Last Chance for Paris

by Farmer, Merry

  Last Chance for Paris

  Merry Farmer

  LAST CHANCE FOR PARIS

  Copyright ©2020 by Merry Farmer

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  ASIN: B082T29Q5W

  Paperback ISBN: 9781660132775

  Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.

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  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Paris – Spring, 1890

  The Moulin Rouge was a swirl of sound and color, light and laughter. On the stage at the front of the grand theater, a dozen young women kicked up their skirts, showing their stockings and more to the ribald crowd of men and women that made up their audience. The music was loud, alcohol flowed freely, and barely-controlled chaos reigned.

  It was the perfect environment for Solange Lafarge to commit a murder.

  Solange moved carefully around the outer edges of the cabaret hall, keeping to the shadows and doing her best to blend in with the wallpaper. Compared to the majority of the patrons, she was dressed modestly, wearing dull colors and a bodice that buttoned all the way up to a high collar. She’d almost chosen to dress as vibrantly as any of the chorus girls and whores that moved through the crowd, teasing and entertaining men, enticing them into spending money for a few minutes alone, or picking the pockets of gentlemen who were too inebriated to notice and too rich to care if they lost a few francs. In the end, she’d decided that her dark skin would be too much of a draw and that modesty was best.

  She slipped a hand carefully into one of the pockets of her skirt, closing her fingers around the handle of the small pistol she kept there. It was loaded, but not cocked. She was ready to use it, but wouldn’t until she had her target firmly in sight. He’d arrived half an hour ago, heading straight to the box where her other target—a man who deserved far worse than a quick death—always sat. The two of them sat there, high above the noise and heat of the floor, engaged in an intense discussion.

  Solange narrowed her eyes at her target, Lord Louis Bramwell, Earl of Sinclair. She tightened her grip on her pistol, wanting to draw it from her pocket, aim, and get the dirty work over with. Everything about the man filled her with rage, from his too-handsome face to his broad shoulders and athletic build to the finely-tailored suit he wore. That suit was paid for by the sweat and blood of her family, of her people. She remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on him, three years before in Côte d'Ivoire, the moment she’d made the connection between Lord Sinclair and the man who had ruined her life. She’d vowed then that she would use him to exact her revenge on the man who had destroyed her life before it began.

  “Do you plan to stare the man to death?”

  Solange flinched and sucked in a breath as a middle-aged woman dressed all in black stepped up behind her, speaking in French. “Madame Boucher, you startled me,” she said, drawing her hand out of her pocket and clamping it over her heart.

  Madame Boucher grunted and looked Solange up and down. “You’ll never be able to do what you need to do if you stand there, looking guilty as sin.”

  Solange pressed her lips together, feeling that guilt in her gut and resenting the fact that she felt guilty at all. “I can do what I have to do,” she said, wishing it didn’t feel as though she were convincing herself.

  It was Damien McGovern and Lord Gregory’s fault that she felt guilty about the one thing she’d believed with absolute certainty for three years. Everything she’d done since arriving in Paris—every clandestine mission into the city while her mistress, Lady Roselyn Briarwood, enjoyed the company of her cousins, every bribe and blackmail she’d been forced to pay, and every moment of danger she’d put herself into—had been cast into question, and all because Damien McGovern had told her she was better than murder. No one had ever told her she was better than anything before.

  She shifted in place, fighting the well of nerves that rose through her. “You are certain he is Lafarge’s son?” she asked Madame Boucher, hating the uneasiness that roiled through her gut.

  “What, him?” Madame Boucher nodded up to the box where Lord Sinclair argued with a silver-haired gentleman, Monsieur Lafarge. She laughed. “I’m certain of it.”

  “But how do you know?” Solange asked. “He is an Englishman. His surname is Bramwell, not Lafarge. He is an earl.”

  Madame Boucher shrugged. “The name he has and the rank he inherited are a matter of legality. We all know the truth. His mother was Lafarge’s mistress, and Lord Sinclair was born on the wrong side of the bed.”

  Solange nodded, forcing herself to accept the explanation. She knew it was true. Why else would Lord Sinclair leave his comfortable home in England to travel to Côte d'Ivoire, spend months under Lafarge’s roof, and leave wealthier than when he’d arrived?

  “Quick,” Madame Boucher whispered to her. “While the music is still loud. You can make your way up to the balcony and shoot him from that box nearby.” She pointed to an empty box only a few feet away from the one where Lord Sinclair and Monsieur Lafarge sat. “Though if it were me, I’d save time and shoot both of them.”

  “No.” Solange shook her head. “I want Lafarge to suffer. I want him to know what it feels like to lose a son, just as my father—” She snapped her mouth shut over her words, not wanting to reveal more. “I want him to grieve first, to lose everything. Then he can die.”

  Madame Boucher laughed. “Such a bloodthirsty little savage.”

