Light Fantastique Read online

  Marie felt the role of the female spy coming over her. It felt like her cheekbones grew higher and a cool glint came to her eye. Not that she could see it, but her eyelids narrowed of their own accord. She knew whoever looked at her would see a cold woman, someone not to be interfered with.

  “Mademoiselle, I’m nervous,” Janelle said. “I don’t want to show them my lodging.”

  Marie fought the urge to snap at Janelle to be quiet—the girl at least was thinking cautiously. “Then if we’re almost there, you go around the corner to your place, and I’ll deal with them. Can you make it?”

  Janelle nodded.

  “Then go.”

  She didn’t have to tell Janelle to walk quickly. The girl disappeared around the corner, and Marie heard a door open and shut. She turned to face whoever had followed them.

  “Pleasant evening, Mademoiselle St. Jean.” The sneering American accent destroyed the melody of the French words.

  “There’s no need to waste time with pleasantries,” Marie addressed the two men who faced her on the sidewalk and blocked her from returning from where she came. “What do you want?”

  “We work for someone who’s an old friend,” the same man said, switching to speaking English. “He wants you to come with us, Miss. And what he wants, he gets.”

  They must mean Cobb. He knows Mother wouldn’t let me out of her sight long enough to see him. But what is he doing in Paris? And how did he get through the siege lines? The Blooming Senator must be flying again.

  “I’m not interested in seeing your employer,” she said and drew the aura of the spy around her. “If he wants to meet up with me, he can make an appointment like everyone else. I’m busy.”

  The two men moved closer, and the larger one, who hadn’t spoken, grabbed her upper arm.

  “He’s not interested in being like everyone else.”

  “Is there a problem, Mademoiselle?”

  Again, Marie was relieved to hear the voice of Maestro Johann Bledsoe, but dismay made her huff.

  What is he doing here? I don’t want him to get hurt.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paris, 3 December, 1870

  Johann turned the corner and saw two men manhandling Marie. Without thinking, he sauntered over and put himself in the middle of the dangerous situation. For a second, he was distracted. Marie should have been panicked, but her face showed haughty contempt, and she almost didn’t look like herself.

  “I have the situation under control,” she said and jerked her chin for him to go.

  Like hell.

  “Are you quite certain? That thug has his hand around your arm.”

  “Quite.”

  With movements that blurred beneath the streetlamps, Marie kicked the man in the knee, and, startled, he let go. She hit him with the flat of her palm in the nose, and he staggered back, clutching his face, blood streaming from under his hands. The other one made a grab for her, but Johann caught his arm and swung him around into a nearby tree. Johann took her hand, and they ran in the direction he’d come from, back toward the theatre. Once they reached a busier area where more people strolled, they stopped and assumed a more normal pace, but he noticed her hand on his arm trembled.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You were, well, fantastic. You almost didn’t look like you.”

  “Thanks, I think.” She looked at him with wide hazel eyes, back to the Marie he knew. After their kiss the day before, his mind would only call her Marie, not Mademoiselle St. Jean, as would be proper. But he didn’t want to do proper things to her, no matter what sort of warnings he got.

  “Who were they?”

  She looked around as if to make sure they hadn’t been followed. Johann was almost certain they hadn’t been—he recognized the crooks’ type, hired thugs who would only do easy jobs.

  “I think Parnaby Cobb might be in town. They said their boss was an old friend and wanted to see me.”

  “If his airship had landed in Paris, there would have been a stir. People are desperate for news of the outside.”

  “People are sneaking in and out, and he is particularly resourceful when there’s something he wants but desires to stay out of public attention.”

  She clung to his arm, which he didn’t mind.

  “Why not just send you a card?” he asked. “Make a proper visit if he wanted to see you?” Not that he wanted Parnaby Cobb to whisk her away, as he apparently had done before.

  “My mother hates him for what he did. If he stepped foot near the theatre, she would make sure he regretted it. No, he knew I could get away from his men. This is a message that he hasn’t forgotten me.”

  Johann placed a hand over hers and squeezed. “You have friends now. We won’t let him harm you.”

  “Thank you.” But she sounded doubtful.

  They turned the corner on to the block with the theatre, where one of the trees sported a red glow near the top. Johann stopped short, tugging Marie back with him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He pointed to the tree, which was in the park across the street. “Look up there.”

  She squinted slightly. “I see a red glow. Is that a bird?”

  “It’s a raven, but it’s not an ordinary one. It’s steam-powered, and it has a camera at the back of its beak.”

  The look she gave him said she thought his next destination might be Bedlam. “Are you sure?”

  “Edward saw it too. It’s been following me this evening. I’d prefer to stay out of its sight.”

  “We can go around the block and use the alley behind the theatre to get to the servants’ entrance.”

  “That will work.”

  They did as she suggested, and Johann kept glancing over his shoulder for the red glow.

  Now it was her turn to ask, “Where did it come from? Why is it following you?” Instead of fear, her voice held a note of breathless excitement that he could identify with.

