For weeks, now, they'd searched for Madeleine Valois, and failed. It seemed as though the noblewoman simply didn't exist beyond the bounds of high-society parties—and now Jean Luc knew why.
All this time, they'd been looking for an aristocrat, when they should have been hunting a thief.
THREE YEARS AGO:
“Stop fidgeting, Cevora damn you! This would be long over if you'd just stand still and let the man get on with his business!”
“I can't help it!” Adrienne complained, glowering at Claude and shrinking from the tailor's hands as they pawed and prodded her. “He keeps poking me with those needles and—Ow!” She spun and smacked the harried old fellow across the face, raising a bright red blemish on his cheek.
Claude's lips twisted in a snarl, and he raised his own fist. “Don't you ever dare—”
“Claude!”
He and Adrienne froze as one, he ready to strike, she cringing from it, as Alexandre Delacroix entered the chamber.
“That will be quite enough, Claude.”
“But sir, she struck—”
“And I shall speak to her about it. You, however, will never raise your fist to her. Is that clear?”
“Sir—”
“Yes or no will do, Claude.”
“Yes, sir,” the servant all but snarled, jaw clenched. Then, “May I go, sir? I've evening mass to prepare.”
“By all means, go. And you,” Alexandre continued as Claude stormed from the room. “Why you are hitting my servants?”
“Look!” Adrienne held up a finger, oozing a tiny trace of crimson.
Alexandre Delacroix raised an eyebrow at the tailor. “Are you hurting her, François?”
“Only because she'll not stand still, Master Alexandre.” The man's voice was laden with a soul-deep weariness, his entire sentence one long sigh of exasperation.
Alexandre smiled gently, placing a hand on his tailor's shoulder. “I know you're doing your best.” He reached his other hand down, helping the old clothier to his feet.
“Thank you, m'lord,” was the grateful response, his knees popping in agreement as he rose.
Adrienne clutched the gown—or rather the half-formed accumulation of cloths, silks, and brocades that François swore would, at some point, mystically transform itself into a gown—and glared angrily at the tailor, at her benefactor, and, just for good measure, at the other Adrienne who stared back from the full-length mirror.
The room was laid out in elegant simplicity, something Adrienne had come to expect from the Delacroix mansion. Thickly upholstered chairs were placed throughout the room, as though ready to catch anyone who might collapse at any angle. A large wardrobe loomed beside the enormous mirror, a chest of drawers opposite, and the stool Adrienne currently occupied stood before them all. Once, before she'd passed away, this had been the Lady Delacroix's sewing room—a hobby she'd enjoyed despite the plethora of servants who might have done such jobs for her.
The door closed softly, and Adrienne could hear the aristocrat and his servant whispering out in the hall—about her, no doubt, and her singular lack of cooperation. She didn't give a damn.
No, that wasn't entirely true, was it? She didn't want to disappoint Alexandre.
Ten months ago, he had promised to let her leave once her wounds were tended. And indeed, she still could; it was just that neither particularly wanted her to go. They'd passed many hours in conversation as she convalesced, each learning about a sort of life they'd never imagined existed, and the weeks had passed almost without notice. Adrienne had found that she actually liked this old aristocrat—and, far more surprisingly, he seemed fond of her. For quite some time, even once she was hale and hearty, she'd never gotten around to leaving, and he'd never gotten around to asking her to.
No, she was no prisoner. She just knew that life within the walls of the Delacroix estates, while perhaps a bit dull, was far better than any life she'd known without.
Most people, including Adrienne herself, had quickly assumed the worst. An old widower, a young street girl with nowhere else to go…It took a mind far less cynical and worldly than Adrienne's to imagine that Alexandre's interests in her were more vulgar than virtuous.
But never once, in all that time, did Alexandre treat her with anything but the utmost care and—dare she think it?—respect. His behavior seemed less the lecherous advances of some dirty old man, more the courtesy due an honored guest or even long-lost relative. He'd taught her a great deal, not only about money and commerce, investments and business, but the ins and outs of high society. Under Alexandre's guidance, Adrienne had learned not only how to make substantial sums of money, but also how to behave among those who controlled that money.
In fairy tales, it was so common as to be almost cliché, but it never, ever happened in real life—and yet it was Adrienne's life all the same, no matter how certain she was that it couldn't be true.
Once, and once only, she'd worked up the nerve to ask him, “Are you ever going to make me leave?”
And Alexandre had only smiled, and said, “Why would I do that?”
Adrienne still didn't know exactly why she was here. What was she to Alexandre Delacroix? A charity case? An apprentice? A feeble replacement for his own offspring, stillborn several decades past? She truly had no idea—but as the months passed, she'd finally stopped worrying much about it.
Indeed, the only dark spots in life on the estate were the manservant and bodyguard Claude—who appeared to resent Adrienne's presence, and who seemed not to have a gentle bone in his body or a kind word in his head—and the interminable daily prayers to Cevora, the Delacroix patron god. It was, in fact, Claude who usually led those services, a fact that didn't help enamor Adrienne with that particular deity.
