Chapter Seven

V iolette dragged her aching feet to the door of her building. An evening of dancing with gentlemen under a sparkling chandelier, wearing a silk gown, in the grand room of an h?tel particulier. For Young Violette, this enchanted vision would have been a dream. Now such an event was only a night of work with Bravard, and a bitter reminder of the illusions she'd lost.

Her younger self could have never imagined the lancing pain in her calves, the leering gazes and malodorous breaths of said gentlemen, and especially not having to slip her hand into their pockets to retrieve silver watches and coins.

She was about to cross the threshold when she felt a soft tap on her arm. Her heart leaped in her chest and turned to find a small boy peering up at her. Even in the dim light of the street lanterns, smudges of dirt stood out on his pale face.

"Mam'selle de la Roque," he said, his voice high and musical as a flute. "I've a message for you."

He handed her a folded note, and she frowned. "At this hour? How long have you been waiting here in the cold?"

"Not so long. My master told me you'd be out until late."

She could only hope the master in question was Nicolas Lefevre. Then, at least she could pick pockets knowing she was not utterly defenseless. She unfolded the note to find sparse but elegant writing.

Tomorrow at noon, twenty-nine Caumartin street. –NL

Her pulse quickened. He had accepted, then.

She thanked the boy and fished into her reticule for a coin, but he simply shook his head and grinned.

"M'sieur Lefevre told me not to accept anything. He pays me in hot meals and savate lessons, so it's well worth my while."

She raised her eyebrows. " Savate lessons? At your age?"

"M'sieur Lefevre says it's never too early to learn."

Or too late, God willing. "Would you happen to know where twenty-nine Caumartin street is?"

"North of the Palais Royal, past Capucines Boulevard. Number twenty-nine is the brothel with the mermaid, you can't miss it." He touched the brim of his shapeless wool hat. "Evening, mam'selle ."

She watched him dart off into the shadows. A brothel ? Lefevre wanted her to meet him at a brothel ? She shook her head and pushed through the door. She shouldn't be surprised. He was a street-hardened scoundrel, same as the rest of them, despite his courteous manners. Even his charm was a mask, nothing more.

She hurried up the steps. You can still change your mind. You don't have to go. True, she could find another way.

But as soon as she entered her home, her misgivings vanished. The flat was dim and deserted. No domestic waiting up, no embers burning on the hearth, not even the familiar sound of the soft, rhythmic breathing of loved ones deep in sleep. Just the frozen moonlight casting shadows from the windows. Shards of broken glass glistened on the floor of the dining room, and the door to Emile's room was wide open, revealing an empty bed.

He had disappeared again. Lord knew when or in what state he'd return. Her brother might think the same of her when he watched her leave in the evening. That is, if his mind weren't constantly clouded with liquor.

No, she could not continue in this manner. This wasn't a life; this was barely survival. Unwrapping her shawl to undress and slip on her nightrail, then wrapping it around herself just as quickly to burrow under a moth-eaten blanket and threadbare sheets. Closing her eyes and praying for sleep to take her quickly. Not knowing what miseries tomorrow might bring.

Enough . Tomorrow, she'd meet Lefevre. This was what she wanted, what she counted on to improve her lot, however small or futile a change it might make in the end. Better a brothel in his company than the most elegant of parties with Lenoir. Or ending up at the brothel herself, when the Boneman saw fit to place her there.

*

The next morning, Violette set off with her determination intact, though an uneasy feeling roiled in her stomach. When she'd risen that morning, Emile's bed was still empty, and indeed she had slept through the night undisturbed.

Lord, what if he was lying cold and dead in a gutter somewhere? How long before she should go looking for him?

She crossed Capucines Boulevard, lifting her hem and sidestepping piles of horse dung. He has disappeared for longer periods before. Four days, to be exact, and not long after they had settled in Paris. Their uncle had searched for him in vain, before Emile had staggered into the flat one morning, deathly pale, with a gash on his cheek.

Back then, she still believed he could change, that her care and attentiveness could shield him from these evil temptations. Now she could only hope he kept living and breathing one more day.

