Chapter One

Paris, December 1802

"H ow lucky to run into you tonight, monsieur ."

A delicate hand ran up Nicolas Lefevre's arm, and he glanced over his shoulder. A slight woman clad in a low-cut chartreuse gown gazed up at him. A turban that matched her dress was arranged on auburn ringlets, and her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Hortense. Good Lord, he hadn't seen her in weeks, but somehow the crush of people in the lobby of the Opéra Comique had managed to bring some pleasant company his way.

He smiled and touched the tip of his hat. "Madame de Vijeux. A lucky meeting indeed."

She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and fluttered her feathered fan. "It feels wrong for you to address me so formally. Especially after—"

He cleared his throat. "Manners, my dear. We are in public."

They shouldered through the crowd, surrounded on all sides by dark evening coats, glinting brocade dresses and tasseled cashmere shawls. A chandelier hanging from the dome bathed the hall in a golden glow. Music, light, a cacophony of voices and a comely lady at his arm. More than enough to make him forget how bitterly cold it was outside.

Hortense nodded left and right to greet people she knew. "I doubt anyone present gives a toss about my reputation. I have worked hard to earn it, after all."

"And I am honored to have contributed to your effort."

Indeed, of all the merry widows of Paris, Hortense was probably the merriest, and made no attempt to hide it.

"That's all well and good, Nicolas, but I'll have you know I am very cross with you," she scolded. "You have not once come to see me since October!"

"I heard you had taken up with someone," he defended himself. "Some young barrister or other."

"Oh yes, Hadrien. He's here with me, but I lost him when we left my box for the intermission." They stopped for a moment, and she rose on tiptoes, stretching her neck. "This crowd, my God, it's never been worse! Of course, they've all come to hear Madame Saint Yves sing in Cosi Fan Tutte . Isn't she splendid?"

"Actually, I know her quite well…"

Before he could explain any further, something, or rather someone, caught his attention. A young woman sashaying down the staircase, accompanied by a tall man with dark hair and a pointed nose. The man looked familiar, but Nicolas couldn't place him. The woman, though…

She glanced in his direction, and their gazes met. Only an instant, for she looked away immediately, but it was enough to make a sliver of heat stir in his chest.

Her eyes were striking, large and deep and the palest blue, like frost. Her neck was slender, and her oval face was framed with soft, light brown waves. The dark slashes of her brows stood out in contrast to those blue eyes, heavier than most women wore them, but somehow they added an expressive sensuality to her face, balancing a set of plump lips.

"An acquaintance of yours, or are you just enjoying the view?" Hortense teased, following his gaze toward the couple.

He smiled. "An evening at the opera is sure to bring out all the most beautiful women of Paris. But no, I don't know her. Nor him, as a matter of fact."

As soon as the words left his mouth, an unsettled feeling replaced the sliver of heat. A friend of Hortense came to greet them, but as they chatted, Nicolas continued to observe the couple. People came to the opera to socialize, yet this pair had not spoken a word to anyone, nor to each other. Their clothes were certainly elegant and well-made—a perfectly cut wool jacket over a crimson waistcoat for him, a steely blue gown for her that cinched her slim waist. And she, in particular, carried herself with the sort of easy grace only bestowed on those born in wealth. Chin held high, shoulders back, step so soft it was almost as if she was floating instead of walking.

Why, then, did he get the impression that the two of them were playacting? And at what, for that matter?

Irrational, perhaps. But his instincts seldom set him on the wrong foot, and he'd seen more than enough petty thievery in his day to sense when someone was looking for a mark.

They were careful not to draw attention, and indeed, no one paid them any heed as they moved slowly on the edge of the crowd. Easier to get away than in the middle of a throng.

The young man bumped into a portly gentleman wearing a silk scarf over his coat. He then made a show of apologizing and picked up something from the ground—a small silver flask. Then handed it back to the man.

The corner of Nicolas's mouth tilted up. Of course. Nothing like a fake display of honesty to distract a mark while your partner picked his pockets. The young woman's sleight of hand was so nimble and discreet that Nicolas barely saw her arm move under her shawl.

Oh, she was good. Very good.

"If you'll excuse me, mesdames ," he told Hortense and her friend. "I'll be back in just a moment."

The couple moved on, picking up the pace ever so slightly. Then they separated. Nicolas followed the young woman into the mirrored gallery that ran all the way to the side exit of the Opéra Comique.

He lengthened his stride. Why was he even chasing her? He was hardly a vigilante. This was Paris, after all. Pockets would get picked, purses cut, and wealthy patrons robbed when all they wanted was a night's worth of entertainment.

But her … She was unlike any thief he'd ever seen. Skilled, certainly, but not a grisette , a young working woman hardened by the streets.

Who the devil had put her up to this?

The crowd was sparser here, mostly couples, heads bent toward each other, engaged in an intimate conversation. With some luck, people would just assume he was trying to catch up with his sweetheart after a spat.

The young woman tensed, as if she'd sensed his presence. She didn't so much as glance behind her, but her feet moved faster. No matter, he'd catch up before she reached the door.

She was going as fast as she could short of running. Closer now… One, two, three steps, and he grasped her wrist.

She halted. Turned. And kicked him right in the shin.

" Sacredieu ," he cursed, but didn't release her.

"Unhand me immediately," she growled, "or I'll scream."

She flailed against him, tried to kick him again. Good Lord, what a wildcat. He loosened his grip just enough to turn her around and press her arm against her back. Against him. He tightened his fingers around her thin wrist, and she stilled.

