Chapter Four

Catamount stood in the lobby of the Runners' headquarters, his broad shoulders filling the space with an air of command. The room itself exuded an air of rugged efficiency, with worn wooden floors and a faint scent of polish lingering in the air. The walls were lined with maps and notices of wanted criminals, a visual collection of the city's dark underbelly.

Dressed in the uniform of the Runners, Catamount wore a long black coat that accentuated his imposing frame. The polished brass buttons gleamed in the dim light, and a scarlet sash, a mark of his rank, draped diagonally across his chest. His tawny hair, slightly tousled, framed a face marked by the passage of time and the weight of untold burdens.

A few of his men, clad in similarly rugged attire, gathered around him. The clatter of boots on the wooden floor underscored the bustling activity of the headquarters. The flickering light from the gas lamps cast a warm glow, creating pockets of shadow that danced across the room.

"Captain, we've got word that the Revivalists were spotted in Spitalfields again," one of his men reported, spreading a map out on a worn table.

Catamount's eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information. "Spitalfields, again? Blast it. They're like rats, scurrying back to the wreckage."

Another Runner chimed in, his voice gruff. "There's talk on the streets, baron. The fear's spreading, and folks are getting anxious. We can't keep letting these bastards run rampant."

"We won't. We need to tighten the noose. Get the patrols doubled, and make sure the word is out. We're not letting them slip through our fingers this time."

The men nodded in acknowledgment, dispersing to carry out their orders. Catamount watched them go, a stoic expression on his face. The lobby, with its worn leather furniture and the scent of old parchment, served as the nerve center for the Runners—a place where the battles against crime were planned and executed.

As he paced through the lobby, his gaze fell on a large wanted poster featuring the unknown faces of the Revivalists. The memories of the Seven Dials attack three years ago surged, and a shadow passed over his eyes. The ache in his heart, the loss of Julie, hit him like a hammer. "Find them," he demanded of himself. "Find them before they wreak more havoc."

In the corner of the lobby, a flicker of movement caught his attention. A young Runner approached, saluting smartly. "Baron, there's a woman outside. Looks distressed. Says she needs to speak with you."

Catamount's brow furrowed. "A woman? What does she want?"

The young Runner hesitated before responding. "Says it's about the Revivalists, sir."

Catamount's jaw tightened, and without a word, he strode toward the entrance, his mind already spinning with the possibilities that the woman's words might unravel.

But as he got close to the entrance, the door burst open with an unexpected force, and before he could react, a whirlwind of desperation and fear collided with him. In an instant, he found himself enveloped in the limbs and cloak of a woman who barreled through, her auburn hair a tempest of disarray. Instinct kicked in, and Catamount immediately closed his strong arms around her, absorbing the impact. A palpable undercurrent of fear filled his nostrils as he steadied the woman in his embrace.

"Wait…" he murmured, alarm bells ringing in his head. This woman felt familiar in his arms. Very familiar. "Look at me. Look me in the eyes."

She did.

Big, beautiful hazel eyes full of confusion and worry looked directly up at him.

And stopped him in his tracks, sent his heart plummeting to the ground.

They were eyes he knew well.

What in damnation?

"Easy there," Catamount said in a low, calming tone, his hands steady as they supported her, though he didn't feel steady in the least. His heart thundered, and his stomach clenched like a vise. The lobby's usual hum of activity seemed to hush, leaving only the two of them suspended in a charged moment.

The woman blinked up at him, and in that instant, Catamount's world shifted. The vividness of her eyes, the familiarity in their depths—it was like looking into the very soul of someone he had loved and lost. A jolt of confusion and recognition surged through him, making his heart ache with renewed fury.

"Captain, you have to help me," she pleaded, her French-accented voice carrying the urgency of someone teetering on the brink. "I feel like they're watching me—the shadows, the streets. I don't know who, but they're there. And he… he was following me!"

Catamount, still holding her close to his side, guided her further into the lobby, away from the stark exterior. The muted murmurs of his men and the ambient sounds of the headquarters buzzed a steady background around them. "Take a deep breath," he urged.

The woman, catching her breath, began to speak. "I left my shop on Bond Street this morning, and as I was walking, I felt eyes watching me. I turned and saw a man. He… he began to follow me. And I know him, monsieur . I do! But I cannot remember from where or when. I only know he is bad. It is all so very terrifying."

