Chapter Six

V iolette kept her gaze riveted on the muddy hem of her dress. One shuffling step after the next on wet pavement that threatened to turn to ice at any moment. At the narrow street that led toward the Palais Royal, she stopped and peered at the steps of Saint Aphrodise. Still there. Both of them. Two young men she'd spotted earlier, deep in conversation, wreathed in pipe smoke.

Blast. Should she come back tomorrow? Take one more turn around the neighboring streets to give them another chance to leave? She adjusted her shawl over her hair and kept walking. For two days, she'd observed the early morning comings and goings around Saint Aphrodise. Yet she still hadn't worked out the best way to approach Nicolas Lefevre.

Saint Aphrodise.

Lefevre had mentioned the place to Lenoir, and the name stuck in her mind. Like Aphrodite, the goddess of love, though the run-down stone chapel squatting in a cramped square between rows of ramshackle houses hardly conjured images of grand myths and ancient tales of love.

What had he said about the place? Something about savate . She assumed it was some sort of fighting sport, since she'd heard Bravard mention a bet he'd placed on a street match with Lenoir. Perhaps Saint Aphrodise was an illicit ring.

If so, good. That meant Lefevre was exactly the sort of man she needed to help her. Yet as she dodged the vendors and passersby in the winding alleyways to make her way back to the chapel, a knot seemed to form in her gut. What if Lefevre said no? What if Lenoir somehow got wind of her doings? What if this risk was all for nothing?

You have no choice. She pulled her shawl tighter. Even if Lefevre did refuse, at least she'd have tried. At least Lenoir didn't keep her on a leash, like his master did with him.

The steps of the chapel were empty this time. She approached slowly, letting her gaze travel up to the tympanum. No saints looking down at her, either to encourage her or pass judgment. Their heads had all been hacked off.

She slipped between the half-open oak doors. Shouts and grunts echoed off the cavernous walls. The nave had been cleared of pews, leaving room for a ring of wooden planks and ropes. Surrounded by a group of onlookers, two men circled each other. Despite the cold and damp, sweat glistened on their bare chests in the faint daylight filtering through the broken windows. They hopped from one foot to the other, hands curled into fists, muscles tense. Ready to strike.

"Go on, then! Now!"

Him . Lefevre paced next to the ring, arms crossed, his gaze entirely focused on the fight.

Smack, smack, smack.

One of the combatants lashed out with a series of quick jabs. His foot followed in a vicious kick aimed at his opponent's breastbone. Before the blow could land, the other snaked out a hand to grab his leg. A whirling motion threw the first man off balance. He landed on the ground with a loud thud.

Lefevre leaned over the ropes. "See, you hesitated a second too long. If you're not quick enough, your opponent has time to anticipate you. Right then. Who's next?"

He glanced around, and his gaze landed on Violette. Her heart thudded painfully, but she returned his stare. His green eyes narrowed.

"Boutin, you spot them," he said. "I'll be right back."

Lefevre strolled toward her, casually, as if he was greeting an acquaintance on a walk in the park. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal corded forearms, and his open collar revealed the notch at the base of his neck. Good Lord, how could he not be cold? His bare skin must be fairly burning. She curled her fingers into a fist against an urge to test her theory.

He nodded courteously, though his gaze was sharp and hard. "Mademoiselle de la Roque. I can't say I was expecting you. Have you lost your way?"

"Monsieur Lefevre." She lifted her chin slightly. "I need to talk to you. Please. It is a rather… urgent matter."

"Given the company you keep, I guessed as much." He studied her for a moment, as if gauging her intent. "Follow me, then."

She trailed after him across the nave, the wordless stares of the others weighing on her shoulders. Lefevre might be teaching these men to fight, but his authority seemed to extend beyond the ring. Her resolution faltered. Did they respect him, or fear him?

He led her to the apse, past where the altar must once have been and through a door to a small room. The vestry, now filled with sacks of straw and a pile of rope. Violette loosened her shawl to uncover her hair.

"I know you do not have much time," she said, "so permit me to be direct."

He held up his palm. "Before you do, I must ask you something, just so my conscience is clear. Has Lenoir sent you?"

She blinked. "No. No, of course not."

" Of course not ." He repeated the words with a little laugh. "It's a natural assumption, I assure you. The first thing anyone from this world would think. But then, you are not from this world, are you?"

Her cheeks heated under his piercing gaze, but she would not look away. "Lenoir doesn't know I'm here. In fact, I would rather not contemplate what he would do if he found out."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Fear not, your secret is safe with me. If you've come to me, you must have guessed that Jacques Lenoir and his master are no friends of mine."

She nodded. "Indeed. And I have no one else to turn to for help."

He raised an eyebrow. "What sort of help? I should tell you right away, as much as I detest them, I'm not an assassin for hire. Though you would not be the first to make that sort of request."

A shiver ran over her skin. Under his suave words and nonchalant manner, how dangerous was this man?

"No, I need…" She hesitated. "I need to learn how to defend myself. How to fight. It appears to me others are here for the same purpose."

For several long moments, he said nothing, then took a deep breath as if to calm himself. His eyes lingered on the reddish bruise on her temple. "Has Lenoir harmed you?"

She bit her lower lip. "He struck me, at the Boneman's behest."