"Quiet now, madame ," he murmured against her hair. "I know what you have in your reticule. If you scream, you'll end the evening in a holding cell at the gendarmerie ."

Her pulse beat against his fingers, and her body trembled, like a bird fluttering against the bars of a cage. "Take it. I don't care. Just let me go."

"That's not what I came for. Who's your employer? You must be working for someone. This is Chardon's sector, but his gang doesn't usually work inside the opera."

"Let me go," she protested. " Please ."

The sudden desperation in her voice made him hesitate. If she was being coerced…

A loud bell rang out. Half a second, and his grip slackened. She elbowed him with all her strength, broke free and dashed away, only glancing back at him before opening the door. An inrush of biting air swept through the corridor, but it vanished just as quickly as she did when the door slammed shut.

Damn it to hell. All those years undefeated at savate , and that wisp of a woman had thrown him off balance.

It must be her eyes. Her eyes had landed the first blow, and he hadn't stood a chance.

Nicolas sighed and made his way back to the main hall. The bell rang again to signal the end of intermission.

"Nicolas, over here!"

Hortense was waving at him. She'd found her barrister, but the same inviting light animated her eyes nonetheless. Why limit yourself to one act when you could enjoy two?

He nodded, yet returned to his box alone. Cold as it was, he didn't feel like warming anyone's bed tonight.

*

Violette covered her hair with her toque and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, clutching at the edges. Light wool, soft and warm, just as fine as anything she'd worn in her youth, but it didn't help. Her limbs trembled, her knees were weak, her face both heated and prickling with cold.

No time to stop and take a breath. She must hurry. Who knew how long it would take their mark to realize his purse was missing?

And if that other man came after her…

She glanced back behind her. No one. He'd stayed inside the opera house, whoever he was. She'd only had time to make out his most distinct features: curly red-gold hair, brilliant green eyes, a tall frame, a long nose. And his voice, of course. Deep, steady, poised. Almost nonchalant, even as he questioned her. As if catching a pickpocket in the act at the opera was an ordinary occurrence for him.

How on earth had he spotted her when she'd taken such care to go unnoticed? She'd done this countless times in the past few months and had never once been caught. Why tonight, and why him?

She shook the questions away. Curiosity was a luxury she simply couldn't afford at the moment.

Two streets north, and she spotted the waiting fiacre. She tapped on the door—one time, twice, then once more—and it opened. She slid inside.

"Splendid. Right on time."

Jacques Lenoir watched her keenly under his dark brow as she took a seat across from him. With his chestnut hair and broad shoulders, she supposed one could qualify him as handsome, but something in his gaze made her skin crawl. Something rapacious and arrogant that he tried to hide with a smile.

"I left just as the second intermission was ending," she said.

"I trust you were successful?"

She nodded and fished the purse from her reticule, handing it to him, along with a pair of silver opera glasses and a pearl bracelet. Lenoir weighed the loot in his palm and his smile broadened.

"You really have a rare talent, dear Violette. The Boneman will be pleased."

The Boneman. Did he even have a real name? She'd heard all sorts of rumors about him. That he lived in the catacombs and never came out by the light of day. That he carried a necklace fashioned out of teeth around his neck. Even if they were nonsense, the man must be fearsome indeed to rule over half the thugs of Paris. She shivered and stared out the window so as not to meet Lenoir's eye.

"How long must we wait for Bravard?"

"Another minute, and if he doesn't show, we leave." He reached out to take her hand in his. "I imagine you must be in a hurry to go to bed after a night's work."

It took everything in her power not to snatch her hand away. Since she'd started working for the Boneman's organization, Lenoir had established himself as her protector of sorts. Or so he claimed. Odious as he may be, if she crossed him, someone far worse might take his place.

She harbored no illusions on Lenoir. The only reason he had not yet taken his so-called protection to her bedroom was because his master held him on too tight a leash. But better a dog on a leash than one in the wild.

"Yes, I am rather tired," she said, relaxing her hand against his.

Though home would not provide the type of rest she truly needed. No matter. The oblivion of sleep called to her.

A series of knocks resounded through the cabin. Lenoir released her hand and opened the door.

Bravard stepped inside.

"Bloody awful time getting out of that shithole," he grumbled in the rough, thick accent of the Parisian streets. "More crowded than the dead queen's cunt. Can't you send me somewhere other than among those fucking nobs?"

He shot her a dark glare. Fucking nobs. She had belonged to that class once, in a past that wasn't so distant, though it felt like several lifetimes ago. But for people like Bravard, her birth was a stain she would never erase, no matter how dire her current situation was, and no matter how good she was at picking pockets.

Lenoir thumped his fist against the ceiling, and the fiacre rattled off. "You know how to change your voice and talk as if your whore of a mother popped you out on silk sheets, not in the gutter. It's a useful skill to have."

Bravard crossed his arms over his chest. "Your mother wasn't any less of a whore. You're just better at licking the Boneman's arse."

"Quiet. You'll do as I tell you. You two make an efficient team. That's quite a haul you got brought in, and no one was the wiser."

Violette tapped her fingers on her thigh. No telling how badly Lenoir would react if he found out she'd been caught.

Caught and released. The man was strong, sharp, with lightening quick reflexes. Why had he hesitated and loosened his grip on her at that moment?

She didn't even know his name. Not that she was in any rush to find out.