Angel Hands (14 page)

He brought his lips kiss-close to hers and whispered: "I can give you an opera house."

18. Of Trappings and Tricks

Splashing water on one's face was a convenient way to hide tears.

It was a childhood trick for Mireille that had served her well into adulthood. She braced against the cold water in the basin and tried to pull herself out of the haunted daze she felt trapped in.

Someday, if she didn't kill him, she would have to get him to teach her that trick where he pinched something in her neck and rendered her unconscious.

Just like he had in the breaths right after that devil's tease of promising her an opera house.

She had awakened to red, raw wrists—thankfully untied—and fresh water and towels at her washstand. Shame and fury overwhelmed her, and she had torn the satin off her body, using her teeth in her anger to shred it in long, screeching strips. Roughly, she had scrubbed the evidence of her arousal from her body. She had mercilessly inflicted cold water upon herself, flinching but resolute in an effort to gain control of her thoughts again.

An opera house? There was no way her phantom could give her an opera house. He did not own the one he had haunted and she had managed, his only income their sordid blackmail for trouble-free-productions agreement. No, she knew what she needed to do, and while it wasn't the fate she had ever thought to want, refuge in the arms of Raymond Lefebre had become a commodity of rare charm in her eyes.

Raymond would never have taken advantage of her like the phantom had. He would never have tied her to a bed or put his mouth to her in ways that...no, there could be no future in such a thing. As galling as it was to be rejected yet again, Mireille knew that the phantom held no affection for her, that his ministrations and attentions were but tools to coax a larger machine into play. He had made it clear, time after time, that he did not desire her and was only toying with her to serve his need for amusement and his need for an agent with a whole face to be out in the world on his behalf.

The knowledge stung, just as her eyes stung with salt from an unshed ocean. She didn't want his love, she didn't want to love him. But to be so plainly unwanted except for one's...functionality...

Yet, why did it matter? Why would it matter to her what he thought of her? He was a cruel, twisted man—and that was only her honest assessment of his behavior toward her. She knew nothing of his history except for rumor, and she knew enough of the nature of rumor to distrust its veracity in all cases. She did not want him to want her. Why did she search for hope and kindness in his wanton acts of seduction and violence? Why did she yearn for some measure of importance in his eyes? Why did she strive for his respect?

Her throat burned, and she clenched her jaw until her temples ached, forcing herself to breathe through her nose and use the pain of her nails digging against her palms to drive her to a place of cold reason.

There were few choices for her in life now, and even fewer priorities. She was a fool to wallow in a pool of self-pity and worthlessness. She forced herself to reaffirm that she was intelligent, a force to be reckoned with, and a woman of character. The lack of a father, a husband, a lover or an opera house could not change that. Would never change that.

First priority: escape. Second priority: find Raymond. Third priority: well...truth be told, she hadn't thought that far. It was best to simply wait until she had priorities one and two in hand.
Oui
?
Oui
.

With controlled rage, she pawed through her scandalous clothing to find something that wasn't so terrible, except everything was terrible. Her glance landed on the midnight blue velvet blanket on the bed, and suddenly, an idea popped into her head.

She grinned slowly, and sat down on the purple brocade divan and put her head in her hands to start thinking things through.

***

"Madame! Madame!" Sandrine cried frantically, dropping the tray of food on the small occasional table by the door of their secret guest's room.

She flew down the stairs and into the parlor where Madame was seated with bonbons and a young man accepting them gratefully with full lips, since his hands were tied securely behind his back.

"What is it, girl?" Madame snapped, slapping the young man enough to turn his head and leave him bright-eyed and panting.

"
Merci
, Madame," he gasped in pleasure.

"The secret mademoiselle!" Sandrine exclaimed. "She has fainted dead away, and there is a pool of vomit by her head. We must get a doctor!"

Madame frowned and waved the girl off. "Fetch a doctor, and have Donard watch the door. Can't have her waking up and scuttling off now."

Sandrine fled the room, gave Donard the order, and ran out into the night in search of a doctor.

***

The scheme had worked almost too well, Mireille reflected as Sandrine ran wailing from her room.

The velvet blanket made a kind of cloak and was dark enough to hide her in the shadows of the street. Yet, how to get the door open? Perhaps some kind of fit or accident would get them to fetch a doctor? Somewhere in that process there could be an opening, and if not, she would at least know that this particular scheme wouldn't work.

She had forced her fingers down her throat to throw up, then fell back forcibly against the floor. The pain in her head told her there would be a knot on her skull, but all the better to convince the doctor with if she couldn't escape. Plus, the stun of the blow had left her wanting to lie still naturally so that she would be able to fake a faint.

Before she knew it, she was acting on her plan, and while she lay there waiting for Sandrine to arrive, she realized she'd have to disguise herself. Not as a man or boy—they were too noticeable in a house full of women. A servant girl...like Sandrine...nobody noticed them. And Mireille knew she was plain enough to pass for a servant girl. She smiled grimly at this bitter advantage.

Waiting one more moment to make sure that Sandrine’s steps had fully faded away, she then rose and wrapped the midnight blue blanket around her. It was cumbersome, but it would blend better with the shadows that were now her best allies as she slipped out the open door of her chamber.

She knew better than to try the front door, or even the back door. The street below was full of raucous revelers going and to and from the various cabarets of the quartier. The alley behind the building would no doubt find those who took their pleasure in less innocent ways. The roof was too risky, too much of a potential trap. She could not tell if the building she was in stood alone or if it abutted another. Even if it did, there might not be an easy way down from the roof, not to mention that a scantily clad lady climbing down the side of a building would assuredly garner most unwelcome attention from both the revelers and the occupants of the alleys.

