Chapter Two

V iolette opened her eyes to darkness. For a few moments, she stared at the crack between the velvet draperies at the bleak, gray dawn that was only starting to lighten the sky. She had managed to salvage those draperies, despite her brother's insistence on selling them. They couldn't have gotten much out of them, worn as they were. Besides, once winter came, they'd needed something to prevent frigid drafts from blowing between the cracks of the window frame. The cold would have been their death.

Lord have mercy, it was cold enough as it was. She curled up under the covers, wanting nothing more than to lose herself in sleep again, to feel warm and safe if only for a few hours. But she must get up, get dressed, try to find food, report to Lenoir for further orders.

She rose and pulled the ends of a wool shawl around her chest, holding it in place as well as she could while she washed with the icy water left in her porcelain basin. That, too, she had managed to hold onto, though the chest of drawers was gone, and she had to leave the basin on the floor. When she finally undressed to slip on her underclothes, gooseflesh erupted on her skin and her teeth chattered. The wooden floor was hard and chilled as stone under her feet.

A fire in every room. Lush carpets on the ground. Steaming hot dishes ready and waiting on the table. All of those luxuries she had known in the past and taken for granted, young as she had been. When her family had been forced to relocate from their estate in a much smaller house—little better than a cottage, really—during the Revolution, her parents still had the funds to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. And even when her uncle had taken her and Emile in after their parents' death, there was still money enough for two domestics, firewood, and hearty meals.

Now, the only thing left of the vast De la Roque fortune was the roof over their head and the walls surrounding them, which they'd inherited from their uncle. Violette opened her trunk and took out a wine-colored dress, the warmest she owned. She had hemmed it over and over, but it was threadbare in places. What would happen when she could no longer wear it?

You know what will happen. Or rather who will offer to buy you a new one.

She shook her head. No, none of that now. Each day brought its own trouble.

She stepped out of her room. The flat was entirely silent. Unsurprising, she didn't expect Emile to be up at this hour. She made her way to the dining room and found half of a loaf of bread left on the table. She sat down to tear off a piece. It was tough, and barely enough to calm her growling stomach. A hot drink. Butter. Oh, butter, smooth and thick and creamy…

Lenoir might invite her to have luncheon with him if she got to the café early enough. Would it be so wrong to accept, just this once?

She tore off another piece of bread. She would have to make inventory of what was left of their sparse furnishings. Maybe something might fetch a few francs.

A knock came from the front door. Violette jumped to her feet, her heart giving a painful lurch. Slowly, she advanced toward the front hall. The knock came again.

"Who's there?"

"I'm here to clean," came a woman's voice from the other side of the door. "Monsieur Lenoir sent me."

Violette hesitated only a moment before opening. A young woman in a plain dark dress, cheeks red from the cold, stood in waiting with a broom and a bucket.

"You say Lenoir sent you?"

The young woman nodded. "Yes. Asked me to light the fires as well."

"I can do that myself." Though they only had enough firewood left for one.

"As you wish, mademoiselle . I'm at your service for any task that needs doing. And I'm no cook but I can make simple dishes."

Violette sighed. Lenoir must have heard they'd let go of their last domestic two weeks prior. And now he was sending someone to keep tabs on her, make sure she didn't flee in the middle of the night.

But where would she even go? To say nothing of Emile. He was barely in any state to walk down the stairs, though that certainly didn't stop him when he was out looking for intoxicating drink.

"Very well," she finally said, and stepped aside to let the girl in. "I suppose this place could use a good scrubbing."

The young woman went to work immediately. Violette tiptoed down the corridor to her brother's room. That, too, needed a thorough cleaning, more than that poor girl could possibly imagine. But there was the problem of actually getting her brother out of there.

She slowly opened the door and peeked inside. The stench of stale sweat, soiled sheets, and alcohol rushed to her nostrils, so pungent she nearly gagged. Emile lay on the bed in his shirt and breeches, limbs spread across the mattress, hair disheveled. No even a blanket over him. How was he not freezing?

An empty bottle lay on the ground beside the bed. There was her answer. She'd heard him staggering into the house in the middle of the night, talking to himself, and then slamming the door shut behind him. At least he'd made it this far before he passed out.

How in the devil did he find the money for liquor? To what depths did he sink? She couldn't bear to think of it. But underlying her despair was anger. Pure, white-hot anger that made her want to shake and slap him.

Damn him. Damn him to hell. If it weren't for his debts…

She slammed the door shut again. She'd tell the girl not to bother for now. Let him sleep on his soiled sheets while she went and asked Lenoir if she could work tonight.

She wouldn't stoop to begging. Not yet, and not for food or clothes. But repaying Emile's debts to the Boneman left her so little money that soon she'd have no choice.

*

Thump.

The man hit the floor of the ring and a splatter of blood burst from his lips. The referee started counting.

"Come on, damn you," Nicolas muttered, his fists curled tightly. The crowd was tightly packed around the makeshift ring, moving and roaring as one like a wild animal out for the kill, but he stood on a bench further in the back to have a clearer view of the fight.

Four… five… six…

He focused on Boutin, who loomed over his felled opponent, panting heavily, his hair slick with sweat over his brow. Four more seconds, and he would win it all.

Nine… ten…

"The match goes to Boutin," the arbiter called.