  Perhaps that’s how Cobb lured her away—she wanted more excitement in her life. I can understand, but what’s more exciting than the stage? All right, traveling the world would be, but at what cost?

  “I don’t know.” He dragged his mind back to the present and away from the fears that she would leave again if given the chance. Which was stupid—he was going to head out as soon as Edward got to a place of stability, assuming he could figure out what to do with the specter of the Clockwork Guild debt hanging over him.

  He recalled the note he’d found in his violin case. “The raven isn’t the only strange thing. Someone left me a note when I stepped out of the theatre yesterday warning me away from you. I thought it might have been your friend LeClerc.”

  Marie looked up at him again, this time with a slight lift to one eyebrow. “I doubt Frederic would feel he needs to leave you notes. He’s direct enough on his own.”

  “I agree. Someone’s been dropping notes on to others in the theatre. LeClerc got one. You did too.”

  She didn’t answer him, only said, “Turn here.”

  “What was it?” Johann pressed. “Was it a note warning you away from me?”

  “No, it was a newspaper article from September. From an English paper. If Iris goes back, she’ll need to be with the two of you to prove she’s innocent of something happening to you.”

  “My family knows I’m on the continent.” Johann had made sure to telegraph them occasionally with brief updates so his grandmother wouldn’t worry. While he’d always thought of her as the Dowager Dragon, he knew she did what she did out of love.

  His father, on the other hand…

  Was that a ploy to get him to return and assume his rightful place as the lackey in the family hierarchy?

  “I have the article in my dressing room in the theatre,” Marie murmured. “I didn’t want Iris to find it and be upset. Of course it brings up her possib
le role in Jeremy Scott’s death.”

  “Of course,” Johann said with a sigh. “It’s amazing how some things just won’t go away. Here?”

  They emerged on the street that ran beside the building on the other side of the theatre, an abandoned church that was mostly used for storage. Johann didn’t know what kind of storage, only that he’d sometimes seen soldiers moving crates in and out of it. He scanned the scraggly trees that struggled for sunlight along this avenue and didn’t see anything.

  “I think it’s clear,” he said.

  “Good, let’s go.”

  They made sure no carriages, steamcarts or horses came along—the street was empty—and darted across. The same alley Marie had chased Corinne down enveloped them. It again concentrated what little breeze there was into an icy spike. Johann drew her closer. Just to keep her from getting too cold, of course.

  “Careful,” Marie said. “Sometimes there’s ice because the drainage isn’t great.” Her words held an undertone of affection for a familiar place, or maybe she was happy to be close against his side and was warning him because she was concerned for his safety.

  He chose to believe the latter. For the first time, he wondered what it would be like to have a traveling companion. An agreeable one without Edward’s foibles and with certain assets Edward lacked. And by God, the girl could take care of herself. No helpless damsel here. He had to admit the attraction of a woman who could hold her own and wouldn’t require constant attention or rescuing.

  Could she be the ideal woman for him? The thought disturbed and intrigued him at the same time.

  They reached the servants’ entrance to the townhouse and paused. Johann didn’t want to let Marie go, and she didn’t seem to want to be released, either.

  “We should go in,” she said.

  “We should,” he agreed. Neither of them moved.

  A colder gust of wind blew through the alley, and Johann turned and drew Marie to his chest. Even through all the layers, he could feel the curve of her waist. She looked up at him, and at that moment, she was all he wanted. It seemed that a rosy glow illuminated her face, and the urge to kiss her again, this time sweetly on the lips, overcame him. He bowed his head, inviting her to meet his lips with her own. Her eyes heavy-lidded, she stretched toward him.

  A drift of snow plopped on top of them, knocking Johann’s hat off and smacking him on the back of the head with its icy hand.

  Marie drew back with a gasp, the face full of snow the opposite of the warm kiss she’d expected. She wiped it from her eyes and off her cheeks. Bledsoe brushed it off the top of his head and neck, but he shivered, and she guessed a trickle or two of ice-cold water had made it under his collar.

  “Did your mother arrange for that?” he asked, his customary mask—that was to say, a lopsided grin, returned. He leaned over to retrieve his hat.

  Marie looked up, but she couldn’t see anyone on the roof above them. Not that she expected to—it was too steep to climb safely.

  “I wouldn’t put it past her.” She opened the servants’ door with one of the keys on the theatre key ring.

  The light in the kitchen illuminated the now wet and sorry state of their attire even under their cloaks, which they shed as soon as they entered.

  That’s not the only part of me wet and unhappy. Marie had so badly wanted that kiss, but she knew it was for the better that it hadn’t happened. The maestro’s charm had been in full force in the alley, and the Henriette role Marie had been fighting all day emerged to meet it. Had they kissed, Marie would have always wondered who was kissing who and if he really meant it.

  He’s a scoundrel and not to be trusted.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, he suggested, “You should get out of that soggy blouse.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not here,” he said and then looked away. “I mean, you don’t want to get sick.”