Well, perhaps not the only dark spots; there was also the occasional ball or party, to which she was never invited. Not even Alexandre could flout every social convention, and no matter how completely he'd taken her in, to the rest of the aristocracy she remained an outsider.
Frustrating? Absolutely. But weighed against starvation, exposure, and the violence of the streets, hardly intolerable.
And then, earlier that week, Alexandre had informed her that he'd soon be hosting another gala—and that she, finally, would be attending!
Her excitement and enthusiasm had lasted exactly as long as it took for Alexandre to arrange her first session with a tailor and hairdresser, at which point Adrienne lost patience with the entire process.
She glanced up, gaze smoldering, as Alexandre once more stepped into the room—alone. “I've given François the rest of the afternoon off,” he told her as he lowered himself gracefully into the nearest chair. “We'll try this again tomorrow.”
“Like hell we will!”
The aristocrat raised an eyebrow, a gesture that was starting to become instinctive around the girl. “You have a problem, Adrienne?”
“Me? A problem? Why would you think that?” She spread her arms melodramatically, the proto-gown crumpled into an uneven bundle and clutched in one hand. She wore only a heavy white chemise. “I've just spent three days standing around in my smallclothes, letting that decrepit snake stick me with needles and measure me in places that I could charge him for, and all for some stupid party where I'll be ‘privileged' to stand around and hold riveting conversations about the state of the economy, and oh, dear, the market in beans has taken a dip, what shall we do, and what the hell is that third fork on the left for, anyway?” She finally stopped, face flushed, breathing deeply.
“Are you quite through?” Alexandre asked.
“I'll let you know.”
“You do that. While you're thinking about that, start thinking about your behavior this evening.” A frown of disapproval that cut Adrienne far more deeply than she'd admit settled on his face. “Have you listened to a word I've said over the past months?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then can you please tell me why you've found it necessary to embarrass me constantl
y this week?”
The red in her cheeks deepened abruptly, and she found herself staring down at her toes. “I'm sorry. I—”
“I invited you to this ball because I thought you were ready for it. If I was wrong, you'd best tell me now.”
A fist of jagged ice closed around Adrienne's heart and squeezed. She finally looked up, stricken, unaware of the tears welling in her eyes.
Alexandre's own face softened. He dragged one of the other chairs over so it faced his own. “Adrienne,” he said gently, “come sit.” He leaned forward as she did so, cupping her hands in his.
“I know this is overwhelming. I'm sure it's been that way ever since you moved in. But that doesn't excuse this sort of behavior.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I'm sorry.”
The aristocrat shook his head. “I'd planned to let this be a surprise,” he continued, “but I think, perhaps, you don't need any more of those. This party is for you.”
The girl looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that when it's done, you'll be one of us. One of the aristocracy. I don't think you'll be ready to go off on your own for some while, but at least you won't just be ‘Delacroix's urchin' anymore.”
“How…how can you do that? Why would anyone accept me?”
“Because Duchess Luchene is coming. I invited her, in your name, and she's planning to attend. And if she recognizes you, even if only as a favor to me, the others will follow suit.”
Adrienne sat stunned. Her hands shook, and the only response her dizzied mind could manage was an unsteady, “Oh, shit.”
Alexandre's smile vanished once more. “What have I told you about profanity?”
The girl sighed, though she couldn't help but smile at the pedantic change of tone. “A true lady never curses,” she parroted back at him.
“And do you know why?”
Adrienne blinked. He'd never gone into it, and she'd assumed it was another of the endlessly labyrinthine laws of etiquette. “Umm, because it's not ladylike?” she ventured.
“No. Because a true lady should have the wit and the imagination, or at the very least the restraint, to express herself without resorting to such base vocabulary.
“Now,” he continued, releasing her hands and rising, oblivious to the strange expression his comment had inspired on his protégé's face, “I think it's time we see what Jeanette has for us for supper. Then I'll send word to François to be ready for another session bright and early tomorrow morning.” He looked meaningfully at her. “Can I count on you to behave, Adrienne?”
The young woman sighed. “If he can keep from sticking any more needles in me, I promise to stand still.”
“Good. Once he's done, I'll have Beatrice start work on your hair.” He grinned evilly as he strode toward the exit. “You thought standing for the dress took patience…”
Adrienne slumped dejectedly in her chair. “Oh, fu—”
“Yes?” Alexandre asked, face gone stiff, frozen in the doorway with one hand on the latch. “Oh, what?”
“Figs.”
“That's my girl.” The door clicked shut.
NOW:
“All right, all right! I'm coming, confound it all!” Through the living room of a small house, its interior neat and crisp as a military barracks awaiting inspection, the old man moved toward the front door. In one hand, he carried a small lantern, for he'd already doused the lights in preparation for bed. In the other, he carried a heavy bludgeon with which, even at his age, he was more than skilled enough to crack a skull or two. He wasn't expecting trouble, no, but neither was he expecting visitors—and one didn't reach an age to retire from the Guard of Davillon without knowing how to take precautions.
It took him an extra moment to work the lock and the latch on the door, what with both hands being full, but eventually he hauled the portal open a crack, just enough to see who waited on the other side.
