One for All, page 19
“What was that?” Aria asked with a jolt. “Did you hear something squeak?”
“Carriages!” Portia said. “A carriage wheel!”
The familiar sound of hooves rang on stone, and we snapped to attention.
Madame de Treville descended the front steps, frowning at the cold sky before focusing on us. “Now, as we discussed: the three of you in our carriage, while I ride with Tania and Monsieur Verdon. You will handle yourselves with the utmost decorum.”
The carriages screeched to a halt. A groomsman bounded down to open the unfamiliar carriage’s door and place the block of steps. Étienne exited, jacketed in navy and silver. The cold wasn’t so bitter now. Théa’s teeth were chattering, but I didn’t hesitate to lower my hood.
He strode toward us, stopped in front of Madame de Treville, bowed. “Madame. You honor me by accepting my invitation.” As he rose, his gaze darted to mine. Strange, how I didn’t feel the cold but it still made it difficult to draw breath, to find air in the ice.
The girls curtsied as they were each introduced, then retreated to their carriage. Étienne’s hazel eyes were dark under the night sky. “After you,” he said, taking my hand in his as I ascended two steps to the open carriage door. My knuckles warmed.
Conversation was sparse in the carriage with a chaperone. Madame de Treville only once inquired after his family, so as not to be seen as suspicious. Étienne ever polite, but not to the point of fawning. At the mention of our first meeting, he lightly tipped his head to the side, eyes gleaming in amusement as they darted toward me.
Madame de Treville coughed, playing her role. He tensed, drifting his gaze away from mine, and I hid my smile behind my floral-patterned fan.
But once we exited, once he took my hand again, he beamed. “Finally, a chance—”
“Monsieur Verdon!” Étienne shook his head, groaned. “Monsieur Verdon!” The man reached us, cherry-cheeked.
Étienne introduced him as one of the theater’s main investors. “We have him to thank for such fine seats,” Étienne added.
The man laughed and readjusted his spectacles. “Monsieur Verdon is modest to a fault. The opening tonight wouldn’t be possible without his father’s generosity. A shame such a charitable man couldn’t attend the first performance.” Étienne’s jaw hardened, but the next moment, it was gone.
We were buffeted by the crowd, the other girls joining us along with Madame de Treville. The foyer was grander than l’amphithéâtre itself, with carved renditions of Greek Muses, the sisters frozen midlaugh creating symphonies and sonnets and lounging on the white stone riverbank. Portia pointed out a few of the depictions to Théa, detailing their artistry, as the latter hid a yawn behind her gloved hand. A flurry of voices, different languages, different accents …
We were in a private galley above the standing audience members in the parterre and the mass of spectators onstage. Théa distracted the investor, who tried to glom on to Étienne, by asking about the play—a comedy—penned by some up-and-coming playwright with a name that sounded a bit like “manteau.” “I know nothing at all about theater, Monsieur. Oh please, do explain to me what to expect. Is there anything very troublesome depicted on the stage?—I must prepare my nerves, you see.” She threw an exaggerated wink over her shoulder as she pulled him away.
My seat wasn’t so close to Étienne’s that it was improper, but still, when he sat beside me, a nervous tingle started at the base of my spine. Madame de Treville hid her expression well, but I’d learned how to read her: She waffled between outrage at his presumption and relief that she didn’t need to contrive a way to bend customs to force us together.
But none of it mattered once the curtain rose. Once the audience hushed. Traveling performers came to Lupiac every year around la Noël, but there was something different in watching actors with elaborate costumes laugh, fight, and love their way across an amphithéâtre stage. Papa would have loved it; Maman would have called it ridiculous, hiding her secret smile at my father’s awestruck expression. The lead was particularly strong, and every time he lamented his fate, separated from his love by familial interference, my gaze cleaved to his face. Was this what my parents had dealt with? My father, brave hearted but too poor for the very noblesse who filled this theater? My mother, giving up everything she had ever known?