  “I’m sure that’s exactly what you meant.” Getting a face full of wet snow made her cross, and she shivered.

  “You’re being impossible. I got dumped on too.”

  “Fine.” She took two purposeful steps toward the stairs and then turned around. “But remember you were the one who wasn’t acting like a gentleman.”

  “And I’m sure my attempt wouldn’t have been your first kiss.” He shot back. He ran a finger behind his collar.

  “How dare you?” He was right, but Marie wasn’t going to let him get away with saying such things.

  “Perhaps you should go. And change.” He spoke deliberately, and she guessed he was holding his temper.

  “Perhaps you should too. More than just your clothing.” And with that, she stalked up the stairs and into the back hallway. She took the servants’ stairs to the floor with the bed chambers—no reason to run into anyone and have to explain where she was and what she was doing when the snow fell on her.

  How did that happen? It wasn’t snowing, and it’s not the right temperature for it to melt.

  When she arrived in her bed chamber, she found the window open, and a cold breeze had strewn Iris’s notes all over the room. However, she found a piece of paper on her bed that didn’t look like the rest of them. It was a note in strange handwriting:

  A truly disciplined woman does not allow her passion to run away with her in an alley. Good thing the snow was there to cool you off. If you want to control your talent, you need to control yourself, Mademoiselle.

  Respectfully, The Spirit of the Bohème

  “Merde,” Marie muttered. “He has a point.”

  She vowed to stay away from the violinist, no matter how much she wanted his promised kiss.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Théâtre Bohème, 4 December 1870

  The next morning, Marie stepped into the crisp air of the alley behind the townhouse. Since it was Sunday, the street was quiet, and she knew the chances of her being disturbed were minimal. She had a ghost to find and give a piece of her mind. She didn’t care whether it was a true specter or a man pretending to be one—he had gone too far with the snow on her face and the note in her bedchamber.

  The more she’d thought about it, the angrier she became, and sleep had eluded her much of the night. She’d been manipulated enough by her mother. She wasn’t going to take it from anyone else.

  In the light of day, the snow from the roof lay scattered on the ground even after the morning’s deliveries, which were fewer and fewer as the siege went on. When she looked up, she had to squint but thought she could make out the gap in the snow on the roof. The pattern convinced her that someone had shoved it off, although she still didn’t know how a man could traverse it safely. Perhaps if he had a wire and pulley like they used in the theatre?

  How dare he?

  Now truly furious, Marie entered the theatre through the back entrance so no one would intercept her. She made her way to her dressing room and propped the door open in case the spirit decided to play his usual tricks with his smoke and the mirror, which she knew had to move somehow.

  Yet another mystery. As much as I don’t want to, I’m going to have to talk to Maman about it.

  The discouragement the thought brought her cut through her anger for a moment. Obviously the spirit was connected to what had happened with Cobb somehow. Otherwise, why would he be so interested in the details? But revealing the strange goings on to her mother would bring up bad memories and reopen old wounds.

  Marie glanced around the room to see if anything had changed and saw another newspaper clipping and a photograph had joined the article that mentioned Iris and the script for Light Fantastique on the dressing table.

  “English Inspector Investigates Murder in Rue Saint-Tomas.”

  The new article was from the previous day’s paper and detailed what had happened in front of the theatre. The photograph was dark, but Marie could make out Bledsoe, Radcliffe, and a man standing
in front of a nice but nondescript carriage. The man’s features were familiar to her.

  “You recognize the third man?”

  The voice came from all over in the dressing room, not just behind the mirror, and the door slammed shut.

  Marie jumped, panic shooting through her. In spite of her resolve to stand her moral ground and confront the spirit for the snow incident, Marie’s heart whirred like one of the little clockwork butterflies that had followed them the previous summer. She placed the photograph back on the dressing table and backed toward the door.

  Just talk so he pays attention to what you’re saying, not what you’re doing. The bit of advice floated into her brain from sometime in the past.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He looks familiar.” A memory she had tried to suppress came back to her, of her failure to take on the role of spy.

  No, I have to stay in the present.

  She reached the door and found it to be locked from the outside. “Let me out. I’m not playing your games anymore.”

  “He is Inspector Henry Davidson,” the ghost said. “Do you know him?”

  “I already told you he looks familiar.” The memory of her first conversation with the inspector tried to shove into her brain, but she kept her face neutral. Concentrate on the situation at hand. “And do we have to talk about him? I have a bone to pick with you about the face full of snow I got yesterday evening.”

  A low chuckle. “I was just reminding you of the deal we made, Mademoiselle. You must have more discipline than that if we are to work together on managing your talent.”

  “What I do outside of the theatre is my affair, not yours, casse couille.”

  “And you are sharp-tongued like your mother.”

  Marie’s left eyebrow tried to rise before she got control of her expression. “And what do you know of her? Have you spoken to her?”

  “I observe everything that happens in this theatre.”

  Marie thought she caught something in the spirit’s tone that indicated he recognized his slip. So he has talked to her.