But it hadn’t this time for Maddy….
When the tea was ready, they adjourned to her balcony, sitting on milk crates and drinking from mismatched cups. Chat Noir deigned to allow Maddy to pick him up and settle him in her lap. She couldn’t help but grin at how hot his fur was as she petted him.
“I thought he was cross with you,” Bea said, with a nod at the big tomcat.
“He was. Forsook me for weeks.” All she’d done was explain to him that he didn’t want her for his keeper. He could do better—perhaps even find someone who could afford to feed him more than apple cores.
She stretched her legs out to her iron railing, musing over how much she’d missed this—the easy camaraderie the three of them shared.
Maddy did enjoy being around Claudia and the Weyland women, but she had so little in common with them now. Bea, Corrine, and Maddy were of a kind—each with her secret sorrows and tragic past.
Like Maddy, Bea had come to La Marais young. Her mother had been married to a poor soldier, and she’d followed his regiment around the world with Bea in tow. To this day, Bea always woke at dawn, and the sound of drums still depressed her spirits. Her own and her mother’s food and safety had depended on keeping that soldier alive. They’d managed to until Bea was twelve; then they’d lost everything.
At sixteen, Corrine, an educated English parson’s daughter, had married a fancy French tailor traveling through her hometown. “I’m a tailor. I own a shop,” he’d said, which—more literally translated—had actually meant, “I live four floors above a shop, I stitch sailcloth for a living, and I spend every centime I earn on gin.”
Corrine had had two more husbands since then, each raising the bar for indifference and laziness. She might have tolerated the former but couldn’t stand the latter—her work ethic was remarkable. Though she only received rent for au sixième and a small pension, she considered the building her personal charge and slaved herself to the bone to fight the decay. Yet she waged a losing battle. Her broom, washrag, and near ceaseless labor were no match against time and neglect.
“Are you awake enough yet, Maddée?” Bea asked. “Won’t you tell us what happened with your Englishman?”
Maddy was only halfway through her cup, so she opted for a brief summary. “I went to London, I flirted and cajoled, but he simply didn’t want to marry—much less marry me. As I suspected,” she added a bit pointedly, since they’d browbeaten her to go. Maddy had known better—but not because of the law of de mal en pire, she hastily assured herself. No, simple reasoning said that if Quin was rich and cultured, and she was uneducated and lived in a gutter, then there was no future between them. “He told me just two nights ago that he wasn’t the marrying kind.”
“I hate it when they say that,” Bea murmured, and Corrine raised her cup in agreement.
Though Maddy had thought the memory of the Scot would be too fresh, too raw, she found herself saying, “But there was another man….”
“And?” Corrine prompted.
“He was a tall, strapping Highlander whom I met at a masquerade ball. We had this…this je ne sais quoi, a connection—a strong one, I believed.” Since that night, she’d thought about him at every hour, no matter how hard she tried to put that man from her mind. “And I don’t even know his name.”
“Le coup de foudre,” Bea said, nodding enthusiastically.
“Love at first sight?” Maddy gave a humorless laugh. “I thought so. I’d known so after strong punch and his sinful kisses.”
Bea’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Maddée, you finally took a lover, non?”
Maddy sighed, then explained everything that had happened, before finishing, “…and after that, he tossed money at me like I was a pesky problem to be resolved and abandoned me in the cab.”
“It won’t be painful like that again,” Bea assured her. “The first time is always the worst, and if he was très viril…”
Maddy knew that had to be true, but she still feared what her next experience might be like—though she could say with certainty it wouldn’t be with anyone très viril. “On my trip back here, I decided if I’m never with another man again, it will be too soon.” Affecting indifference, Maddy briefly raised her face to the sun, courting freckles on her nose, but she didn’t care. “He turned out to be an ass, anyway. I wouldn’t want him if he begged me to marry him.”
“What about your instincts?” Corrine asked. “Surely you were warned away if he was so terrible?”