  The comment rankled Solange’s nerves, as did the way Madame Boucher clapped her back before stepping away to go about her business at the cabaret. If there was one thing Solange despised more than anything else, it was being called a savage, simply because she was African. Her father was a leader and a wealthy man. She was raised in a grand house with servants, given the finest education money could buy, and trained in music, dancing, and art. She was every bit as refined and accomplished as the aristocratic ladies she had spent the last few years with. But they didn’t see that. They saw a dark-skinned savage.

  She clung tight to that anger, moving out of the shadows and making her way to the nearest door that would lead her to the stairs up to the balcony level. She would have her revenge. She would avenge her family in the process. And then she would try to assemble some sort of life from the ashes.

  Determination filled her, but it was dashed to pieces in an instant by a cheery voice just on the other side of the doorway. Before she could duck into a corner or run away from the door, none other than Lady Roselyn came bursting into the cabaret hall, followed by two of the younger
McGovern cousins, twins Heather and Sage McGovern.

  “Of course Asher will never approve when he hears that we’ve abandoned touring old churches to come here,” Roselyn was in the middle of saying over her shoulder to the twins. “But personally, I think he is cruel to insist we miss out on a spectacle like this, and—oh! Solange. Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  Solange’s jaw dropped and panic tightened her throat, but she managed to say, “Lord Addlebury insisted I keep an eye on you.”

  It was a lie, but Roselyn blushed and looked like a child who had been caught stealing cake from the kitchen all the same. “Oh, Asher,” she said. “He does like to fuss. But we’ve only come here to see what all the hubbub about this new dance, the can-can, is all about and—oh dear heavens!”

  Roselyn burst into laughter as she turned to gape at the stage full of flashing skirts and stockinged legs kicking. Solange let out a breath, glad that she was no longer the center of attention, but dreading what might happen next. Miss Heather and Miss Sage had their arms looped so tightly together that they might have been conjoined twins. Their eyes were huge as they took in the spectacle.

  “This is absolutely splendid,” Roselyn went on, grabbing Miss Heather’s arm with one hand and Solange’s with the other and dragging them deeper into the hall. “This is magnificent. I wonder how they do that.”

  She cut through the audience, garnering more than a few appreciative looks from red-faced gentlemen with ill-fitting trousers as she went. Someone grabbed a handful of Solange’s backside, and judging by the high-pitched squeal from Sage, she’d received the same treatment. But Roselyn pushed forward, apparently wanting to reach the stage itself.

  Solange glanced over her shoulder, up into the box where Lord Sinclair and Monsieur Lafarge were still engaged in conversation. Her pistol was heavy in her pocket, just as her heart was heavy in her chest. There was no way she would be able to shoot from the center of the crowd of gawping spectators without being caught in an instant. And as much as she wanted Lord Sinclair dead, she would rather die herself than do anything to cause the McGovern family more scandal and harm than it had already fallen into.

  “I will not leave here until you return what is mine,” Louis growled, leaning closer to Lafarge.

  His nerves bristled with fury. Blood pumped hard through his veins. He had to ball his hands into fists to keep himself from lunging toward Lafarge and strangling him. The man was entirely too cool and disconnected for Louis’s liking. He lounged back in his chair with a vicious smirk, as though every argument and every demand Louis had just made was another entertainment to be played out on the stage in front of him.

  “Lord Sinclair,” Lafarge began in the most condescending tone anyone had ever spoken to Louis in. “Believe me, I would give you whatever you asked for, if it truly belonged to you. But in this case, I cannot comply. The brooch is mine and it will remain mine.”

  “That brooch is a Sinclair family heirloom,” Louis pressed on. “One that was obtained in a downright criminal manner.”

  Lafarge laughed. “My dear boy, how old are you?”

  Louis scowled. “Thirty-two.”

  “Then you must know that it is well past time for you to let go of childhood fantasies and the mistaken belief that your parents were saints,” Lafarge went on.

  Louis’s scowl darkened. “My mother was a victim.”

  “She was not,” Lafarge scoffed. “She gave me what I wanted freely, and any little trinkets that were a part of that affair are mine to keep.”

  “You stole from her,” Louis insisted. “More than the brooch. So much more than the brooch.”

  Lafarge sighed. “Really, sir. How many times have we had this conversation. The topic has grown tedious for me. Especially when there is much better entertainment to be had.”

  Lafarge gestured toward the stage. Louis ground his teeth together in frustration, refusing to be sidelined by the can-can. For years he’d been hounding Lafarge, looking for a way to avenge what had been taken from him. From the moment his father had confessed the true cause of his mother’s death as he himself lay dying, Louis had vowed to make things right, even if his beloved mother wasn’t there to feel relief or know she’d been avenged. The brooch Lafarge had stolen from her was only a symbol of everything Louis was determined to get back. He wouldn’t rest until—

  A high-pitched scream from the floor dragged his attention toward the stage in spite of his determination to stare Lafarge down until he capitulated. He wasn’t certain what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t to see Lady Roselyn Briarwood being dragged up onto the stage by three of the can-can dancers.