As she spoke, Catamount couldn't shake the nagging feeling that her hazel eyes held a familiarity he couldn't ignore. It was as if a ghost from his past had materialized before him, and in her gaze, he saw reflections of someone he had loved and lost.

"I-I did not know where to go, but then I thought of you. And I don't know you, but I knew you would help. I-I don't know why I know that, but I do." As the woman continued to speak, her words shifted into rapid French, a torrent of emotion cascading from her lips. Her hands fluttered in the air, expressing a tumult of feelings that seemed to pour forth in a linguistic dance. The cadence of her voice, the rise and fall of the French syllables, created an intricate melody that filled the lobby.

Catamount, though proficient in French, found himself momentarily captivated by the intensity of her expression. She seemed to find comfort in the fluidity of her native language. He listened, understanding the urgency in her tone even if the intricacies of her words eluded him. Her hands, graceful in their gestures, painted a vivid picture of distress and fear. The moment was filled with confusion and raw emotion.

" Calmez-vous, " he murmured. "Take a moment and tell me slowly. I will help you. We'll figure this out together."

The woman, wrapped in the whirlwind of her own emotions, kept speaking in rapid French, and Catamount found himself momentarily thrown off guard. The cadence of her words, the fluttering of her hands in the air—all seemed to dissolve the familiar world around him. He suddenly caught her scent again—a fragrance that pierced through the moment like a familiar melody. Lavender . The realization struck him with an intensity that tightened his gut with longing.

Julie had smelled like lavender. Lavender from her little potted herb garden.

In that moment, as the woman's words and scent enveloped him, the lobby dipped and swirled and transformed into a surreal landscape. The worn wooden floors and dim lighting seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the Frenchwoman against his side—the woman who looked and smelled like his Julie. Catamount's heart thrummed with a pang of recognition and a surge of emotions he had buried deep within. His Julie, taken from him by the Revivalists, seemed to manifest before him in the hazel-eyed stranger who sought refuge in his embrace.

The world became a haze of confusion and longing as he grappled with the impossibility of the situation. The woman's features mirrored Julie's in a way that defied reason, though she spoke in another language that sounded natural on her tongue. The scent of lavender, a haunting reminder of what he had lost, mingled with the scent of damp cobblestones on the Frenchwoman's skin.

Catamount, caught in his own emotional storm, managed to offer a gentle smile to the woman. " Permettez-moi de vous trouver une couverture, " he said. "Let me get you a blanket."

He ushered her into his office, and the worn wooden door creaked softly as he held it open for her. The room, bathed in the muted glow of always-lit gas lamps, felt like a safe retreat from the disorienting waves of familiarity that shook him to his core. "Please, make yourself comfortable." Catamount gestured toward a leather chair. "I'll be right back with that blanket."

As he crossed the room to fetch the blanket from a nearby cabinet, his mind raced with thoughts that defied logic. The woman's presence seemed to unravel the threads of reality. In his heart, a tiny hope resurfaced—a dormant emotion sparked to life by the uncanny resemblance. What if Julie wasn't dead after all?

Returning with a folded blanket, Catamount draped it gently over her shoulders. "Here you go," he murmured. "Now, tell me, how can I help you? What has brought you here, to the Bow Street Runners?"

The woman met his gaze. "I don't know, captain. I'm frightened, and I feel like something terrible is happening. When I saw that man following me… I thought maybe you could help."

"I'll do my best. But there's something I have to say first." He studied her face. "You remind me of someone. Someone I lost. It's uncanny."

The woman's brow furrowed. "Lost? I don't understand."

He sighed, running his free hand through his tousled hair. "It's complicated. But there's a familiarity in your eyes, in your presence. It's as if…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the complexity of the emotions swirling within him.

As Catamount settled into the leather chair across from her, the woman met his gaze with a vulnerability that tugged at the edges of his heart. Connection sparked between them. It jarred him hard after so long feeling nothing but sorrow.

"Captain, I don't quite understand it myself," she confessed. "But there was this… pull. When that man started following me and I became scared. When I had these feelings of unease come over me. I felt it then. A call. It was almost overwhelming, like I needed to find you. Like you could help me, keep me safe. I don't know how that is possible. I've only ever seen you through the front window of my shop."