An hour into the show, I felt Étienne’s focus on me. Bide your time, Madame de Treville had said. Let him come to you. Up until now he hadn’t let his gaze linger more than a few seconds. This time, however, it was over a minute before I finally acknowledged him. “You’re not watching the show,” I chastised, mellowing it with a small smile.
“Maybe not. But I’m watching a wonder infinitely more entrancing.”
Warmth flared in my limbs. I kept my eyes trained on the actors. This wasn’t like sitting in the garden with Jacques. Nothing had spooled between us, no matter how much I’d willed it. But now, it was hard to focus on the scene. I was so acutely aware of every movement my target made: the way he drummed his fingers against his knee, the crinkle of fabric as he shifted in his seat, his gaze like a brand, the lack of air … the second I shut my eyes I was met with the vision of Papa’s body, cold on the edge of an unmarked road. I opened them with a snap. Streaks of blood were replaced with red velvet cushions, a stage teeming with performers and standing audience members.
“Is everything all right?” His expression sincere, his words sincere; everything about him seemed sincere. But none of that mattered. Not when Papa was dead.
“I’m a bit overheated—and dizzy.” Lies were best when mixed with truths, sounded smooth and sincere on your tongue. Would he purse his lips? Decide me a weak girl with a pattern of frailty? Or was my theory right? Was he more than others thought?
“Allow me to accompany you for a breath of fresh air.”
“Sir, it would be improper to be alone together unchaperoned.” My voice was light, teasing.
“I’m hardly inviting you to gallivant about Paris. A quick stroll. Or we could sit, if you prefer. We won’t even leave the theater grounds.” He offered his hand before I had the chance to worry about standing. Before I had the chance to answer. In any other situation, I’d barely put any pressure, wouldn’t take what I needed; I’d regret it later when I was confined to my bed. But when my fingers squeezed his arm, his face remained unchanged. Before we left, unbeknownst to my target, Madame de Treville signaled to Aria.
Étienne led me back into the foyer—mostly deserted aside from a few last-minute stragglers—and then to a door, which opened to reveal a courtyard. Green-tipped topiaries and gentle murmurs of grass a step away. Aria’s presence was muted, subtle, almost unnoticeable. But she couldn’t pass over the threshold undetected. With two fingers, I tapped my skirt; to the ignorant observer I adjusted my dress. The secret signal used if, despite appearances, we were sound and steady and didn’t need help.
This wouldn’t be like the first ball. I was stronger now, smarter.
“See? We didn’t have to leave the theater,” he said, shutting the door. “But I’ve neglected our purpose. I thought it would be best, the next time we saw each other, if I had an easily accessible cool place at my fingertips. Since heat is a problem for you, I’ve gathered. Are you feeling any better?”
I returned my hand to his arm, ignoring my shiver at the brisk air, at the warmth of his arm through the thick embroidered fabric, hid my shock at his consideration. “Much better,” I said. “You were right, the air is doing me some good.” His lips pulled into a satisfied grin. Étienne was thoughtful, but he was still a man. Like all our targets, he wasn’t without pride.
“Are you enjoying the show?” he asked as we wandered around the edges of the courtyard. The breeze sighed against our faces.
“Very much. Thank you again for extending your invitation to the other ladies. They were so excited.”
“Surely you must know it was all for you. Your companions are charming, yes, but it was you I was desperate to see.” He misread my expression and paused, halting our progression. “That was forward of me.”
“Yes.”
His brows furrowed. “Say you’ll forgive me.”
I curved my lips just so. After practicing these past months it no longer felt uncomfortable, not like it had when I first arrived in Paris. His sharp inhale melted into the night. “I don’t know, Monsieur Verdon. Honor and virtue are a lady’s most prized possessions, after all.”
“Have I regressed to Monsieur Verdon? Who would’ve thought my name had such capacity to wound? Mademoiselle, I beg you: Accept my apology.”
“Well, if you’re begging…” I paused; he waited. “Very well. I accept.”
