Chapter Five

A cacophony of shouts, cheers, and drunken debates hit Violette like a wave the moment she crossed the threshold of Café Baladin with Lenoir. From the outside, fogged windows masked the typical Latin Quarter crowd. Yet here and there, scowling men with scars hunched over, heads together, in hushed conversation.

They were always here, even when Violette met Lenoir during the day. The Boneman's escort, no doubt hiding arms beneath their cloaks and ready to strike if an enemy dared set foot on their territory.

Violette lowered her eyes. Several of the men greeted Lenoir, and their gazes crept over her, sending shivers over her skin.

Jaw clenched, Lenoir led her all the way to the back of the café. A guard with a bent nose stood with his arms crossed at the foot of a flight of stairs, but he let Lenoir and Violette pass without a word.

Her knees threatened to give way with each step she climbed. She'd only been allowed upstairs once, after a couple of thugs had beaten Emile black and blue. It could have been so much worse. They hadn't broken any bones, but the message was clear. Pay up or else .

Violette had come to plead on his behalf—not for mercy, for there was none to be found in this godforsaken city, but for work. It was the only time she'd met the Boneman, until now. Her heart clawed its way up her throat. Don't panic. Breathe. Let Lenoir speak. Acting like a frightened mouse caught in a trap would only make things worse.

Upstairs, a corridor led to a line of doors, some left ajar. In the various rooms, men in silk waistcoats and shirt sleeves played billiards or roulette under the watchful eye of scantily clad women with painted lips. Behind the closed doors, high-pitched cries left no doubt as to what other activities were in the offing.

A ball of dread weighed down her stomach. If the Boneman gave free rein to Lenoir to claim her…

Don't panic. One foot in front of the other. Again. Again. No use despairing over something that had not yet come to pass.

At the end of the corridor, two more henchmen flanked a double door.

"I need to talk to Estienne," Lenoir said.

Estienne? The Boneman had a name then, though she had never heard Lenoir refer to him as such.

"Master doesn't want to be disturbed," one of the henchmen grumbled.

"Go tell him it's about Lefevre."

The man grunted, knocked four times, slowly, and entered the room. A minute later, the door opened. Lenoir yanked Violette inside.

The room matched her memory with its burgundy wallpaper and sparse furnishings. A chest of drawers, a side door, and a large, sprawling desk strewn with letters, envelopes and a massive, leather-bound ledger.

Black, stringy hair flopping into his face, the Boneman, scribbled a letter. His quill continued its scratching while they waited. Finally, he signed his name with a flourish and looked up.

A shudder traveled along Violette's spine. Light brown eyes, narrow and keen and filled with cold, calculating intelligence, honed in on her like a bird of prey on the lookout for a kill. They lay in sunken sockets, in a deathly pale face.

Did they call him the Boneman because he was so gaunt? Or for some other, more sinister reason, like the rumors she'd heard? She hoped to God she would never find out.

"You've come with news of our old friend?" His soft, cultivated tone stood out in stark contrast to his surroundings.

Our old friend. The Boneman knew Nicolas Lefevre too, then. Fate was cruel indeed to have this man, of all people, catch her in the act of picking a pocket.

"He tracked us down tonight," Lenoir replied. "Showed up at Anatole Girard's place. He was looking for her after spotting her at the opera."

He nodded toward Violette. The Boneman's gaze flickered over her but he kept his attention focused on Lenoir, as if she was nothing more than another piece of furniture.

"Are you sure he wasn't looking for you?"

Lenoir opened his mouth but struggled to get the words out. "I… I am quite sure, yes."

"This isn't the first time you've crossed paths with him lately," the Boneman pointed out, his gaze sharpening. "Nor is it the first time you've let him chase you away without completing your mission."

"He's been a thorn in my side—in our side—for years now. We should simply—"

"Kill him?" The Boneman tapped his long, thin fingers on the desk. "His skills would be valuable to us. If it came down to it, I'd sooner kill you. Perhaps I should make him that offer. Your head against his allegiance. Do you suppose he might accept?"

Lenoir swallowed audibly. "Lefevre won't be turned."

"He's put up a good fight so far, I'll admit. But every man has a weakness. One must simply find out what it is."

The Boneman smiled, the skin stretching over large, perfectly aligned teeth. The smile of a blood-thirsty beast. He dug into a drawer and produced a small pouch. He placed it on the desk, coins tinkling inside.

Then he turned to Violette. "Tell me, my dear, has Lenoir acted in a courteous manner toward you, like I asked him?"

She nodded, though her blood turned to ice in her veins. "He has, monsieur ."

