Chapter Four

N icolas's boots hit the pavement and he strolled up from the fiacre to the townhouse, a three-story building with tall windows and stucco friezes of twisting vines. One didn't hurry when one was a bourgeois , no matter how bloody freezing it was. And tonight, he was no longer a hardened savate trainer of Palais Royal, but a gentleman of leisure wearing a dark velvet coat, breeches the color of crushed raspberries and a bronze damask waistcoat. The ability to blend in with any layer of society was an even more useful skill than fighting or wielding a knife.

He paused at the door. If Suzanne's information was correct, he'd have to find a way to thank her properly. She'd come to Saint Aphrodise yesterday morning, wrapped almost to her freckled nose in a gray wool shawl. Nicolas had been practicing with two of his pupils in the middle of the abandoned church that served as his gymnasium. The ring was little more than rope and what wood was left of the broken pews.

"I have what you asked of me," she'd announced triumphantly, her words echoing in the stony nave.

As he'd ducked between the ropes to greet her, she'd glanced around the empty chapel. Disappointed that Raoul wasn't there, obviously, but she said nothing and simply smiled at Nicolas.

He'd kissed her cheek, still cold and rosy from her walk. "You are an angel. I take it Chardon was amenable to your request?"

"Ha! I didn't even have to go to him." She'd lowered her voice to a murmur. "My friend Nanette is dallying with a tall chap they call Bravard. When she got wind of me wanting to know who was picking pockets at the Opéra Comique, she came to me. You see, Bravard works for the Boneman and he got paired up with a lady— your lady. Nanette is the jealous type, she doesn't like that one bit, so she wasn't too worried about exposing her."

" Sacredieu , someone should write a play about this."

"Anyway, her name is Violette de la Roque. Fancy, just like you said. But there's more. I know where she'll be tomorrow night."

One hundred and twenty-seven Bonne Nouvelle Boulevard. Anatole Girard's house. Nicolas had asked Hortense de Vijeux to secure him an invitation, though she would not be attending the salon herself this week. One of Girard's' friends of her acquaintance had agreed to vouch for Nicolas.

Two birds, one stone. Girard was richer than Croesus, and he was known to invest in all sorts of ventures. Perhaps getting on the man's friendly side could benefit Nicolas in the long run.

Though now that he was here, he hesitated. Gaining entrance to Girard's circle was one thing. Approaching Violette, if she was indeed there, was quite another. Even if he did manage to speak to her, what would he say? Though his mission was to gather information for Malenfant, his burning curiosity was outside the realm of reason or logic.

Violette de la Roque. He repeated the name in his mind, then it rolled off his tongue in a whisper, as if his ears wanted to hear exactly what music it made. Violette de la Roque. An aristo , then, one whose family had fallen on hard times. No, plummeted and crashed to the ground, more like. Had her relatives been exiled? Or had the Widow taken their lives like it had taken his own father and brother, with one swoop of its blade?

Blood running between the cobblestones…

Nicolas shook the thought away. Not now. He took a deep breath and rang the bell.

A majordome opened. Nicolas gave his name, but he suspected his attire and the silver pin in his cravat were more compelling arguments in his favor. The majordome stepped aside to let him in and bright, gilded warmth enveloped him. Girard's house fairly screamed money, heaps and heaps of it, money so new it gleamed in the luster of the mahogany furniture, in the gold plating of the ornaments, in the finely chiseled mirrors that lined the corridor.

How tempting it was, when faced with such splendor, to ignore that misery existed outside. How easy to forget the horrors that had led to this shiny new world emerging from the ashes. At least for one evening. He gave his coat and hat to the footman and smoothed his palms over his waistcoat.

The majordome led him to a crowded sitting room. Nicolas entered with a smile on his face. A few of the men looked him over with a practiced air of indifference, but the ladies let their gazes linger a bit longer, fluttering their feathered fans.

He took a glass of wine from a tray, his gaze traveling over rouged faces, bright ribbons and sparkling rhinestones.

" Monsieur , I don't believe we've met."

One lady, bolder than the others, sidled up to him, and after a few pleasantries, she took him by the arm to join a conversation about a poetry anthology one of the guests had recently published. Not a subject he cared for much, but then he couldn't very well attend a salon and remain tongue-tied like a timid schoolboy.

"I think it's commendable to explore other verses than alexandrines," he replied when pressed for his opinion on free verse. "We are creatures who seek variety, in the arts or otherwise."

"Well said, monsieur ," one of the gentlemen agreed. "Take our host, for example. He changed mistresses twice in the last three months, though I will say in his defense that they were all blonde."

Laughter echoed around Nicolas, but he was no longer listening. He'd caught sight of a tall, slim silhouette in a dress the color of freshly polished copper. The woman had her back to him, but something about her long neck and light brown hair…

She turned her head to the side. Her . A fine nose, sharp cheekbones, strong brows… Unmistakably her, though Bravard was not by her side.

God bless Suzanne and her chatty friend. Perhaps he should wrap a bow around Raoul and have him delivered to her door.

He excused himself and made his way through the throng of guests. She stood on the side of the sitting room, glass in hand, unsmiling. When she spotted him, her eyes widened with recognition, then darted from side to side. Her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. A frightened cat but a cornered one. Better watch out for potential claws.

He greeted her with a nod. "Mademoiselle de la Roque. So glad to see you again."

She swallowed visibly, but held his gaze, her pale eyes aflame with anger. "Only a cad would use a lady's name without being properly introduced," she replied, every word dripping with icy disdain.

"You're right, how unforgivably rude of me. Nicolas Lefevre, at your service, mademoiselle ."

She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. Whatever her present circumstances, she still held herself like a gentlewoman, though her dress was far from what a sheltered young lady might wear. The burnished silk shimmered in the candlelight, and the low neckline tempted his gaze to slide down her neck and look his fill. Yet he kept it firmly fixed on her face. No use infuriating her any further.