“That was devious.” He laughed and the tension dissipated.
“I almost gave it away. You were so upset.”
“Upset?” Étienne inquired. “You’re mistaken.” My face burned. “I was devastated.” The burn became a full-on flame. “As pretty as that blush is, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Let’s talk about something else. How do you like living with Madame de Treville? You’ve been there a few months now, yes?”
How could I possibly describe what that place meant to me? The fencing lessons, the nights spent preparing for another event in an endless parade of parties, the sword and dagger at my hips under many layers of fine silk. Girls at my side who would never let me fall. “I like it very much,” I settled for.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve driven by the house on occasion: It seems like it could be large and lonely, with only the four of you and Madame de Treville.”
I was about to correct him, then paused. Étienne didn’t know Henri. But then, perhaps I could use that to my advantage. Madame de Treville did say he liked a chase. I performed my very best, belabored sigh as I trailed my free hand along a bare tree. “Well, there’s her nephew. But he’s been so busy,” I said with a frown. “The past few times I’ve seen him have been under the strangest of circumstances.” Lies did go better with truths. Henri had been busy of late.
Étienne listened intently before speaking. “Well, I can’t say I’m disappointed that a potential rival has ceded his time with you, but I’m sorry for anything that brings you distress.”
I let his tense words hang between us for as long as I could, then shook my head, staring up at him through my lashes. “You are mistaken; the Monsieur is just a friend,” I said. Étienne’s expression thawed. Instead of speaking further he started walking again, modulating his strides so it wasn’t necessary for me to take three steps for every one of his. “May I ask you a question?”
“It seems only fair, non? A question for a question,” he said.
Wetting my lips, I thought back to Madame de Treville’s instructions. To the way Étienne’s jaw hardened in front of the theater. “Earlier, when the theater investor brought up your father, you seemed troubled.” He hardened into stone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry—”
“Don’t apologize.” Some of his dark hair had fallen from its tie. In another place, another time, maybe if I were another girl, one who wasn’t trying to wriggle out secrets for the Order, one whose unsteady legs weren’t swallowed in dark waves, I’d stand on tiptoe to tuck the strands behind his ear. “I want to be my own man. Not renowned for my father’s coin purse, but for making a difference. It must be difficult to understand, but—”
“I don’t think it’s difficult at all.” He regarded me in surprise, and I fought the urge to cut myself off midthought. “To live up to everyone’s expectations, but also wanting to make your own way. To never feel like you’ll be good enough, not in the way they want you to be.”
There was a new emotion in his face. “You speak as if from personal experience.”
“With Madame de Treville as a guide, how could I be a stranger to those feelings?” My laugh was breathy, a stalling tactic. “Are there other family members who might understand your plight?”
“My uncle sought to make a business and a name for himself through trade. He would be the likeliest to comprehend my position … but I’ve never discussed it with him, not truly. Not like I do with you now.”
I swallowed. Tried not to break away from his intense gaze. He said he didn’t mean to make me blush, and yet … “He must be very busy with making deals and supervising ships and such.”
Étienne smiled, as if he were fully aware I knew what he meant but had chosen to interpret it differently. “I was surprised when he said he’d come support the opening, and, frankly, thought it was too good to be true. And I was right. After I wrote you, I received a letter from him apologizing for the late notice, but that he needed to prepare for unloading his last shipment of the year. He should have had one of his men stand in … then again, right now, I find I can hardly remember ever being frustrated.” He looked down at me, and I looked back up at him, trying to discover the danger in his face that his father had hidden there, the danger I couldn’t seem to find.
I masked my intake of breath as a cough. But the sound continued, melted into shouts that echoed from somewhere outside, spilling over and trembling into the starlit courtyard. “Did you hear that?”
His brows rumpled. “Nothing to be concerned about. Probably a latecomer who’s upset about not being allowed inside.”
I tucked my hand back into the crook of his arm just before we heard the scream. High pitched and isolated, it floated on the smoky night air. Then it cut off abruptly.
