Chapter Eleven

E choes of songs and laughter drifted to Violette's ears as she peered at the street through her bedroom window. Dusk was still deepening into night, but people were already celebrating the new year. Later, the public squares would host bonfires, musicians, dancing.

She pressed her palm against the cold glass. On the other side lay another world entirely.

What was Nicolas doing this evening? Who would he celebrate with? Merrymaking with Raoul and Suzanne and the denizens of Palais Royal, or sitting at the table of high society hosts in front of a delicious meal? Scallops in cream sauce… Crispy duck and buttery parsnips, served with the finest wine…

She closed her eyes and a different sort of hunger swept through her. Her mind flooded with images of his face, his smile, his muscular arms and strong hands. She could almost feel them on her now, sure and hungry, grasping her waist and sliding up her leg. Feel his lips on her skin, burning a painless brand there that never went away.

Three days. Three days since that moment in the barbershop. Three days of agony, battling with a longing so strong that she nearly trembled with it. She hadn't returned to the brothel. She couldn't face Nicolas and resume their lessons as if nothing had happened.

Lord knew she had tried to grapple with this folly. But Nicolas had awoken a part of her she hadn't even known existed, brought it to life, and now it wouldn't return to its slumber. Worse, it demanded satisfaction, doggedly nagging her whenever she thought of Nicolas, when she lay in bed at night and when she rose in the morning.

Heaven help her, if she found herself alone with him again… Would he refuse her, or give in? Was he more reasonable than she was, or tormented by the same yearning?

"Violette." Her brother's voice called from the dining room. "Violette, there's someone at the door."

"Good God, Emile, can you not answer then?" she huffed as she made her way down the corridor.

"Whoever it is, it's most likely for you, not for me," he muttered.

He was sitting at the table playing solitaire, his hands swift as he slapped the cards down and picked others up. Emile had always been fond of card games, but she hadn't seen him play solitaire in weeks, perhaps even months. He was usually too drunk to even shuffle a deck.

Could it be that the fog was finally starting to lift?

She muffled the tiny quiver of hope. She could not afford any more foolish fantasies.

She opened the front door to find her usual maid accompanied by another woman, slightly older but just as plain, and holding a dress box.

" Bonsoir , mademoiselle ," the woman said in a dull, toneless voice. "My name is Berthelise. I'm here to help you get ready while Margot cleans and tends to the fires."

Violette frowned. "Margot usually takes care of both."

"Monsieur Estienne insisted. He thought I would do a better job as your lady's maid."

A shudder ran down Violette's spine and gripped her gut. This woman was under the Boneman's direct orders. Not Lenoir's. Her heart knocked painfully against her rib cage.

"Very well. Come in."

Emile barely looked up at the visitors and continued to flip his cards. "Are you working tonight, then?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Surely a new dress meant Lenoir would take her somewhere teeming with wealthy patrons. Unless it wasn't Lenoir… Unless, tonight, it was someone else.

"Not working," Berthelise said. "Monsieur Estienne has requested your presence at a banquet hosted by a friend of his at the Place Vend?me."

Place Vend?me? Whoever this friend was, he must be both highly born and obscenely wealthy. Her stomach plummeted further. A great fortune in the wrong hands bred disaster.

"That… That is most generous of him."

"Monsieur Estienne can be very generous indeed. Would you like to see your new dress?"

Violette nodded and led Berthelise to her room. With each step, her legs wobbled. Just one more step. Just one more.

Berthelise set the box on the bed and opened the lid, parting rustling paper to reveal dark blue velvet, deep as the night sky. Berthelise withdrew a smaller box and snapped it open. White rhinestones on black satin sparkled in the candlelight.

Berthelise kept her listless eyes fixed on Violette. "This is a pretty necklace, is it not? The master has always known how to reward good behavior. There is nothing to fear, so long as one does as one is told. He has even been known to forgive a mistake, so long as it is swiftly and irrevocably corrected."

She snapped the little box shut. Blood pounded in Violette's ears and the bitter taste of panic rose in her throat, but she forced her body to remain perfectly still.

Estienne knew. Who had told him? How could she warn Nicolas? Oh God, if anything happened to him…

Don't think of that now. Do what you must— get through this evening, live to see the dawn of a new year. The Boneman had spared her so far. If she gave him the slightest reason to believe he stood to lose more by keeping her alive, she was done for.

"Come, mademoiselle , let us get you dressed. Monsieur Estienne asked that you look your very best tonight."

Violette nodded. "Of course."

He was not the first person who wanted her beautiful and docile. In fact, that was all anyone had ever asked of her, until Nicolas. What was one more evening pretending?