"Well, Monsieur Lefevre, have you come to finish what you started at the opera?"

He smiled. "That depends. Have you come to resume your activities?"

"If I have," she replied in a low voice, "your only concern should be to walk away before that silver pin in your cravat disappears."

By God, he couldn't remember the last time a woman had spoken to him this way, if ever. Defiantly. Contemptuously. And his blood was all the more heated for it. Was it simply annoyance? Or something else?

"If I were you, I would not test my reflexes," he murmured. "As it happens, you piqued my curiosity. There's something about you and your presence at the Opéra Comique that doesn't add up, and I'd like to know first and foremost who you're working for."

"Is that so? Well, who are you working for, monsieur ?"

He leaned in closer and his nose caught a hint of lavender soap. "Perhaps I came here of my own accord."

Her lips parted but she stumbled for an answer. "I… I find that hard to believe."

"Really? On the contrary, I find it exceedingly easy to believe." His gaze flitted to her lips. "Can you not think of a reason why I would seek you out?"

"Back away if you know what's good for you," a man growled behind him.

Nicolas froze. He knew who that voice belonged to. And every time he heard it, it brought unwelcome echoes of the past.

He turned and faced Jacques Lenoir, who was scowling as if he'd just stepped in horseshit. Nicolas couldn't blame him, as the feeling was entirely mutual. Ten years ago, they had roamed the streets together, drank and fought and whored in the same gang of streetwise thugs. Back then, Nicolas thought of Lenoir like a brother. Now, he was more like a malevolent shadow, hellbent on reminding Nicolas of who he had once been.

And if Lenoir was involved with Violette, it wouldn't the first time Nicolas saw him treating a woman like his personal property.

He sighed wearily. "So we meet again. Damn it all, Lenoir, when am I ever going to be rid of you?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Lenoir side-stepped him to grab Violette's wrist. "Now what were you doing talking to my special friend?"

*

Violette's heart thudded painfully fast as she looked from Lenoir to Nicolas Lefevre. They were glaring at each other, one burly and dark, the other lean and golden. Lenoir's fingers dug into her skin, a warning to stay silent, but he needn't bother. She couldn't speak. She could scarcely draw breath.

Lord, they looked like they were about to jump at each other's throats. And if they didn't, Lefevre might reveal what happened at the opera the other night. What if Lenoir, or worse, the Boneman chastised her for being careless and drawing an enemy's attention?

"Your special friend." Lefevre's green eyes blazed, though his expression remained cool. "Did your master bid you put your mistress on his payroll, or did you come up with that idea on your own? I wouldn't be surprised either way."

Mistress. Violette wanted to pull away, to scream a denial. An hour earlier, she had not flinched at the implication when Lenoir had introduced her to their host. But hearing the word aloud hit her like a punch to the gut. It was as if she had crossed the line from playacting to reality.

"I will not discuss this with you here," Lenoir snapped, and he glanced around to see who might be listening.

Lefevre raised his eyebrows. "Would you rather come by Saint Aphrodise to have a little chat between two savate lessons? Perhaps we might discuss it in the ring." He rolled his shoulders back and Violette was suddenly reminded of how effortlessly he'd kept her in his strong grip. "By all means, let us not be indecorous in such company. We wouldn't want anyone to find out just how ill-bred we are. Except, I gather, for Mademoiselle de la Roque, who is just the opposite."

He met Violette's gaze. His lips seemed to be fighting a smile. Who on earth was this man that he could smile in such a situation? He utterly confounded her. He had discovered her name. Learned where she would be tonight. And now it seemed as if he was trying to be… friendly, almost.

Lenoir's fingers dug deeper into her wrist, and she winced. Lefevre's expression hardened, like a flame blown out by a gust of icy wind.

"You ought to be careful how you a treat a lady," he said, his voice cold and unyielding as flint.

A movement fluttered on the edge of her vision. His hand flexed, tightening it into a fist.

Lord almighty, this had to stop before a fight broke out. "Please, monsieur , I do not need your assistance."

Lenoir tugged on her arm possessively. "Do not trouble yourself, Violette. We shall leave at once."

Without giving Lefevre another look, he pulled her across the room and through the crowd toward the corridor. Violette glanced back to find a pair of emerald eyes watching her, unflinching, but Lenoir quickened his steps and she hurried after him amid the whirl of colorful gowns and curious stares. After waiting for their coat and shawl in stony silence, Lenoir dragged her out into the freezing darkness.

"Let go of me," Violette demanded. "You're hurting me. Surely, you can trust me to follow you now that we're in the street."

"Shut your mouth," he barked, his tone coarse and rough.

He didn't speak again until they were aboard their fiacre and jostling down Bonne Nouvelle Boulevard. "How does Lefevre know you? Tell the truth, or you'll wish you'd never spoken to that whoreson."

Panic seized her throat. A better question was how on earth Lenoir knew him . The animosity between them had not sprung up from this encounter alone. She forced her voice to remain steady. "He spotted me and Bravard at the opera. Nothing more."

Lenoir clenched his jaw. "Nothing?"

She nodded, eyes wide. Hoping to appease him. Hating that she must, when she really wanted to scratch his eyes out and bolt from the fiacre. "Before tonight I did not even know his name, nor did I tell him mine. He discovered it on his own."

"That fucking bastard has always been too nosy for his own good," Lenoir snarled. "If he thinks he can meddle with our affairs… No, the master will know how to deal with him. I must inform him right away."

"Right away?"

This time, there was no keeping the waver out of her voice.

Lenoir stared out the window as the wide boulevard gave way to a narrow, winding street. "The sooner the better. And you're coming with me."