Lefevre raised his fingers as if to touch her, then clasped his hands behind his back. "I see. Nothing else?"

A different kind of burn crept up her neck, and she shook her head. "He did not… Beyond that one time, he is under strict orders not to touch me."

He sighed wearily. "Yes, that's the sort of game that amuses Estienne. He gets far more pleasure from it than gambling or whoring."

"But I don't know how long it'll last," she continued. "And I cannot wait helplessly for the Boneman to decide to let Lenoir do as he pleases. It is… unbearable."

Something gleamed in his eyes. Something akin to sadness, though she could not imagine why. "I understand your predicament. However, I cannot give you an answer straightaway. I must think on it."

She pushed back a wave of disappointment. This was the best she could have expected. He had no reason to trust her, and no reason to take this risk himself.

"Of course. But I must know quickly if I need to find another solution. If you agree, though, we shall then discuss how I might pay—"

"I have no need for money, or anything you could give me," he interrupted, his tone suddenly harsh. "Do not mention it again. Simply tell me where I can reach you."

"Thirty-one Bergère Street." She retied her shawl. "Pray do not take too long. My safety depends on it."

*

Nicolas turned a small glass of green liquor between his thumb and forefinger for a moment before lifting it to his lips. The chartreuse left a familiar, comforting trail of warmth in his throat, but instead of relaxing his mind, it only muddled his thoughts further. Or maybe there was nothing that could help him in this situation.

"Easy, there," Raoul grumbled in the seat next to him. "I won't carry you home if you get foxed."

Nicolas ignored him and called to Suzanne at the other end of the counter. She finished pouring drinks to other clients before sashaying over to them.

"You're certainly thirsty tonight," she said as she tipped the bottle to refill his glass. "That demoiselle has you tied up in knots, doesn't she? She must be a bold woman indeed if she came to ask you for lessons."

Nicolas glared at Raoul. "You told her? Damn it all, now you decide to loosen your tongue around her?"

Raoul shrugged and stared into his pint. "It's not my fault. I was waiting for you all of ten minutes and she started pestering me. Had you found Violette? What were you going to do about her? A nightmare."

Nicolas shook his head. "I hope you're proud of yourself, Suzanne. You've broken the man."

Suzanne merely laughed. "Hardly. I believe he was just waiting for a chance to ask for another perspective. Really, it's not that complicated."

"I fail to see how," Raoul defended himself. "If Nicolas helps the girl, the Boneman will take it as a declaration of war. If he doesn't…"

"Because you think that scrawny bastard isn't going to go after him anyway? Ha! Nicolas makes himself a target simply by breathing the same air as he does."

"No, Raoul has a point," Nicolas said. "I can't afford to get involved too closely in the Boneman's affairs. Being indebted to Malenfant is trouble enough."

She crossed her arms and leaned on the counter. "You took down the Kingfisher, didn't you? To help your friends?"

"That was different. Stella Saint Yves's life was in danger. If we'd left her in the hands of that heartless scoundrel…"

Suzanne raised an eyebrow. "A heartless scoundrel, you say? A lady in danger? You're right, that is completely different from Violette de la Roque's predicament."

A smile fought its way to his lips. Point to Suzanne. He took another swig.

"I still think provoking the Boneman isn't a good idea," Raoul insisted. "Especially for a girl you've only met three times."

"Oh, you great big handsome brute," Suzanne said with a sigh. "Quick as lightning with a blade, but slower than a lame horse when it comes to matters involving the gentler sex."

Raoul turned his focus back to his beer and drank in long slow gulps instead of answering. Nicolas had to laugh. "Haven't you tormented him enough for one evening?"

Her mouth curled in a cheeky grin. "I'm simply saying that three times might be enough. Or even one time."

Blast, he should stop the chartreuse now, because whatever Suzanne was implying was too close to what his gut was telling him. That one look at Violette was all it had taken to pique his curiosity. And talking to her alone that morning, in the closed spaces of the vestry, had awoken another type of curiosity. One that urged him to stroke her face and test how soft her skin was, to unwrap her shawl and let down her silky curls.

That curiosity, he had to keep it under tight control. He'd be damned before he gave Violette the impression that she might repay his services in kind.

"Believe me, I have no other intention than to lend Violette my assistance," he finally said.

Suzanne's grin softened into a gentle smile. "I believe you, Nicolas. I know why you want to help her."

Yes. Suzanne would know, and so would Raoul. He'd told them both on separate occasions what Estienne had done to Lenoir's girl, all those years ago. And how they had forced Nicolas to watch.

I protect her and she lets me bed her. If you ask me, she's getting the better end of the deal.

That was the way things were done in the streets. Nothing out of the ordinary, and yet it has always left a bitter taste in Nicolas's mouth. But the bitterness had swallowed him whole after that hellish night, and he'd nearly drowned in it.

He pushed his empty glass away. No more. Keep your wits about you. You're going to need them.

Raoul frowned. "Well, as long as you're training Violette, you might as well give Malenfant what he wants. The more information you obtain, the more of your debt you'll be paying back."

Nicolas snorted. "Ah, so now you think it's not such a bad idea after all?"

Raoul downed his pint. "Around here, you have to learn to make the best of terrible situations."