Her only hope was to hide in plain sight. To that end, she stole up the stairs to the servants' attic rooms. She was fairly certain they would be unoccupied, as nighttime was the busiest time for a brothel, and all the staff would be required to be on hand. She tried the doors until she found a room that looked like it belonged to some maids. She dressed herself in a set of their clothes, wrapping up her hair and putting a white maid's cap over all of it. She bundled her silken clothes and shoved it under the maid's bed. She folded the blue blanket as tightly as she could and rigged up a way to carry it under her skirts. With any luck, she would need it when she was finally out on the streets.

Curling her lips in distaste, she grabbed a thankfully empty chamber pot—though the smell was evidence enough of lackadaisical cleaning, but then again, that smell could very well be another ally, as no one would want to come too close.

Her heart pounding, she made her way back down the servant's staircase to the kitchen. She hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes down. As naturally as she could, and she was afraid it wasn't natural at all because she was a business manager, not an actress or diva, she went to the small door that opened onto a set of narrow steps which led up to the street level.

"'Here!" the cook yelled at her. "Where you think you're goin'?"

Mireille turned and held up the chamber pot, tipping it slightly so the cook wouldn’t see it was empty.

“Those get emptied out the back!” the cook snapped.

“It is for one of the…clients, madame,” Mireille said, attempting to dirty down her accent and make her voice hoarse as her mind raced to construct an excuse.

“He’s outside?”

“No, madame, he’s watching from the upper window.”

“Whatever for?” the cook sounded more confused than put out.

“It is, erm, what he wished to have done, madame,” Mireille said, feigning embarrassment. “He was explicit in his instructions that it would give him…great pleasure…to watch while a maid emptied his chamber pot into the street.”

The cook wrinkled her snub nose and rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s a new one. Here, I thought I’d heard it all in this place, but it just goes to show. And, he wanted you to do it? Not one of the girls?”

“
Oui
, madame, he was very specific that it had to be a real servant.”

“Then you had best get on with it, then get back to work!”

“
Oui
, madame,” Mireille said obediently.

As soon as she was on the steps, she shut the door behind her, silently set the chamber pot down, and walked away from the house. Running would draw notice, but a shadowy figure walking at a normal pace would catch no one’s eye.

It had all happened so quickly, and she hadn't really thought it would work.

But, it had.

One block. Two blocks. Place de la Madeleine. Place de la Concorde. As she walked, she was now faced with having to figure out the next step of her plan.

The obvious choice seemed to go to Raymond, but just to make sure of herself, she ran through the options one more time. She could not return to her cousin. She would not marry Carcasonne. She would go back to that...place before she married him. She wanted nothing to do with the phantom, yet, she needed protection from him, from his reach.

No, it was clear that Raymond was the only choice for her. If he still loved her, she would gratefully accept his offer of marriage. Perhaps in time, love would grow for him in her own heart. He would shelter her, hide her, and maybe even allow her to help him with his work from time to time...from the safety of their home, of course. There was no way she could ever go near the opera house again.

Except for one small detail.

She had no idea where Raymond lived. Certainly, she had his address somewhere on file in her office. But, right here, right now, that was no help. To ask directions of strangers was pointless. They would not know.

No, there was only one way to reach Raymond.

Through the Lion's Den itself.

***

He crumpled the perfumed paper in his hand, then tried to wipe the scent of it off on a nearby rag.

That pig of a woman had let his Mireille go? The stupid whore had let his Mireille slip through her fingers, literally like a thief in the night.

He breathed heavily, panting like a lion in a rising rage, yet standing still as a statue.

No, anger would have to wait for later. The whore monger would pay later. Creatively, but later.

No, right now, all his plans required him to think carefully, quietly and logically. Just like his Mireille had done in planning her escape.

He would not waste time in reconstructing her escape, though he would enjoy torturing it out of her later. He had to assess where she was and where she would go so he could be there. Waiting for her.

He checked off her current situation in his mind.

No money. Questionable clothing—though a disguise might have been stolen, most likely either a whore's worn-out dress or a maid's clothing. Nowhere to turn to for refuge. Not her cousin's house. Not to Carcasonne. Not to the Opéra de Paris. In truth, where would she go?

His scowl deepened as he realized she did have somewhere to go.

Raymond Lefebre.

Did she know where he lived? If she did, she would go there directly, but in all that he had seen, in all the months he had watched her, he could not recall that she had gone or would have had a reason to go to his home.

She would have to come here, to the opera house, to get his address, or perhaps, in hopes of catching him in person.

A grim smile twitched at the corners of his lips. Well then, ‘Raymond’ would be sure to greet her.

***

Mireille drew close to one of the stage doors in the back of the building. Her hands were shaking, and she clutched at the apron over her skirt to still them. Her heart was beginning to feel tired from working so hard with relentless beating against her ribs, and her head was spinning, bouncing wildly between determination and panic.

She slipped by the stables and into the back hallways of the building, keeping to the shadows and trying to hide her face.

On her lips were silent words of a silent prayer to please, please, please let Raymond be there! She didn't want to have to sneak into her own office. She was certain that the phantom would know of her escape by now, and there was every chance he would suspect her of coming to the opera house at some point. She had one chance, and that was to find Raymond before the phantom found her.

"Mireille?" Raymond's voice came from the top of the stairs. "Is that you?"

Her head shot up, and she frantically scanned the stairs and the darkened walkway above.

"
Mon Dieu
!" he exclaimed, and she could see his figure move toward the scant glow of the gaslight sconce on the wall. "Where have you been? Quickly, come up here to my arms, where it's safe!"