Chapter Three

T he cold, clear air sharpened the glow of the lights lining Vivienne street. The windows of the cafés and cabarets gleamed like molten gold, inviting passersby to escape the wintry chill for the price of a few drinks.

Nicolas pushed through the door of the Cabaret Doré with Raoul following close behind. The scent of sweat and liquor hit him like a punch to the throat. In a corner, a girl was singing in a raspy voice to the raucous cheers of some of the patrons. Young men, most of them, students and workers, filling their stomachs with cheap wine when they didn't have enough for a proper dinner. Nicolas had been in their position all too often in the past.

"Look, there she is," Raoul grumbled.

Nicolas turned. Short hair the color of cognac, a heart-shaped face dotted with freckles, a satin rose pinned to the low bodice of her dark gray dress, Suzanne Foucher stood behind the counter, wiping a glass with a rag. When she spotted Nicolas and Raoul, her lips stretched into a grin.

"Dear Suzanne, the prettiest flower in Palais Royal." Nicolas took her hand to kiss it.

Suzanne raised an eyebrow. "Nicolas Lefevre, ever the sweet talker. But I prefer the strong silent type. They're far less trouble." She turned to Raoul, and her smile widened. "I'm so glad to see you. You haven't come in a week! I was starting to wonder if I should simply drop by your barbershop and see if you'd taken ill, or worse."

His eyes darted sideways to avoid her gaze. "We've been busy," he muttered. "Big savate fight tonight."

Suzanne leaned forward, her low neckline revealing creamy freckled skin and plump curves pushed up by her stays. Nicolas bit back a laugh. If Raoul wanted to look elsewhere, she wasn't going to make it easy for him. "So what can I get you?"

"Two glasses of chartreuse," Nicolas said. "And a very small favor."

Suzanne's smile vanished, and she planted her hand on her hip. "What is it this time?"

"We're looking for someone."

"Of course, you are, damn you," she replied with a snort. "Does that someone owe you money, or is it the other way around? In any case, I don't see how—"

"Neither, as a matter of fact," Raoul interrupted her. "It's a woman."

Her eyes narrowed. "A lover?"

Raoul scratched the back of his neck. "No, she's a pickpocket."

"She could be both," Suzanne replied in a softer tone, and gazed up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "Nimble hands can come in useful for all sorts of things. I should know, I picked my share of pockets back in the day."

"Precisely," Nicolas intervened. Raoul's face was taking on an alarming shade of red. "You see, this woman we're looking for was working in Chardon's territory."

"Under his orders?"

"That's the thing. I'm not sure. She looked like… a lady."

Suzanne laughed. "A lady, and not a lowly wench such as I am, you mean?"

Raoul glowered at her. "Don't say that. That's not what he meant."

"True, my dear, I would never call you that," Nicolas replied with a smile. "My God, if you're lowly, what does that make me? But this woman seemed out of place. And if she was working where she shouldn't be, that could mean someone is knowingly disregarding territory lines."

No need to elaborate. Suzanne knew the unspoken borders of the underworld as well as he did, and the cardinal rule that stated no one should cross them unless they were looking for trouble. "So you need Chardon to confirm or deny your suspicions," she said. "Maybe even give you a name."

"You've known him for years. If you could ask him…"

Suzanne shook her head. "Not a chance. He'll just try to lure me back into his bed."

"You were involved with Chardon?" Raoul asked sharply.

She waved her hand and took a bottle of chartreuse from the shelf behind her. "Ages ago. We had some laughs, nothing serious. He wasn't my protector or anything like that."

Protector . The word always left a bitter taste in Nicolas's mouth. Young men, barely more than boys, would use it to lay claim on a girl in the eyes of their gang and their rivals. But there was usually very little protecting involved, and he himself had learned this the hard way.

Suzanne, though, had never needed a protector. Not when a flock of her cousins worked for Malenfant. At any rate, she was quite capable of defending herself. Nicolas had once seen her bite a man's hand until she drew blood because he'd grabbed her bottom.

She poured their drinks in one swift movement. "Anyway, I could certainly use my charms to coax information out of that fool, but I'm a respectable woman now."

Nicolas held up his palms. "Heaven forbid. Though if Chardon gets the wrong idea, I have no doubt you'll put him in his place. Can't you simply ask him and see how he reacts?"

She slid the glasses over to them, a mischievous glint in her brown eyes. "I suppose I could , if someone made it worth my while."

Nicolas slapped four coins onto the counter. "I'm nothing if not generous with my friends, and I'm glad to count you among them."

She took them, put two in the till and slipped the other two into her pocket. "Indeed. But a girl needs more than money to warm her heart on a cold winter's night. Heartfelt words are rarer and more precious than gold."

Nicolas nudged Raoul sharply with his elbow. Raoul shot him a dark glare. Good Lord, what was the man's problem? Suzanne was lovely, vivacious and made no secret that she was sweet on him. Yet Raoul seemed to fear her more than a thug armed to the teeth.

He turned toward her and cleared his throat. "Well, I… We'd be most grateful if you could help us. That said…" He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Whatever you do, don't put yourself in harm's way for our sake. I'll ask Chardon myself if I have to."

Suzanne's cheeks grew pink, and she sighed. "Oh my, how could I possibly say no to that? I'll get you what you need. Now drink up and tell me more about this mysterious lady."