Once Violette was dressed and ready to go, Berthelise dogged her every footstep toward the door. Emile paused in shuffling the cards and looked up. For a fleeting moment, something passed through his eyes. Sadness? Regret? But then he turned his attention back to his game.

"Have a pleasant evening, brother," she murmured.

He merely grunted. Berthelise wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and nudged Violette forward, following her down the stairs. Apparently, her lady's maid was also going to escort her all the way to the Place Vend?me.

It could have been worse. The Boneman could have accompanied her in the fiacre. But no, he was simply waiting at their destination, one of the splendid h?tel particuliers with high windows and classic soaring lines, built in perfect symmetry around the square.

She'd never seen Estienne in evening wear before, but no tailored jacket, starched shirt or silk waistcoat was enough to make up for his pale, angular face and gaunt figure. When the skin stretched over his teeth in a grin, her stomach clenched with disgust.

His gaze swept over her. "The very picture of refinement. Monsieur de Cransac will be most pleased."

She kept her eyes firmly on her feet as they moved toward the entrance. Just one more step. Just one more. Get through the night. "Our host?"

"Indeed, and he is most eager to meet you," he replied in a falsely honeyed tone. "A well-born, genteel, unspoiled young woman such as yourself is a rare commodity."

Lord help her, that was all she was. A commodity being led to a particularly fancy marketplace.

"That is, if you are still unspoiled after that little stint you pulled with that whoreson Lefevre," he continued, his voice hardening. "If not, you had better tell me right now, because I assure you my client will be able to tell the difference."

Her legs nearly gave way. Oh God. Oh God, what was she about to…

Estienne smirked. "Rest assured, pet. If Monsieur de Cransac wants the rest of you, he's going to have to pay up first. Now put a smile on that pretty face and let's see if you're worth all the trouble you've caused me."

*

"Let us drink to the year ahead. Good health and good fortune to our families and friends. Santé !"

Jerome raised his glass, and Nicolas followed suit before taking a sip of wine. Pouilly-Fumé, a perfect white to accompany breaded sole and green beans in bechamel sauce. Yet as succulent as dinner promised to be, he wasn't hungry. It was as if his appetite for food and drink had dulled, overshadowed by a far greater craving that he couldn't satisfy.

He glanced at the other guests—no more than a dozen, and he'd met some of them at Jerome and Stella's table in the past. The mix of architects, musicians, and artists made for stimulating conversation. Truly, he couldn't think of a more pleasant way to celebrate the New Year, with an exquisite meal in front of him, a fire roaring on the hearth, and laughter and lively discussions ringing in his ears.

But the thorn in his side constantly reminded him of its presence, and his mind kept circling back to it. Where was Violette? Why hadn't she come back for their lessons? One day might have been fine. The second was worse. By the third, he had to wonder. Had she been caught?

Dread filled his chest like ice-cold water whenever he thought of the danger she might be in. He'd sent a note to Malenfant, giving him sparse information about Violette and Lenoir, not enough to be of much use to him. Could someone have intercepted it? So far, he had one fraying lifeline to cling to. Suzanne's friend had spotted her with Bravard the evening after she'd fled the shop.

After she'd fled from him . Devil take it, how could he have let himself get carried away like that?

She kissed you. She asked you to kiss her. Took your hand and guided it up her leg. A scene he'd repeated in his head over and over again, and would do well not to think of now if he didn't want to embarrass himself. Yes, Violette's desire was unmistakable, raw in its intensity, a mirror of his own.

But it didn't make what they'd done any less foolish and reckless.

He took another gulp of wine and dug into his sole. Since when was he concerned with being reckless? Perhaps he was turning into a bourgeois. On the other hand, Violette risked more than he.

Damn it all, where is she?

After dinner, they retreated to the library for cognac and card games. Nicolas settled onto the divan and sipped the smooth, spicy liquor as he watched the flames dance in the hearth.

Jerome folded his hulking frame to sit beside him with a contented sigh. In the firelight, his reddish hair turned almost scarlet. "Nothing like a warm hearth when it's freezing outside."

Nicolas nodded. "Indeed."

His friend waited a moment before continuing. "You've been usually taciturn tonight. I thought you'd be regaling our guests with scandalous tales of the underbelly of Paris."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. "Is that the only reason you invited me? You could tell quite a few stories yourself, old fellow."

Jerome's mouth quirked up in a wry smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I am but a humble architect."

Nicolas almost laughed. "One only need look at the company you keep to know that's a bald-faced lie. That Marbois chap you sent my way…"

"Ah, so he got in touch with you? I knew your plan for a gymnasium and savate ring would pique his interest."