Do not think of this now. She glanced up at the street signs and located Caumartin Street. Moments later, she stopped in front of a large mermaid, painted on a wooden facade, under the words La Sirène .

"Excuse me, might you be Nicolas's friend?"

A young woman in a plain wool dress scurried up to her, eyes alight with sharp curiosity. Her short reddish-brown hair, upturned nose and freckles gave her an almost childish appearance, inviting trust rather than suspicion.

"I am," Violette replied. "He told me to meet him here."

The young woman smiled. "Pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle . I'm Suzanne Foucher."

It seemed absurd to introduce herself using her full name. Whatever precedence she might have had once had died long ago. "Please, call me Violette."

"Come along," Suzanne said. "Nicolas is inside. He thought it might be safer if no one saw you together in the street and asked me to wait for you out here. No one will pay a grisette like me any mind."

Was Suzanne Lefevre's mistress? Wouldn't that make her a target as well? Perhaps she was simply someone else he paid to run errands for him, then. Violette followed her in. Blast, she could not possibly ask, but the question nagged at her for some reason.

The entrance of the brothel was painted in shades of dark blue and turquoise, decorated with a fresco of seashells. A few had fallen off here and there, leaving gaps.

A stout woman lumbered into the entrance, hair disheveled, wearing a lurid green dressing gown that gaped in the front. "How long is this nonsense going to take?" she asked Suzanne in a gruff voice. "We open at two."

"Don't you worry, Lili, you won't even hear us leave," Suzanne replied.

The woman grunted, glanced at Violette with bored indifference, and turned to leave. Suzanne sighed and led Violette down a flight of stairs.

"Lili is my cousin," she explained. "Or my half-sister, we're not quite sure. She's a Foucher in any case, and a real cow, but she did agree to let us use the ballroom in exchange for a few francs."

"The ballroom?"

The stairs were so narrow both her elbows nearly brushed against bare brick. How could anyone possibly imagine a ballroom here?

But then the stairs opened into a wide area with a low ceiling, carved into the rock underneath the building. Mirrors on the walls gave the illusion of space, though most were pitted and dulled with age, and they reflected the light of candelabras.

Lefevre paced in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest. When Violette reached the bottom of the staircase, he stopped and pivoted on his heel. His lips curled into an easy smile.

She held his gaze for a moment before looking away. His lack of jacket reminded her of the last time she'd seen him. She had an idea now of what lay beneath those linen shirtsleeves—strong forearms dusted with golden hair—but at least the collar was buttoned. Thank goodness. She could cling to some notion of propriety, though an inkling of something else curled in the back of her mind. The same ticklish feeling she'd gotten when she wondered just how hot his skin was to the touch.

He nodded. "Pleasure, as always. I hope you find this place acceptable. No chance of anyone spotting us here."

Violette unwrapped her shawl. "Indeed. I admit I was surprised that you would suggest a brothel, but then I didn't expect you to invite me to your regular training sessions."

"With all those louts? I wouldn't dream of it." His smile grew teasing, almost rakish. "Saint Aphrodise is no place for a lady."

She raised her eyebrows. "Do you mean to suggest this is?"

He stretched out his arms. "Of course. It's a ballroom. Don't you agree, Suzanne?"

Suzanne laughed. "You're asking the wrong person. I know nothing about what befits a lady." She turned to Violette. "However, I could give you a few tips when it comes to defending yourself. Probably more useful than whatever fancy footwork this fool is going to teach you."

Violette smiled. She was starting to like this woman. "I'd be delighted."

Lefevre made a flicking motion with his hand, though his eyes glimmered with amusement. "That's quite enough, now. Go and stand guard and let me get on with it."

Suzanne stuck out her tongue but did as he asked. No, she couldn't possibly be his mistress. The way they teased each other…

Violette's heart lurched painfully. Just like her and Emile, so long ago. Brother and sister.

"Are you ready?" Lefevre asked.

Violette swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth and let her shawl drop. "Yes, monsieur . Let us begin."