“Have to get out!” she wheezed, panting for breath, wincing as the pain in her ribs flared anew. “You're…in danger! You-”
Shouts and racing footsteps sounded in the hall beyond the bedchamber, echoing from the stone walls.
“Rats!” the young intruder spat, with feeling. De Laurent raised an eyebrow.
And then she vanished through the window to the musical accompaniment of shattering glass, even as Rittier's personal guard, led by the red-faced marquis himself, burst through the door.
“Umm, Your Eminence…” Clarence Rittier, the powerful bull of a man, felt himself shrinking beneath the archbishop's unwavering stare. “Are you…are you all right?”
The old man responded not at all, didn't even blink. The Marquis de Ducarte, fully aware that this hideous breach of the dignitary's security would land squarely on his oversized shoulders, realized that he was in for a very unpleasant night.
In the shadows at the corridor's far end, unseen by any of the so-called guards, Jean Luc-aristocrat, assassin, and guest at the marquis's ball-grimaced in thought. He didn't mourn the death of his companion; he'd never been all that fond of the man. The Apostle, however, would be ill-amused that Jean Luc hadn't fulfilled his commission. William de Laurent remained very much alive, and after the events of tonight, he would doubtless stay that way for a while. Rittier would be paranoid-almost certainly wouldn't leave the archbishop alone for an instant, probably not even long enough for de Laurent to fill his chamber pot with his own holy water. And while Jean Luc considered himself one of the best, he wasn't about to make an attempt on a man that well guarded.
No, the Apostle wouldn't be happy about this, but it didn't matter. Because Jean Luc had something else for him, a face he'd recognized as he hovered unnoticed in the dark of the hall.
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.
CHAPTER NINE
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, Francois?”
“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 Francois 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 cliche, 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.