His heart skipped a beat. The hollow space within him, where the loss of Julie had left an indelible mark, suddenly seemed to pulse with something unfamiliar. The woman before him wove a tiny thread of hope back into the fabric of his being.

He leaned forward. "I don't fully understand it either," he admitted. "But I'll do everything in my power to help you, to keep you safe. I can't explain this connection either, but I feel it too."

The woman nodded, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you, captain. I know this is all so strange, but I trust that you can help me piece together what's happening."

"Start from the beginning and tell me everything."

"There is not much to tell." She shook her head, her auburn strands swishing about her freckled cheeks. "I saw a man this morning and he began to follow me. His face was familiar, and I don't know how—any more than I understand how I know that you're good and honorable and will help me. But I do know this man is bad in every sense." Her head shook and she frowned as she fluttered her hands in her lap. "I-I have bits of images of him in my mind, hurting me. But I don't remember it clearly or really at all. Only in snippets and in nightmares."

Catamount's blood ran cold. He knew what trauma could do to a person's memory. And this Frenchwoman had just described it perfectly.

Not if he could help it. "Could you identify this man if you were to see him again?" In a criminal lineup, say.

A hesitant nod. " Oui , I believe so."

His chest tightened with a newfound determination. The office, cast in the soothing glow of the gas lamps, seemed to cocoon them in a space where the mysteries of the past and the uncertainties of the present converged. Sparked. In the hazel-eyed woman, he found a flicker of hope—a chance to unravel the missing part that had haunted him since the day he lost Julie.

"The last three years of my life. That is all I remember." Her quiet voice sliced through the room and commanded his full attention. "I have no memory beyond waking in an alley in Covent Garden near a pub named the Meadowlark Tavern. I know I am French. I know I am a gifted seamstress. That is all I know."

Swallowing hard, Catamount reluctantly removed his hand from where he discovered it stretched across his desk reaching for the Frenchwoman. He hadn't even been aware of doing that! He snatched it back as his mind whirred with questions, the possibility of something unimaginable unfolding before him.

It was utterly impossible.

It was.

Wasn't it?

Catamount looked hard at the woman. Every part inside him lit with recognition and rightness as he assessed her, took her in.

Christ, could it really be her? His Julie, alive and standing before him as this Frenchwoman with no memory? The hazel eyes, the spark of attraction—they were undeniable. But thoughts like that were lunacy, weren't they?

No, it couldn't be her. Julie had died that night in Seven Dials. He knew that. Oh, how he knew that right down to his brokenhearted soul.

Yet…

A flicker of hope, long buried beneath the weight of grief, ignited within him. He wondered in a flash of insight if something had happened that fateful night in Seven Dials, something missed by his men or omitted from the files.

God, what if he had truly missed something? Something huge?

His Julie… What if she had survived and been reborn as Juliette with no memory of their shared past? The notion, though utterly ludicrous and incredible, clawed at the edges of possibility. Butted right up snug against it. And it stirred fire within him. As he stared into her eyes, Catamount felt a burning swirl of conflicting emotions—hope, disbelief, grief—and the undeniable pull of a connection that transcended the boundaries of reality and circumstance.

Determined to unearth the truth that lingered in the air uncaptured, Catamount felt his resolve harden. "I will do everything in my power to uncover the truth," he declared. His heart, suddenly no longer hollow, pulsed with purpose. He would comb through records, reexamine the files, and piece together the fragments of that night in Seven Dials.

Standing from behind the desk, he began to pace before realizing in his shock over her appearance he'd forgotten to ask her name. Instantly he spun on the heels of his boots and apologized. "Begging your pardon—I seem to have forgotten to ask your name."

"It's Madame Toussaint," she replied, glancing up at him with stunningly warm and beautiful eyes. "Madame Juliette Toussaint. I own a modiste shop on Bond Street."

Juliette Toussaint.

Her name was Juliette.

Juliette… Julie .

His instincts leapt to alert, along with his heart, and he smiled. "Well, Juliette, you were right to come to me."

"Thank you, captain."

The journey into the night began in earnest, and Catamount Castlebury, captain of the Bow Street Runners, would stop at nothing to unveil the mystery of the lovely Juliette and the haunting torment of a past that refused to remain buried.