  He stood to get a better look, and what he saw caused his brow to shoot up. Lady Roselyn wasn’t being dragged onto the stage, she was climbing there willingly. The shriek had come from one of her far demurer cousins, who was fighting against the men who were trying to thrust her onto the stage as well.

  Louis acted in an instant. Lafarge would have to wait. He tore to the back of the box, into the corridor that ran behind the balcony, and down the stairs to the floor. He only knew Lady Briarwood vaguely, but he had become friendly with her brother, Asher McGovern, Lord Addlebury, since discovering the entire McGovern clan was in Paris as part of their grand tour. He owed it to his friend to keep his sister out of harm.

  “Out of my way,” he boomed as he pushed his way past inebriated patrons and those who were enjoying the spectacle on the stage too much to care that they were being jostled by a rampaging aristocrat. “Move,” he ordered. “Move at once.”

  By the time he reached the edge of the stage, Lady Briarwood was in the middle of receiving a lesson on how to dance the can-can. The McGovern twins—he couldn’t recall their names, but remembered that they were rather farther down the ladder of social rank than their outrageous cousin—huddled together by the front of the stage. In front of them, defending them with a look of iron fury, was the most beautiful woman Louis had ever seen.

  She was tall, with a regal bearing, and skin the color of polished wood in the firelight. Her dark eyes blazed with protective determination as she shielded the twins from the jeering men who seemed intent on thrusting them onto the stage as well. As Louis approached, the dark-skinned woman’s eyes flashed with pure hatred. He couldn’t blame her. He was as outraged at the lack of gentlemanliness around him as he was certain she was.

  “Allow me to help,” he told her as he reached her side. He turned and boomed at the men closing in on them, “Back off at once!”

  It was no surprise to Louis that the half dozen or so men crowding around the twins did exactly that. They stumbled away, turning their attention to Lady Briarwood and the dancers, all of whom were enjoying themselves beyond measure. Louis spared a disapproving glance for Lady Briarwood before focusing his energies on the dark-skinned woman and the twins.

  “Please allow me to escort you to safety,” he said, extending a protective arm toward the three women.

  The dark-skinned woman dodged out of his way, still glaring at him as though he were the one who wanted to humiliate her the way the other men had tried to, but the twins rushed into his protection.

  He began to escort them away, but the dark-skinned woman stopped him with, “Leave them alone. You’re as bad as the others.”

  Louis’s heart squeezed in his chest. Her voice was as lovely as her form, with just a hint of a French accent and a taste of something even more exotic. “I am terribly sorry,” he said, nodding to her with as much deference as he could muster in the current situation. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Sinclair, a friend of Lord Addlebury’s. Please allow me to take you and the misses McGovern to safety.”

  The woman’s expression flickered to uncertainty. A gentleman in the audience laughed, drawing her attention, then causing her to snap her head toward Lady Briarwood—who now had her skirts lifted and was giggling like mad as she imitated the can-can dancers. Louis’s face heated at the sight.

  “Right.”
He shifted, moving the misses McGovern toward the dark-skinned woman. “You keep an eye on these ladies and I’ll retrieve Lady Briarwood.”

  The dark-skinned woman opened her mouth to protest, but Louis didn’t give her time. He strode to the side of the stage, pushing a few drunken men aside, and extended a hand toward Lady Briarwood.

  “My lady,” he shouted above the din. “I think you should come down now.”

  Lady Briarwood exclaimed wordlessly, dropping her skirts in a hurry and rushing toward the edge of the stage. “Good heavens. Lord Sinclair.” Her face grew redder by the second, and she clapped a hand to her cheek. “If I had been aware someone I knew was in the audience….”

  She let her words fade as Louis reached up for her, frowning as he was certain Asher would frown if he knew what his sister was up to. Lady Briarwood was clever enough to let him grasp her around the waist and lift her down from the stage. As soon as her feet were on the ground, Louis whisked her back through the restless audience—some of whom booed as Lady Briarwood was taken away. The dark-skinned woman had already started pushing the twins through the crush of people toward the door to the lobby.

  By the time they made it into the relative calm of the lobby, Louis’s ears were ringing from all the noise.

  “I must say, that was exhilarating,” Lady Briarwood said with a laugh. “I’m only sorry it ended so soon.”

  “My lady, we should return to the Château de Saint-Sottises at once,” the dark-skinned woman said with a scolding look.

  “Oh, Solange,” Lady Briarwood laughed. “I don’t know whether to resent your mothering or to thank you for taking such good care of me.”