Thief's Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) (19 page)

“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.

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, François?”

“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 François 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 cliché, 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.

Frustrating? Absolutely. But weighed against starvation, exposure, and the violence of the streets, hardly intolerable.

And then, earlier that week, Alexandre had informed her that he'd soon be hosting another gala—and that she, finally, would be attending!

Her excitement and enthusiasm had lasted exactly as long as it took for Alexandre to arrange her first session with a tailor and hairdresser, at which point Adrienne lost patience with the entire process.

She glanced up, gaze smoldering, as Alexandre once more stepped into the room—alone. “I've given François the rest of the afternoon off,” he told her as he lowered himself gracefully into the nearest chair. “We'll try this again tomorrow.”

“Like hell we will!”

The aristocrat raised an eyebrow, a gesture that was starting to become instinctive around the girl. “You have a problem, Adrienne?”

“Me? A problem? Why would you think that?” She spread her arms melodramatically, the proto-gown crumpled into an uneven bundle and clutched in one hand. She wore only a heavy white chemise. “I've just spent three days standing around in my smallclothes, letting that decrepit snake stick me with needles and measure me in places that I could charge him for, and all for some stupid party where I'll be ‘privileged' to stand around and hold riveting conversations about the state of the economy, and oh, dear, the market in beans has taken a dip, what shall we do, and what the hell is that third fork on the left for, anyway?” She finally stopped, face flushed, breathing deeply.

“Are you quite through?” Alexandre asked.

“I'll let you know.”

“You do that. While you're thinking about that, start thinking about your behavior this evening.” A frown of disapproval that cut Adrienne far more deeply than she'd admit settled on his face. “Have you listened to a word I've said over the past months?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then can you please tell me why you've found it necessary to embarrass me constantly this week?”

The red in her cheeks deepened abruptly, and she found herself staring down at her toes. “I'm sorry. I—”

“I invited you to this ball because I thought you were ready for it. If I was wrong, you'd best tell me now.”

A fist of jagged ice closed around Adrienne's heart and squeezed. She finally looked up, stricken, unaware of the tears welling in her eyes.

Alexandre's own face softened. He dragged one of the other chairs over so it faced his own. “Adrienne,” he said gently, “come sit.” He leaned forward as she did so, cupping her hands in his.

“I know this is overwhelming. I'm sure it's been that way ever since you moved in. But that doesn't excuse this sort of behavior.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I'm sorry.”

The aristocrat shook his head. “I'd planned to let this be a surprise,” he continued, “but I think, perhaps, you don't need any more of those. This party is for you.”

The girl looked up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that when it's done, you'll be one of us. One of the aristocracy. I don't think you'll be ready to go off on your own for some while, but at least you won't just be ‘Delacroix's urchin' anymore.”

“How…how can you do that? Why would anyone accept me?”

“Because Duchess Luchene is coming. I invited her, in your name, and she's planning to attend. And if she recognizes you, even if only as a favor to me, the others will follow suit.”

Adrienne sat stunned. Her hands shook, and the only response her dizzied mind could manage was an unsteady, “Oh, shit.”

Alexandre's smile vanished once more. “What have I told you about profanity?”

The girl sighed, though she couldn't help but smile at the pedantic change of tone. “A true lady never curses,” she parroted back at him.

“And do you know why?”

Adrienne blinked. He'd never gone into it, and she'd assumed it was another of the endlessly labyrinthine laws of etiquette. “Umm, because it's not ladylike?” she ventured.

“No. Because a true lady should have the wit and the imagination, or at the very least the restraint, to express herself without resorting to such base vocabulary.

“Now,” he continued, releasing her hands and rising, oblivious to the strange expression his comment had inspired on his protégé's face, “I think it's time we see what Jeanette has for us for supper. Then I'll send word to François to be ready for another session bright and early tomorrow morning.” He looked meaningfully at her. “Can I count on you to behave, Adrienne?”

The young woman sighed. “If he can keep from sticking any more needles in me, I promise to stand still.”

“Good. Once he's done, I'll have Beatrice start work on your hair.” He grinned evilly as he strode toward the exit. “You thought standing for the dress took patience…”

Adrienne slumped dejectedly in her chair. “Oh, fu—”

“Yes?” Alexandre asked, face gone stiff, frozen in the doorway with one hand on the latch. “Oh,
what?”

“Figs.”

“That's my girl.” The door clicked shut.