“My instincts told me he was…good.” She didn’t miss that Bea and Corrine shared a look. Corrine never rented a room to a male unless Maddy gave approval.
“Why didn’t you tell your London friends of your plight?” Corrine asked.
“I thought about it. I imagined revealing all over tea and scones. I would begin with the setup: ‘Well, the thing of it is…after Papa died, my mother and I didn’t move to Paris because she’d missed her birthplace—we fled creditors in the middle of the night. After a year in a slum, she did marry a rich man, named Guillaume, and for a while we lived in the wealthy part of Paris—what you believe is my current address and my present situation. But it’s not now! I pay the maid there to save my mail for me and tell visitors I’m away.’
“Then would come the denouement: ‘Sylvie died years ago, and my miserly oncle Guillaume tossed me out on my ear. Actually, I live in a slum teeming with danger and filth. I’m really an orphan, and not in the exciting sense of an heiress orphan but in the penniless pitiful sense. Because I couldn’t steal enough to pay for the dresses and paste jewels necessary for my plot to ensnare Quin, I borrowed money from a lender who will happily break my arms over a late payment.’”
Corrine pursed her lips and sniffed, “Well, when you put it that way…”
Bea added, “Oh, Maddée, c’est déplorable!”
As if bored by Maddy’s dramatics, Chat Noir deserted her with a yawn. He leapt to the railing, sidling along, drawing Maddy’s gaze down to the street. Two burly men had just arrived at the building. “Are those Toumard’s men?” she asked without looking back. “Who else besides me would be foolish enough to get involved with Toumard?”
She’d borrowed heavily—for more than she could make in a year with sporadic work selling cigarettes, serving in the cafés, betting mutuels, or picking pockets. When she turned back, she saw that their expressions were pensive. “What is it?” Maddy asked. “Tell me. My day can’t possibly get worse.”
“Come, then, let’s go in so they can’t spot us,” Corrine said. They grabbed their milk crates and hurried inside. “Maddy love, those henchmen came round yesterday, too. They were searching for you, demanding to be let into the building. We’re keeping it locked at all times.”
“And I will only see regulars!” Bea added with an earnest nod.
“They were here already?” Maddy pinched her forehead. “I’m not even late.”
“They said Toumard raised his rates. The interest is escalating each week.”
Maddy sank onto her bed again. “But why?”
“You know how gossip spreads around here,” Corrine said. “You went into debt to buy a new wardrobe, and then you left town. Everyone figured a cull was happening. Berthé or Odette probably told him, and he could be betting on your success.”
But even after delivering the news, Corrine was still wringing her lye-eaten hands. Beatrix had begun studying her chipped cup.
“What else?” Maddy forced a smile. “I can take it.” She could find a way to weather bad news. Somehow she always did.
Corrine hesitantly said, “Toumard might have another agenda. He might not be keen on getting paid back at all.”
Maddy swallowed. She’d heard that was how Berthé and Odette had gotten started in their present line of work. They were barmaids who’d owed money. Instead of getting their arms broken, they’d gone into a more lucrative trade—facilitated and overseen by Toumard.
Corrine set her cup aside. “If we can’t come up with the money…”
“No, Bea, no,” she rushed to assure her. “Maddée’s not fleeing anywhere. I have all this under control. I’m going to marry the count.”
Le Daex was her mother’s only legacy to her, the alliance having been arranged by her years ago. Maddy was supposed to have wed him when she’d turned fourteen— but her mother had died just before then, Maddy had balked, and that’s when Guillaume had kicked her out.
“But you told me you sense Le Daex is a bad man,” Corrine said. “And there are those rumors….”
Maddy stifled a shiver. “No, no. I will outwit Le Daex, outlive him, and inherit.” She’d heard his last three wives had entertained similar aspirations before dying under mysterious circumstances. “Then we’ll all be rich, and we’ll leave La Marais for good. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”
Ten
Maddy lived in a ruthless world.