“We need to get back to the others,” Étienne said. I clung onto his arm for balance as he pivoted sharply toward the door.
“Tania! Oh, thank goodness!” Théa exclaimed as we stepped over the threshold. She was tiny against the clustered audience members, many of whom had flooded into the foyer. “That scream … I worried—not to say, Monsieur Verdon, that I thought her in danger—”
He cut her off, not unkindly: “I understand. I’m glad to know Tania has such devoted friends.” Théa’s eyes flitted to mine at his casual address. “Mademoiselle,” he continued, “has there been any word as to what caused the disturbance?”
“One of the audience members—all he remembers is stepping out into the foyer, and then a searing pain to the back of his head. He came to for a moment, but passed out not long after, and then a pedestrian outside said they saw someone running out of the theater like a fire was at his heels. And now a few men, there, by the main entrance—they’re organizing a search party of sorts, to investigate,” Théa recounted.
His focus flickered to me, to the double doors, back to me again. “I won’t leave if you’re feeling unwell.”
“Madame de Treville won’t let anything happen to us,” I said with a tight throat, a tight chest. The way his gaze roved over me didn’t make me uncomfortable, but still, I took a step back, a step toward Théa.
The resolution wavered in his face. “Promise me you’ll stay with the group until the guards arrive.”
“I promise.” There was no reason for me to feel guilty. And yet. He stared at me for a beat longer. And then, with a brief, firm kiss to my hand, he was off to join the search.
“Quickly.” A tug at my elbow—Théa. Her once-frightened expression was all edges now, sharpened at a whetstone. She pulled me to Portia, Aria, and Madame de Treville, who waited in a secluded archway.
We followed our mentor around a crescent-shaped wall, through a back exit, into the night. Voices spilled out of the theater, then went silent as the door swung shut. Madame de Treville checked our surroundings as Aria spoke: “An attack on the opening night of a theater mostly funded by a discontented noble. And he doesn’t attend the first performance? What’s more important to him than flaunting his wealth?”
“You think the opening night was a cover,” I guessed.
“A distraction to sneak something or someone into the city. Or transfer something already here to a more secure location. The attacker fled to draw the guards’ attention. They’ll only be focused on finding him,” Aria said as she paced back and forth, turning every five steps, each time she reached the alley wall.
“That still doesn’t explain the crash. A body falling to the ground doesn’t make that much noise,” Portia noted.
“Well, something didn’t go according to plan,” Aria said. Her clear gaze struck down the next street. “Perhaps the victim was in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe the attacker was interrupted in his task by a civilian? Maybe he didn’t intend to harm the victim.”
“You don’t know what they did to my father,” I bit out. “These aren’t people who care who they hurt. The attacker probably didn’t even hesitate. He probably enjoyed it.”
I spun at the sound of a boot catching on stone. A few blocks over, indiscernible shouts echoed, would-be detectives going from door to door. But everything faded into the background when the shadows shifted.
“Tania, do you—”
I held up my hand for silence; I wasn’t sure who spoke. I watched, waited, willed myself into the night—there. A man darted out from behind a pile of overturned barrels and squeezed into a nearby alley.
“Portia, Théa, tail him!” Madame de Treville ordered. “Aria, go around back and approach from the opposite direction. I’ll guard the front of the theater in case he tries to blend in with the search party. Tania,” she said as the others sprinted away, “stand guard here. On the chance he doubles back, you’ll cut him off.”
“But…” She was gone before I had a chance to finish.
My gaze trailed the shadowed crevices, the pools of murky rainwater, the muddy cobblestones. Beady eyes glowed in the dark corners, followed by scuttling claws and the sense of being watched. No one was here. No one but me and the rats.
A door creaked open, closed. Shoulders nearly to my chin, I took a few steps toward the overturned barrels. Another shift. Nails on cobblestone.
Only one man had appeared from the pile of weathered wood containers. But what if he was distracting us from something else? Someone else?