"Good. No putting his hands where he shouldn't? Or trying to peek under those pretty skirts?"

A hot flush burned her cheeks. Lord, let this be over soon. Let her return home. Let her be spared this humiliation. "No, monsieur ."

"Good. He has always been an obedient dog." He leaned back in his chair. "Lenoir, strike her."

Her eyes widened. Surely, he couldn't…

The slap stung her cheek before she could even finish her thought. She pressed her cold palm against the throbbing and glared at Lenoir who stared back blankly. Damn him. Damn him to hell. If the Boneman wanted his head, at that moment, she'd be more than willing to do the job herself.

"Strike her again."

This time, Violette braced herself. She raised an arm and ducked, so Lenoir's fist hit the side of her head. The blow was still strong enough to send a pulse of pain through her skull. She pushed him back furiously, and he growled like a beast, grasping her wrist to twist her arm.

The Boneman watched them with what looked almost like glee, his grin widening. "Down, boy. Mustn't leave too many bruises. She's worth more to me unsullied." Lenoir released her, and the Boneman tossed the pouch of coins to him. "Here's your treat."

Lenoir shoved the pouch into his pocket. The Boneman was right, he was nothing but a dog. A dog who would beat her, rape her, put her to work on the streets the moment his master snapped his fingers.

"What am I supposed to do about Lefevre, then?"

"You'll do nothing for now," the Boneman replied flatly. "He and Malenfant's men took down the Kingfisher and his smugglers not six months ago, and Malenfant has been trying to get him to join his ranks ever since. If Lefevre wants to bed this girl and you go looking for a fight, you'll drive him straight into that whoreson's arms. Just do as you're told."

Lenoir scowled but pressed his lips together and said nothing. The Boneman picked up his quill and started writing again without sparing them another glance. Lenoir took Violette's arm, and she followed him out.

"You heard him," he growled next to her ear when they were in the corridor. "Tomorrow you go back to work with Bravard. And you had better come back with your reticule full to bursting if you know what's good for you."

"Why, will you beat me bloody?" she shot back before she could stop herself. "Or will you ask your master for permission first?"

He halted in the middle of the corridor and pulled her brusquely to him, eyes dancing with wild fire. "Mark my word, you little bitch, the longer I hold out, the worse it'll be for you. Now get out of my sight."

He released her and hurried off to one of the gambling rooms, leaving her to hurry down the stairs alone, nearly tripping at each step in her haste.

Her mind raced as she made her way out of the café, her heart pounding and an iron fist squeezing her lungs. She was running out of time. Either Lenoir would snap, or the Boneman would finally decide that she had more value as a whore than a pickpocket. She needed to find a way out, and fast.

What about Emile? They would kill him if she ran, and then they would still catch her. Without money or connections, she would not get far from Paris. But if she stayed, she was the one who would end up dead. Or broken beyond repair.

Out in the street, she closed her eyes and forced several deep breaths in, as if the cold air could cleanse her. When she opened her eyes again, tears blurred her vision. She could trust no one, no friend she could turn to.

She wiped her tears before they could spill. Devil take it, she didn't need a friend. She needed muscle. And for that, the enemy of her enemy would do just fine.

*

"If I were you, I would just forget about her."

Nicolas stared at the ceiling. Raoul's blade ran over his jaw fast and fluid as water, cold against his skin. Nicolas waited until the blade lifted before replying. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Raoul uncorked a small bottle and the scent of bergamot tickled Nicolas's nose.

"Don't take me for a fool." Raoul slapped the cologne on Nicolas's cheeks. "You've had that look on your face all day."

Nicolas ran his hands over his jaw. Smooth as silk. Not only was Raoul the only man in Paris he trusted with his shave, but he never left the slightest bit of stubble. "What look?"

"Like your mind isn't all there. Before you know it, you'll be tripping over your feet and taking punches from your own pupils."

Nicolas snorted. "That's rich, coming from the man who barely lets out more than a grunt when Suzanne is around."

Raoul unpinned the towel draped over Nicolas's chest and tossed it onto the table next to his blade. "I'm not going to let any woman get under my skin and muddle my thoughts, and you should do the same. You have more important things to worry about right now. Forget her."

Blast. Maybe he shouldn't have told Raoul about the previous evening at Anatole Girard's house, but then if Lenoir was involved, he really had no choice. That meant the Boneman already knew Nicolas was on Violette's trail, and that was certainly something they should all be worried about.