“Well, I'll be…Come in, Major, come in!” The door swung wide in invitation.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Julien Bouniard told him as he stepped across the threshold, doffing his plumed hat.
“None of that, Major,” Cristophe Chapelle told his former protégé with a smile far wider than any he'd offered during their years of working together. “No longer a sergeant, me. Unless you want me to call you ‘Constable'?”
Julien smiled in turn. “There was a time the thought of calling you anything else would have terrified me out of a week's sleep.”
“Well, I suppose you can go with ‘sir' if it makes you comfortable.” Then, still grinning, “Have a seat, Major. I fear I haven't anything prepared this late, but I could offer you a brandy.”
It was a test, as much as an offer, and Chapelle saw in the younger man's face that he knew it. “Nothing for me, thank you,” Julien demurred as he selected a chair.
“Not a social visit, then, is it?” The old soldier sat across from his guest. “Let me see. You obviously think of yourself on duty, but you're not precisely here in an official capacity. You need my advice on something, don't you?”
Julien couldn't help but chuckle. “You haven't lost a step, I see.”
Chapelle harrumphed. “I could return to the job tomorrow if they wanted me.” Then, more seriously, “Tell me about it, lad.”
And that he did, from Widdershins's arrest to the bizarre incident at Rittier's manor, from the man he'd been forced to kill to the murdered guard they'd located only afterward.
“Monstrous!” Chapelle agreed, puffed up with enough indignant fury that he'd clearly forgotten he was no longer part of the Guard. “For them to come into one of our headquarters…”
Julien nodded. “I don't know what Widdershins is up to, or the rest of the Finders' Guild. I don't know if His Eminence is still in danger. But I do know that things are heating up, at a time where Davillon really can't afford them to. And I have no bloody idea what the Shrouded Lord could possibly be thinking, since he should be as anxious to avoid tumult during de Laurent's visit as the rest of us!”
Chapelle's turn to nod, but otherwise, he let the major continue uninterrupted.
“We can't let the guild think they can get away with something so brazen. But we can't afford an open war, either—not even if we could find some theological grounds to allow for it.”
“And you want my advice, lad?”
“Ah—not exactly, sir. What I need is your help.”
Again, Chapelle saw where Bouniard was hesitantly directing him. “You already have a plan, then. But it's not one that the Guard would let you carry out, so you need someone you can trust from the outside.”
“That's about the size of it.”
“I won't assist you in anything illegal, Major.”
“I'd never dare expect you to, sir,” Julien assured him. “It's not that the Guard would disapprove, exactly, so much as they'd probably find me unfit for duty, by reason of insanity, if they knew I was considering it.”
Chapelle leaned back in his chair, suddenly wishing he'd gone for the brandy after all. “Oh, Demas, I'm not going to care for this at all, am I? All right, let's hear it.…”
The chamber seemed even darker than before, as though the shadows within had spawned, layering each new generation upon the foundations of the old. Jean Luc hated coming to this place even under the best of circumstances. Today, though he brought news to mitigate it, he would have to admit that he'd failed a commission.
The highborn assassin stood roughly at attention near the center of the room, equidistant from the heavy, black-hued doors and the “evil wall” across from them. In the torchlight, he could just make out the hideous visage staring from within the darkened stone. The dancing illumination created the nerve-racking illusion that the face was laughing at him.
The pall of silence was chipped away by the muttering of the other killers arrayed behind him, the crackling of the torches, and the steady footsteps of the Apostle, who once again paced before the graven image, pondering Jean Luc's re
port.
Finally, he halted directly before the embossed idol and faced the assembled assassins.
“The information you bring,” he intoned, “is indeed valuable, more so than you know. I thank you for it.
“The fact remains, however, that you royally bollixed up a sensitive and equally vital task, one that fell squarely within your area of expertise. For this, you may find my thanks less palatable.”
The leather-clad killer snarled, paring his nails with a long dagger. “How the hell were we supposed to know some damn thief'd show up and spoil it?”
“You weren't supposed to know that at all,” the Apostle admitted, hands raised in a dramatic shrug. “Then again, six of you were assigned to this undertaking, but only two of you were actually in the house. That strikes me as poor resource management.”
“We figured Jean Luc could handle it!” the assassin protested. “I mean, even the six of us together couldn't fight through the marquis's guards, and once it was just a matter of sneaking, we thought that a smaller group—”
“Had all of you been there, doing the job for which you were hired, Adrienne would never have won past you. Now, not only do I still have to track her down, I've got to find someone else to handle the archbishop.”
“Someone else?!” The killer's voice was choked with rage, and the others behind him growled their agreement, all save Jean Luc, who was rapidly developing a sinking sensation in his gut. “You can't take us off this! You owe us—”
“For a job you failed to complete,” their employer interjected, slicing off their protests like a gangrenous limb. “I'd say that makes us even.
“However,” he continued more reasonably, before the argument could heat up, “I do have another task in mind for you. It doesn't pay as much as the archbishop would, but I think we can work something out.”
The assassin looked far from happy, his face twisted in a scowl, dagger still clutched in his fist, but he wasn't entirely beyond the bounds of reason. “All right, let's hear it.”