A cheer rose from several gentlemen in the audience. Nicolas uncurled his hands to break out in a loud clap. Sacredieu , it had been a close bout, but his student had come out on top in the end.

"Nice win," Raoul said next to him. "For a moment there, I thought he was done. Going against a taller, stronger rival…"

Nicolas smiled. "Ah, but in savate , speed and precision beats pure brawn. If you rely too much on brute strength, you simply exhaust yourself and your reflexes slow."

"Well, that would explain why I've seen you beat men twice your size, skinny as you are."

"I'll show you skinny, you great ox," he replied with a laugh. "Care for a match?"

In truth, he might come out victorious so long as his burly, dark-haired friend didn't enter the ring with his knife, but just barely. Raoul Prevost had one of the deadliest blades in all of Paris, and his reflexes were as quick as they were lethal.

"I don't fight for sport," Raoul growled.

"Yes, you simply let others do it and place a wager on them."

"But I always bet for your men, don't I? You should be thanking me."

Yes, and today, Boutin was going home with the prize money, of which Nicolas would get a cut. This was a small venue, nothing more than an abandoned warehouse off the side of the Palais Royal where gentlemen came to taste of the more disreputable pleasures of Paris. Working ladies waited for them outside, ready to lead them to the cafés and gambling halls of the area, and finagle them out of the money they'd just won.

A familiar, almost comforting atmosphere, but Nicolas had bigger plans for the men he trained. A real venue, with stands and proper lighting, a betting booth, and most importantly a gymnasium. Savate might have been born on the streets, but it deserved its proper place in the sporting pantheon.

It would take more than money, however, for his vision to come true.

Just as he finished congratulating Boutin and collected his money, Raoul elbowed him sharply. Nicolas turned, and the flash of a golden pin caught his eye. A stocky gentleman with stringy hair under his silk top hat shuffled up to him, flanked by a large man with a scarred face. Nicolas crossed his arms in front of him.

"Malenfant," he greeted him. "I thought I saw you lurking in the back, though that pin of yours is anything but discreet."

Two crossed swords, both as long and thick as Nicolas's thumb, shining on the lapel of Malenfant's coat for all to see. A sign that he was utterly unafraid of whoever might have the notion to attack him and steal the pin.

"I do enjoy betting, though I hardly have the need for more money," he replied in a nonchalant tone. "Your man did good. I'm not surprised, given your own skill. I could use someone like you to teach the louts under my command to make better use of their fists. And to knock some sense into those who refuse to cooperate."

Nicolas narrowed his eyes. Raoul sidled closer to him, one hand in his pocket. "What do you want, Malenfant? Coming here with your adjutant?" He addressed the scarred man. "Never took you for a betting kind, Talloche."

"The only thing I'd be willing to bet on here is your head," Talloche said with a gravelly laugh. "Wonder how long you'll manage to hold on to it without protection."

Nicolas sighed. Of course. There were no neutral territories in the capital's underworld. And everyone had to stand on one side or the other. Well, he planned on holding out for as long as he could, no matter how many times Malenfant came to pester him.

"I've already told you, I'm not interested in becoming one of your thugs."

Malenfant's mouth twisted into a sneer. "So you've said. Yet you still owe me a favor."

Indeed, there was that small problem to deal with. His friend Jerome Saint Yves and his wife Stella had come under grievous threat a few months prior, and without Malenfant's help, the whole affair would have ended in tragedy.

"Let's get it over with, then. Have you come to collect?"

"I have no urgent need at the present. Unless you're offering?"

What could he possibly have to offer Malenfant that could whittle at the colossal debt he owed him? The answer came to his mind with startling clarity.

"Now that you mention it, I might have some information you'd be interested in. Three nights ago, I was at the Opéra Comique and I caught a pair of cutpurses at work, but I believe they weren't under Chardon's orders. Chardon works for you, does he not?"

Malenfant's gaze lit with keen interest. "He does. But how can you be sure they weren't some of our people? Do you know every pickpocket in Paris by name?"

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. "You'd be surprised. Just a hunch, that's all."

Let me go. Please.

The young woman's pale eyes rose to the surface of his memory. As they had many, many times since he'd seen her. Along with her voice. And the feeling of her lithe body against his as he held her captive.

"I could find out, if you like," he offered. "Get you their names. See if your enemy has ordered them to move on your territory, perhaps find out his next move."

Malenfant considered his offer for a moment, stroking his golden pin with his thumb. "Very well. I'll see what that information is worth once I have it. Good day, gentlemen."

He touched the tip of his hat and strolled away with Talloche. Around them, the venue had emptied, and there was almost no one left but a boy spreading sand over the bloody ring.

Raoul took his hand out of his pocket. "Devil take that pompous ass. And now he's got you running errands for him."

"An errand I suggested," Nicolas remarked. "I am indebted to the man, loathe as I am to be reminded of it, and I have to admit those two pickpockets tickled my curiosity. The woman in particular… She struck me as odd."

"Odd?" Raoul smirked. "Are you sure that's the word you're looking for? I should have known you had an ulterior motive."

"Don't I always?" Nicolas nodded toward the door. "Come, I think I know where to start fishing for information."

"Why should I go on this wild goose chase with you?"

"Because," he replied with a pointed look, "we're going to find Suzanne, and she'll be much more amenable to helping if you're the one doing the asking."

Raoul made a sound halfway between a grunt and a groan. "Fine. But you're buying me a drink afterward."