to Forli. “The success or failure of my disguise remains to be
seen. At the moment, my first concern is a means of transportation.”
    Forli
nodded. “I hid my cabriolet and horse in a grove of trees beyond La Croix
Rousse where the Saône and Rhône rivers converge. They are yours to use, but
the streets between here and there teem with Bonapartists.”
    “It
is too bad you are strangers to Lyon and do not know the traboules, ” Père Bertrand lamented. “They are little used at night, and since one of them
connects with the church, you could reach La Croix Rousse without setting foot
on the streets.”
    Tristan
scowled. “The traboules ? What are they?”
    “The
network of covered alleyways, built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries,
which honeycomb Lyons. They are the quickest and safest way to cross the city
in troubled times, as many Royalist discovered during the Terror. But they can
be very confusing. Even knowledgeable Lyonnais have been known to become
hopelessly lost in them on occasion.”
    Madelaine
Harcourt looked up from her task. “Have you forgotten that I, too, am involved
in this journey?” She bestowed a look on the assembled men that proclaimed, “If
you are not equal to the task, leave it to me.”
    Tristan
groaned. If he’d ever had any doubts she was Caleb Harcourt’s daughter, that
look dispelled them.
    “I
am well acquainted with the traboules, ” she said with quiet authority.
“My grandfather taught me how to find my way through them in case the need ever
arose. We visited La Croix Rousse many times to buy silk fabric directly from
the weavers. I am certain I can find it again.”
    “There
is the answer then.” Père Bertrand positively beamed. “God works in
mysterious ways. Madeleine will leave St. Bartholomew’s by the same door
through which her grandparents sought sanctuary during the Terror.”
    With
Madelaine’s help, the priest hoisted his considerable bulk from the chair on
which he’d sat while Forli cut her hair. “Follow me,” he said, and led them to
a small room at the back of the church which housed the robes and vestments
used by the St. Bartholomew clergy. In the center of one wall stood a massive
oak door framed by a stone archway. The housekeeper turned the iron key in the
lock and opened the door.
    Tristan
took a deep breath, strapped the knapsack to his back, and stepped through the
opening. Raising his lantern, he found himself in a narrow, covered walkway
walled in by huge, square stone blocks. A draft of damp, chilly air brushed his
face, and the faint, sour smell of mold filled his nostrils.
    A
shiver crawled up his spine. He had always had an irrational dread of enclosed
areas, and though he knew full well how he came by it, no amount of reasoning
with himself had managed to dispel it. These ancient passageways might be the
only safe route out of Lyon, but traversing them would be a living hell. He
hoped to God he didn’t disgrace himself in the process. Even now he could feel
his palms beginning to sweat and his knees tremble.
    Behind
him, the good cleric removed his own ornate chain and cross and slipped it over
Madelaine’s head. “I doubt we shall meet again in this earthly life,
granddaughter of my heart,” he said gently, “but I shall pray for you always.
God bless you and keep you, dear child.”
    Eyes
glistening with unshed tears, Madelaine hugged her old friend, then stepped
past the tall Englishman into the traboule that had played such an
important part in her family’s history.
    Holding
her lantern before her, she led her two traveling companions down what seemed
an interminable dark corridor and