When the Supper Rooms finally opened an hour later, it had become quite impossible to navigate the crowded Rotunda without steeping on toes or risking one's dignity in the hands of strangers; the air was heavy and oppressive, a cauldron of odours given off by sweating bodies, liquor, food and candle smoke, and everyone seemed to have to speak twice as loud to be heard by their neighbour.

"I say it's the women who started it all," a member of the Carlton House set drawled from somewhere behind her. Marguerite turned her head in the direction of the heavy, slurred tones, but the speaker was sat beyond the illumination of the candle lamp. "Those damned coteries over there in Paris – women getting above their rightful … position ..!" He snorted, amused by the crude pun, and the Prince laughed along with him.

Tapping her mask on the rail beside her, Marguerite returned her attention to the crowd below. Down there, amongst the laughter and the spontaneous conversation, was where she would have preferred to be, rather than forced to listen to the ridiculous views of a handful of drunken peers. Even the Prince, who usually chaperoned her in Percy's absence, had seemingly forgotten that she existed. Marguerite glanced at Suzanne, who was sat opposite her at the other end of the balcony, listlessly opening and closing her fan; they should not have come, she decided. Had it not been for the Prince's invitation …

As Marguerite lazily scanned the faces beneath her box, her heart gave a sudden flutter and she nearly swooned, dropping her mask over the edge of the box. Was she imagining things? Stood beside one of the pillars in the centre of the room was a tall man, dressed in the short boxy jacket and striped trousers of the French sans culottes, his face hidden behind a mask of blue, white and red stripes. He was leaning casually against the supports behind him, his hands buried in his trouser pockets – a posture fondly familiar to Marguerite. And he seemed to be looking directly at her, although she could not see his eyes behind the mask from where she was sitting.

"Margot, what is wrong?" Suzanne whispered, leaning forwards to touch her friend's knee.

"Suzanne, by the fireplace, that man –" she babbled, pointing out over the balcony. "Am I mad?"

"Which man, chérie?"

"That –"

As she had vaguely expected, the citoyen was gone when she tried to point him out. Could it have been? Wouldn't he have come to her, if he was in England? She had heard that the sans culottes dress of the French republic was now a popular costume at masques: perhaps her fears for Percy had induced her to link the disguise to her husband. Had there been anyone there at all?

"Never mind," Marguerite sighed, sinking back against the plush velvet of her chair. She gave a start, recalling that her mask had slipped from her hand, but then dismissively flapped a hand at the balcony; she wasn't in the mood for pretending, anyway.

The men behind her were now discussing the war between Britain and France, declared (almost mutually) two months ago, having obviously agreed that the Paris salons run by women such as Madame Roland had caused the whole Revolution to begin with. Marguerite, whose mind had not been on the festivities all evening, decided that she needed to be alone, if that was possible.

Finally able to escape unheeded from the Prince's attentions, Marguerite slipped quietly out of the box; friendly eyes followed her progress, as she skirted around chairs and bowed her head underneath the velvet curtain raised as if by magic as she approached the opening to the public space beyond.

"Margot!" Suzanne's timid voice sounded behind her. Not five steps from the Prince's box, Marguerite turned back. "Where are you going, chérie?"

"I cannot breathe, the air is stifling," she rushed, fanning herself for effect. "I shall take a walk outside for a moment."

"I will come with you," Suzanne told her, stepping down into the passageway.

"No, no!" Marguerite cried, feeling tired and short-tempered. "I shan't be gone long. You must stay and amuse the Prince, after all!" she added gaily, with a small laugh.

"But Margot, alone?"

Marguerite, her body already angled to continue down the corridor, patted her friend's nervously clasped hands. "You shan't even have time to miss me, and Lord Hastings will sit with you," she said softly, gathering up the hem of her cloak and skirts.

Not frightened or embarrassed in the least, only glad to have time with her thoughts, Marguerite walked quickly down to the main floor. As she passed the balconies on the upper tier, she glanced at the many lights – crystal chandeliers and gold sconces for illumination, coloured lanterns for effect – and the dizzying mass of people in their brightly decorated costumes below; searching, perhaps, for a red liberty cap, head and shoulders above the crowd. Laughter and the drone of conversation were nearly drowning out the glorious sounds of the Duke of Gloucester's band, playing in their raised platform for the more select company, and there was no room to hold dances, but the energy and the jollity appealed to Marguerite. How she would love it all, and enjoy herself to the full – if only Percy could really be here with her, she thought sadly.

Mortal fear was reaching a crescendo in the blood-stained land she had once been proud to call her home, as the Convention purged itself of all moderation. The quest for liberty and equality had been swallowed up by the greed and ambition of men who had never sought to empower the masses, only to raise themselves still further and to strike down any who opposed them, now or in the past. And it was no longer only the wealthy and titled who were being punished, but that vague and fluctuating body of 'rebel' citizens: challenging speech, different ideas, old beliefs, new fears – anything and nothing could now send men and women to the open arms of Madame la guillotine.

And he was there, in the middle of it all, risking his life for others.

Marguerite shuddered, despite the sultry air, and pulled her satin cloak close around herself. She wound her way through the crowd, alternately carried along and held up, only able to point herself in the general direction of the nearest wide arch into the gardens. Arms jostled, bodies twisted her gown and pulled at her domino, and she finally had to raise up onto her toes to minimise accidental crushes from feet she couldn't see. Tears pricking at her dry eyes, she pressed instinctively forward, desperate to find a quiet corner.

"Pardon!" She heard the voice at the same time as she felt something drag on the hem of her gown, the accident and the apology happening together: slipping backwards on her small heels, her vision blurring, voices around her suddenly louder, she tried to put her hands out but found her arms fast inside her cloak. Preparing herself for humiliation even in the half-second it took to register that she was falling, Marguerite stumbled, fought to free an arm and rescue even a scrap of dignity – only to feel her shrouded elbows supported from beneath by two strong hands. Her knees buckled, but somebody behind her absorbed the momentum of her descent and raised her back onto her feet, neatly and firmly.

"Careful there," he added, and Marguerite spun round so quickly that she nearly slipped back down. "And don't let me find you swooning against strange men again!"

"P –!" she gasped, but her rescuer quickly held up a finger in a commanding gesture of silence. He smiled, his lips curling beneath his tricolour mask.

"No names, this is a masquerade," he told her. "Let's go outside."