*

The maid was pinning the last flower in Violette's hair when the door burst open. She jumped in her seat. Blast, couldn't her brother knock for once?

"Who the bloody hell is this?"

Emile was leaning against the door frame and glaring at the maid. Violette glanced at her reflection in her handheld mirror and nodded.

"That will be all," she told the girl. "You may go now."

"Thank you, mademoiselle ," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, before scuttling off like a mouse.

Emile's bloodshot gaze followed her all the way out of the room, then he turned back to Violette. "You didn't answer me."

"Because the answer is obvious enough to anyone with his wits about him," she shot back. "Just a maid Lenoir sent to help me get ready for tonight."

She rose from her chair and smoothed the burnt copper silk of her dress. A beautiful gown, she had to admit, though the ruched bodice dipped lower than she would have liked.

"Damn it, Violette," Emile snarled. "Every time I step out of my room, there are strangers out and about in my own home. Am I expected to abide such a thing?"

Lord, she was tempted to smash the mirror against the wall. No, better. Over his head. " Our home," she replied through gritted teeth. "No thanks to you. You would have seen us thrown out into the streets with your drinking and gambling debts if I hadn't stepped in."

He shook his head. "The same old tune. Everything's my fault, is it? If you'd managed to marry that wealthy old codger, we wouldn't be in this predicament."

Right. Because the De la Roque name still carried its weight in certain circles, namely aging aristocrats whose sole intent was to re-establish their bloodlines after the Revolution had depleted their family trees. Shortly before his death, her godfather had tried and failed to make a match for her with a baron missing half his teeth. The man had already buried two previous wives. Admittedly, Violette hadn't been particularly amiable the only time she'd met him, as it had taken all her energy to hide her outright disgust at the thought of marrying him.

Violette sighed wearily. "It's pointless to argue. The only thing we can do is try to get ourselves out of this situation."

She wasn't naive enough to believe the work she was doing would one day reimburse the totality of Emile's debts to the Boneman. She had no way to keep track of how much the goods she stole were actually worth. But she sometimes kept a few coins for herself with the vague, distant hope that someday, she might raise enough to leave.

Where would she go? What would she do? There was nothing and no one waiting for her. Starting a new life elsewhere was simply a foolish dream.

Emile nodded slowly, his brow furrowed, and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the boy he'd once been. Shy and serious, often lost in thought. The memory pinched at her heart. It seemed like a century ago.

"You're right, sister," he finally said. "As it happens, I'm meeting a friend later. He said he might have a job opportunity for me."

She frowned. "Meeting him where?"

"At the café. So if you could give me a few francs…"

A cold laugh burst from her lips. So that was why he'd come to her room. She should have known, for most of the time he cared nothing of her whereabouts. "Do you take me for a fool? I'm not giving you money so you can drink yourself into a stupor again."

Though he would find other ways to get the bottle he so desperately craved. His brow was sweaty, and his hands trembling slightly. God help her, nothing she could do would keep him away from that poison.

Emile wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Acting all high and mighty. Didn't Lenoir give you that tawdry gown?"

"Yes, because I can't very well wear a threadbare dress to a salon where most women will be dripping in jewelry." She slid on her shawl over her shoulders and took her reticule from her bed. "Now please , if you could simply stay out of—"

"You're nothing more than his whore," Emile spat. "He's taking you to fancy salons now, but how long before he pimps you out on the streets?"

Three strides, and her hand met his cheek with a resounding crack.

"If you keep at it, brother, you'll be cold in the ground before he does," she hissed. "Have a pleasant evening."

She hurried out of the apartment and down the stairs, slipping on her gloves as she went. Even wrapped tightly in her shawl, the wintry air bit at her skin, and she was glad to see that Lenoir's fiacre was already waiting for her.

When she stepped inside, Lenoir greeted her with a courteous smile. It was the first time she'd seen him in tailored evening clothes. The effect was disturbing. Her eyes saw an elegant, good-looking man, his evening jacket following the lines of his muscular figure, his hair neatly coiffed and his jaw clean-shaven over a white cravat. But her heart and mind knew what lay behind the illusion.

"You look ravishing, Violette," he said. "The girl did a good job with your hair. Do you like your dress? Here, unwind your shawl so I can see how well the color and cut suit you."

Her stomach roiled with discomfort but she loosened the hold on her shawl. "It's… perfectly suitable for our mission."

"Mission?" Lenoir repeated with a little laugh. "Why, this is a pleasant evening out on the town. As a matter of fact, the jollier we are, the better. Remember why we're attending Girard's salon in the first place."

Violette nodded. No picking pockets tonight. "I fail to see why you needed me, if you're simply trying to secure an invitation to Monsieur Girard's next house party."

His gaze drifted from her face to her bosom and back. "A man with a beautiful mistress is less likely to draw suspicion and far likelier to draw interest."

She curled her hands around the edge of the seat. How long would it take for Lenoir to demand that she do more than playact the part of his mistress?

But far worse than Lenoir's intentions was her own uncertainty. Would she resist, or simply give in out of desperation?

No. She wouldn't . Or else that would prove Emile right.

"Now then, put a smile on those pretty lips," Lenoir said. "I insist you enjoy yourself this evening."