Growing up in La Marais, she’d made observations—she’d learned her environment. And she’d quickly comprehended that here, for most, civility and ethics had been stripped away, until nothing remained but the pursuit of elemental needs—food, shelter, intercourse—and the overwhelming drive to avoid death and pain.
The latter had compelled her to don her last gown, trudge down one hundred and two steps, and begin making her way to Le Daex’s. She couldn’t afford the omnibus fare to the count’s, so she walked. She didn’t need to be walking—she was losing weight already, after just a week back—and she’d had to take in her clothes, including this last fine gown she owned.
Each day in La Marais, Maddy made countless decisions, and the stakes were high. At every turn, her choices could lead her to reward—or fate would ruthlessly check her.
Each night before she went to sleep, she catalogued her actions for the day, analyzing them for weaknesses or exposures. She would ask herself, Did I do anything today to leave myself vulnerable…?
Marrying a man like Le Daex would be one of her most critical moves, yet she would do it to avoid Toumard’s punishments—or plans. She’d sold her other gowns and paste jewels, but she hadn’t been able to keep up with the man’s demands for money. His lackeys hounded her more and more.
Out on the street, Maddy passed the usual prostitutes in the usual alleyways, perched on their knees servicing clients. The pained expressions on the men’s faces had always fascinated her. The young ones, usually dressed in regimental uniforms, pleaded with the tarts not to stop. The older ones commanded them not to. Maddy had always wondered what could be so pleasurable that they feared its incompletion so much.
The Scot had certainly made sure he’d completed his, by his own hand. She stumbled, nearly catching the hem of her dress.
With him, she’d had a taste of passion and had begun to understand more about the scenes she witnessed routinely. At night, when she was alone in her bed, she recalled the pleasure he’d given her—before the pain. Even after he’d hurt her so terribly, she thought of him—more than of Quin, whom she’d failed to snare.
As the neighborhood grew higher in elevation and therefore more expensive, she passed the boulangerie shop that was the bane of her existence. As was her custom, she stopped to stare through the window.
The warmed shelves were piled with glazed treats, begging her to come liberate them. Inside, behind the counter, were the downtrodden ice creams jailed in a patented ice cream freezer. Alas, she’d never figured out how to pocket goods that melted or flaked apart with the merest touch.
Leering at the food was only an appetizer of anguish for her. Maddy’s true torment was watching the young bourgeoisie wives sitting inside. Her hungry gaze drifted to a group of them now.
They were her age and happy, gossiping and glancing over fashion plates, leaving food untouched. Some had gurgling babies in perambulators with silver teething rings, and all of them probably had respectable husbands at home—men they could adore and be adored by in return, men who would protect them and their children.
Maddy envied them so bitterly that her eyes watered and her stomach churned with it.
I would give anything to be one among those women. Anything.
She coveted everything they had. She wanted a happy, well-fed baby of her own whom she could love and care for, much better than her own self-serving mother had cared for her. Maddy wanted to wear a watch pinned to her bodice to check if it was time to meet her husband back at their warm, secure home. She wanted to read fashion magazines—not to dream about a new wardrobe but to plan one.
Maddy admittedly sought a rich husband, but not for the reasons everyone supposed. Precious jewels and baubles were welcome, but incidental. She yearned for the safety and security money would bring to her—and to the family she imagined of having.
She’d turned her matrimonial focus to the very rich because those men were in less danger of losing everything, as her own father had. Her papa had been dearer to her than anyone, always striving to make up for her mother’s lack of affection, but the fact remained that he’d left his daughter defenseless in a world that seemed to lie in wait, ready to punish any misstep she might make….
The old boulangerie shopkeeper eyed Maddy through the window. Though she was dressed in her costly gown, he recognized her and glared. He put on a grandfatherly face to paying customers, but he was hateful to her, chasing her away with a broom on more than one occasion. She gave him a lewd gesture, turning on her heel and continuing on her way.
A single woman in La Marais dreaming about a stable home life with a passel of children and a decent husband to safeguard them all was beyond ridiculous. She might as well yearn for a tree that bloomed gold.