"Yes, seeing a fight where one man ended up with his shinbone nearly sticking out of his leg quite piqued his interest. Marbois may dress like a proper gentleman, but it seems he has a taste for danger."

"You two should get along splendidly, then."

Nicolas swirled the cognac in his glass. Right now, perhaps for the first time, he understood the appeal of a safe, sheltered life.

Because he could keep her safe.

Jerome eyed him and frowned. "There must be something else."

"I don't want to spoil this delightful evening with my troubles," Nicolas simply replied. "Let us speak of happier things. Stella was magnificent in Cosi Fan Tutte ."

"She is always magnificent." Jerome gazed at his wife across the room. She was at the card table playing a loud, spirited game of belotte with three other guests, her mouth curved into a brilliant smile and her dark gaze shining with mirth. "But I'm glad you enjoyed her performance."

"I will not soon forget it." All the more because he'd met Violette that night. A blessing and a curse.

"Good, because she'll soon be taking time away from the stage. Just for a few months."

Jerome's expression, the way his eyes danced with pride as they remained fixed on his wife, was all the explanation Nicolas needed. Stella was with child. For the first time that evening, the weight lifted entirely from his chest.

"Congratulations to you both, my friend." They clinked their glasses. "When is the happy event due?"

"June. Stella is beside herself with joy, of course. And we were both eager for Clara to have a little brother or sister, though she already has a myriad of cousins."

One of which was the newborn son of Nicolas's dear friend Guy de Cazal and his wife Antonia, Jerome's sister. The memory of Nicolas's first meeting with Guy floated to the surface of his mind. Guy had been little more than a drunken wretch back then, freshly returned from exile, spending his family's fortune in the haunts of Palais Royal.

Two years later, he was a husband and a father, working tirelessly to provide for his wife and child. Anyone who saw him with Antonia would not doubt for a second that he would do anything to ensure her happiness.

Providing and protecting. Nicolas had always avoided any entanglement that might force him to assume such a role. Widows in possession of their own fortunes, older women with experience who had no room in their lives for anything more than a fleeting tryst, all of them made for pleasurable company without the responsibility that came with seducing a younger woman, especially if she was a virgin.

Laurine won't want to bed another man, ever, I can tell you that. I was the first one to touch her. A girl thinks that means something, you know? Like you're married or something. No, she won't go spreading her legs for anyone else, unless I order her to.

He'd witnessed the disastrous consequences when one failed to protect and provide. And since meeting Violette, he'd been increasingly unable to fend off the memories of Laurine. Memories that slithered in the cracks of the walls he'd built around himself, taunting him, whispering to him that he might fail again.

Maybe he already had.

"I will never be able to repay you, Nicolas." Jerome's voice broke through his thoughts. "Without your help, Stella would have been lost to me."

Nicolas shook his head. "Please, let us speak no more of it. You don't owe me anything."

"Be that as it may, whatever is tormenting you, I'm here to return the favor if I can."

What if he took Jerome up on his offer? Maybe if he could find Violette and bring her here, or to Guy and Antonia's estate in the countryside… But no, it would only make things worse. The Boneman would hunt Violette down, no matter where she was. And Nicolas would make that madman aware of still more people he cared about.

"You could always try to find out if Marbois plans on investing in the gymnasium," he finally replied. "That would be most helpful."

Jerome nodded. "You can count on me."

An hour later, Nicolas bid his goodbyes to his friends. He wasn't the least bit tired, in fact he was fairly teeming with desperate energy. If Violette truly was in danger, he had wasted enough time already. But what was to be done at this hour? He couldn't well search every party or dinner in town for her. Better get some sleep, and then tomorrow… Tomorrow he'd find a way to reach her.

He decided against taking a fiacre. Castellane street to the Palais Royal wasn't a long walk, and breathing in the cold air helped clear his head. But the city was in no mood to sleep either. People spilled out from the crowded cabarets and cafés onto the pavement, staggering drunkenly and bellowing songs. If he wasn't so damn tired, he'd drop by the Cabaret Doré to see if Suzanne and Raoul were still there, perhaps have a few drinks himself.

As he reached the arcades of the Palais Royal, a voice rang out. "M'sieur Lefevre!"

A small boy with skinny legs ran up. No mistaking that high-pitched voice and that large wool hat.

"Albert, what the devil are you doing here?" Nicolas asked. "And at this hour?"

"M'sieur Prevost sent me to get you." The boy paused to suck in a breath. "Told me to wait for you here when you came back."

Nicolas's insides clenched. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Saint Aphrodise, m'sieur . It's on fire."