He didn't fear Marcel Estienne. He'd known him far too long for that. An image of a scrawny, dark-haired boy flashed through his mind. A boy who made up for his slight frame with twice the toughness and three times the cruelty as the other orphans roaming the streets. Setting fire to a woman's hair in a tavern and clapping as she gesticulated to put it out. Picking a stray cat off the pavement and slicing its throat with a giggle.

Estienne had always thrived on chaos, and Nicolas had no intention of letting that chaos threaten the life he'd built. That scrape with the Kingfisher while coming to Jerome's aid had been close enough. But now…

"The Boneman is becoming too bold," he said. "Overconfident. He's sending people like Violette de la Roque to work on Malenfant's territory, and he's got half the gendarmes in the city on his payroll."

"Then let Malenfant deal with it. Give him the information you gathered and move on. You told me you didn't want to get involved."

Nicolas rubbed his freshly trimmed nape. Indeed, he didn't. Over the years, he'd amassed a small fortune in the gambling halls of the Palais Royal, first playing, then working for the owners to make sure patrons didn't win too much or too often. But savate matches, he found, were a far more thrilling venture, and just as lucrative. The thud of flesh meeting flesh, the sweat, the fury coming off the fighters and the roar of the audience… It made his head spin like liquor. Next to it, the roulette table seemed as bland as watered-down beer.

Besides, he enjoyed training pupils in the art, teaching them how to defend themselves, making them understand the value of discipline. A man who could make proper use of his fists and feet wouldn't find himself helpless in the face of adversity. A feeling Nicolas didn't wish on anyone.

But if he wanted to build a career out of it, he couldn't afford to get mixed up with either Malenfant or the Boneman.

Forget Violette. A different vision emerged on the surface of his memory. Pale, blazing eyes and a creamy neck. The smell of lavender… He shook his head. Even if he did forget her, how long could he remain neutral?

"You're right," he finally said. "Malenfant is already breathing down my neck as it is."

Raoul cleaned his blade with a rag, folded it, and put it back in his pocket. "Not to mention that any investor you find for your gymnasium could very well be a friend of his. The Boneman may have gendarmes on his payroll, but Malenfant rubs shoulders with men in high places."

Nicolas sighed and stood from the chair, eager to change the subject. "Come now, let us go have dinner. We won't solve anything on an empty stomach."

They didn't pursue the matter. They had work to do that evening anyway, as a royalist group had hired Raoul to store their printing press and bundles of newspapers in the back room of his barber shop, a job best done at night.

Yet after Nicolas returned to his suite of rented rooms just above the southern gallery of the Palais Royal, his thoughts circled back to Violette and Lenoir.

He took off his jacket, setting it on the upholstered chaise next to his bed, then unbuttoned his waistcoat. Damn it all, could Violette really be Lenoir's mistress? She did not give the impression of a well-pleasured woman. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Stiff. Tense. Flinching ever so slightly when Lenoir touched her. Voice lined with ice, despite the fire in her gaze.

Had Lenoir forced his attentions on her? His insides clenched. Whatever the case, she was in danger. Nicolas sat on the edge of his bed and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to keep the memory at bay. It had been lurking since last evening, ready to remind him of the horror he'd witnessed.

Golden curls, a shy smile, always at Lenoir's arm… And Lenoir was quick to warn the other boys that she belonged to him.

I'll punch out the teeth of anyone who touches her. Laurine is mine, understood?

And yet the brute had barely hesitated before handing her over to Estienne. She'd begged and cried and fallen to her knees. The rope had dug in Nicolas's wrists, pain shooting up his arm, and her screams echoed in his ears…

He stood and walked over to the shelf where he kept a decanter of cognac on a silver tray. He poured himself a glass. The cognac heated his throat and chest but left it hollow. He tilted his head back and swallowed the rest in long, greedy gulps. Just enough to blunt the sharpness of his memories, numb the more cutting edges. He undressed and went to bed.

Slumber came and went like a tide, sending him sinking into oblivion for what seemed like a second before retreating again at the slightest sound. Broken glass. A shout in the night. A peal of feminine laughter ringing out in the gallery below.

It was still dark when he left his bed. He hadn't rested properly, but no matter. He needed to walk, to fight, to punch a straw bag over and over again until he was utterly drained.

Outside, the freezing air both soothed and spurred him into a lope. The streets were deserted save for a few rag-pickers and dustmen, and for once Nicolas welcomed the solitude.

What about Violette? Is she alone now? Helpless in the face of adversity, just like you once were?

He shoved the thought away. She was not his concern. Tracking Violette down had been a mistake. One of the basic principles of savate was calculating when you could afford to let your guard down to place a lethal kick. But now was not that time. Right now, he would do well to stay in his corner.