“Francis Carnot,” the duchess said stiffly, “has done quite well, considering the title of marquis was expected to fall to his late brother. I consider the gentleman a friend, and I look forward to the day when he has managed to get his House back on its feet.” She peered down on her unpleasant little host, her expression lofty.
Floundering wildly for a distraction, the baron's gaze fell upon another guest nearby, a pretty young woman currently standing alone amidst the swirl of people, staring vacuously off into space.
“Umm-ah, Your Grace?” he asked, even as he reached his stick-thin arms and wormy finger to grasp at the young lady's elbow. “Have you met Mademoiselle Valois? No? Well then, I present to you Madeleine Valois. Mademoiselle Valois, this is Beatrice Luchene, the Duchess Davillon.”
The young lady blinked twice, her only sign of surprise, and curtsied elegantly. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice throaty yet demure, “I'm honored.”
With an artfully concealed flicker of amusement at Doumerge's clumsy diversion, Luchene gave the newcomer a brief once-over.
She was young, this Madeleine Valois, scarcely more than a child, with a slender face, sharp features, and aquatic eyes. Her head was piled high with lavish blonde curls; clearly a wig, but since half the women in attendance sported wigs, this hardly mattered. Her gown was a heavy thing of forest green velvets. All told, little about the woman separated her in any way, shape, or form from a dozen other ladies of quality.
And yet…
“It seems to me,” the duchess said, having acknowledged the young woman's genuflection with a shallow nod, “that I have seen you somewhere before, my dear.”
“Almost certainly, Your Grace,” Madeleine told her, face modestly downcast. “I've been privileged to attend several balls and dinners before tonight. But this is the first time,” she added breathlessly, with a beaming smile toward their mousy host, “that anyone has done me the honor of formally acquainting us.”
“Ah.” The duchess's mind was clearly already moving on to other pursuits. “Well, it's certainly been a pleasure to meet you, dear. Do enjoy the rest of the party, yes? Good Baron,” she continued, abruptly swiveling toward the pale-faced lord of the manor, “I believe that you and I were in the midst of a discussion?”
As the royals launched back into their debate regarding the values of particular guests, the young lady drifted, unnoticed, into the throng. “Well, that was interesting,” murmured the woman who currently called herself Madeleine Valois. “I thought we'd been found out.”
Heartfelt agreement, tinged with a patina of relief, flowed from her unseen companion, followed by a sense of inquiry.
“No, I'm not worried about the baron. That clown wouldn't comprehend a real threat if someone hid a manticore in his chamber pot. I was afraid the duchess might have recognized me, though. Thankfully, I'm not important enough for close examination.”
Another surge of emotion, almost but not quite nostalgia.
Madeleine-who had once been Adrienne-nodded. “And it was a long time ago, yes. But enough worrying.” Sliding through the forest of humanity, she continued to survey the house, absorbing every detail. “All right, he's not allowed any of his guests upstairs, so I'll wager that's where he keeps most of his valuables.” Irritably, she shook her head, careful not to dislodge her wig and reveal the thick brown hair beneath. “I wish I had the opportunity to examine the layout up there,” she complained. “It would make this all so much easier. Ah, well. We're only human, yes?”
Somehow, without the use of a single coherent word, Olgun growled something impolite.
Madeleine flickered a mischievous smile. Right. As if she would wake up one morning and just forget that she had a god riding around in her head.
Gradually, she allowed the flow of the party to edge her ever nearer the door. It was time for Madeleine Valois to make her farewells, preparing the way for a different and uninvited guest.
Several pairs of eyes watched as Madeleine Valois made her graceful exit from the Baron d'Orreille's soiree. Most were potential admirers, sorry to see so lovely a creature depart from their midst.
One was not.
All the houses of Davillon boasted their own guards. Even if most never saw the slightest action, it was simply Not Done to go without. Some were veritable armies unto themselves, while others consisted of anyone who could stand up straight and look competent while making parade-ground turns in formalwear or old-fashioned armor.
Doumerge's guards were largely of the latter category, which meant that the baron's hiring requirements were rather more lax than those of the City Guard. And that meant that, though his ruined hand had cost him his commission in said Guard, Henri Roubet had never lacked for a position.
This wasn't the first party at which the crippled solider had spotted the Lady Valois, though she had never spotted him in turn; it was part of his job, after all, to remain inconspicuous and out of the guests' way. But tonight was the first time he'd gotten a good enough look at her to be certain that she was who he thought she was.
Madeline Valois was, indeed, Adrienne Satti. It was a bit of news for which his employer-his real employer, not the weaselly fool of a baron-would pay well.
To those who dwelt outside the law, within the slums and poor districts, and among the population of the so-called Finders' Guild, she was neither Madeleine nor Adrienne. She was Widdershins, a simple street-thief like a thousand others. Tonight, Madeleine had done her part admirably; now it was Widdershins's turn to take over.
Two blocks south of Doumerge Estates, sandwiched between a large bakery and a winery, lay a narrow alleyway that was nigh invisible in the late hours. Filled with refuse from both establishments, emptied once a week by underpaid city workers, it was ignored by those few who noticed it at all.
At the moment, however, it boasted an abnormally large human population: that is, one. Madeleine edged her way down the alley, away from the boulevard. Knees bent, back pressed tightly against the winery, feet pushing against the opposite bricks, she passed above the reeking filth. Her gown lay in her lap, clasped tightly in her left arm; she wore, now, a bodysuit of supple black fabrics and leathers that had lain hidden beneath the forest-green velvet. At the end of the alleyway, she reached out, straining to grasp the pack she'd stashed earlier that evening. Though her entire weight shifted and she feared she'd dislodged herself from her precarious perch, her fingers brushed against the satchel. She quickly grabbed it and yanked it up.
Still without setting foot on the cobblestones, her nose wrinkled against the stench of refuse, she stuffed the gown roughly into the bag and removed a second, smaller bundle. This prize, carefully unwrapped, revealed deerskin gauntlets, hood, thin shoes of black leather, and a belt whose pouches and pockets contained, among other things, a candle stub, a one-handed tinderbox, a tiny hammer and chisel, and the finest set of skeleton keys and wire picks available in any market, black or otherwise. Finally, her tool of last resort: a rapier, blade blackened with carbon and ink, the basket-hilt removed so that the weapon could hang flat against her back.
The dark-colored sack in which her tools had been wrapped, she folded tightly and jammed through her belt. The larger pack-stuffed with the gown, jewelry, and everything else that identified Madeleine Valois-would remain ensconced at the end of the alley.
A few quick breaths to steady herself, and she reached over her head to grab the overhang. She tightened her fists and pulled her legs away from the far wall, lifting them smoothly up, her weight supported only by her hold on the roof. Her stomach muscles, though toned through years of practice, still screamed in agony as first her feet, then her knees, cleared the roof over her head and curled over. A final heave, arms straining, and she lay on her stomach at the edge of the winery's roof.