But even worse, Maddy still believed in…love.
Even after her parents’ ill-fated May-December union, and even after seeing the twisted relationships in the garret, Maddy still longed for a man to love her.
In a ruthless world, dreams like hers were liabilities….
In lieu of them, she’d take Le Daex and the luxury of not having her arms broken.
Ethan peered down at the informant whose throat he clenched, regarding him pitilessly. He released his grip enough for the man to gasp a breath, and then he squeezed harder. “Still saying that’s all you know about Grey?”
The bug-eyed man nodded as best as he could, and Ethan finally released him, leaving him in a collapsed heap in an alleyway.
He strode back inside the Lake District tavern from which he’d plucked that man earlier. But this time he took a seat at a back table, sinking into the shadows to contemplate all he’d learned in the last week.
In his inexhaustible hunt, Ethan had ridden hundreds of miles and had thrashed so many informants that his knuckles stung. He’d discovered that Grey might indeed be afflicted with a hunger for opium, but he was far from being out of his mind—Grey had secretly reached England, surprising them all.
Yet then the man had made the critical mistake of viciously knifing a woman in the Network. Grey’s preferred weapon was his blade, and the brutality of the killing had alerted Ethan to his whereabouts….
Grey was already on Hugh’s trail.
Ethan had to be faster than Grey, better. He’d always managed to be in the past, though they’d been closely matched adversaries, each with his own talents.
Grey relied on technique; Ethan on brute strength. Grey spoke four languages with flawless native fluency and was eerily brilliant with strategic matters, but there was a reason he’d become so lethal with a blade—with a gun, he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.
Ethan would take his humble street smarts and his aim any day.
Weyland considered Grey the most talented natural killer he’d ever encountered; Ethan was deemed the most doggedly brutal and relentless in pursuit….
Ethan knew he was closing in on the man now, but he hadn’t been able to force Grey into the open. So he’d decided to anticipate Grey’s moves.
Hugh had taken
Jane to Ethan’s remote lake house just a few miles north of this tavern, to stay for a few days before traveling to Scotland. Grey would likely have uncovered information about the residence by now and would pursue her there, but the place was most readily accessible from the ferry that ran from this very tavern. Otherwise, it would take days to go north and circle back south to get to the estate. This tavern was the portal, and Ethan would act as sentinel here, waiting for Grey to come to him.
The trap had been baited; Ethan felt he was close.
As if there wasn’t enough pressure to kill Grey, Edward Weyland had demanded that Hugh and Jane enter into a hasty marriage of convenience before they’d departed together. Hugh hadn’t reacted particularly well to denying himself Jane ten years ago. Now, after being near her constantly, bloody married to her…Hugh was going to lose his mind.
After the lake house, Hugh planned to go to the Highlands to hide out at their brother Courtland’s ramshackle estate. If Ethan couldn’t catch or kill Grey, then he at least wanted to buy time for Hugh to escape with Jane. Hugh would travel by horse into the Scottish forests. He was an expert rifleman and hunter, the wilderness his element….
Ethan’s thoughts were interrupted when he spied Arthur MacReedy and his barely bewhiskered son entering the tavern. Of all the people.
Ethan recalled then that the MacReedy family had a hunting lodge in the Lake District and spent the fall at leisure in this area. Ethan knew a lot of things about the MacReedys—he’d been a day away from marrying Arthur’s daughter, Sarah.
Meeting up with them now was a timely reminder of when Ethan had ignored the curse and sought to have a normal life, to take a bride, and try to father an heir.
To get past what had been done to him.
His planned marriage to her had in no way been a love match—he and Sarah had never met until the days leading up to the ceremony—but the union had made sense. Sarah had been a renowned beauty, and Ethan had been a wealthy young laird. Everything was supposed to have been settled—until the night before their wedding, when she’d stood at a high turret of his family’s ancient hold. She’d gazed at his face, at his newly healed scar, alternately with pity and disgust.
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