Thief's Covenant Part 11

Which meant, Widders.h.i.+ns realized with a sickened lurch, that the killer was a.s.suredly still here. Unless someone bore this simple domestic servant one h.e.l.l of a grudge, she wasn't the intended target. Most probably she'd stumbled on something she shouldn't have seen.

And if someone was to die here tonight, it didn't take a lot of detective work to identify the most likely victim.

"Oh, figs..." Good heaping helping of G.o.ds, her luck couldn't be that bad, could it? What were the odds that...?

A moment's frantic thought-which actually took two moments, since first she had to fight down a moment's panic-and Widders.h.i.+ns realized that perhaps this wasn't nearly the coincidence she'd first thought. Rittier was, after all, the archbishop's first host in Davillon, and this, the first party he was scheduled to attend. That made tonight the first real opportunity to get at him-the distraction of the ball, combined with absolute knowledge that His Eminence would be present-and no a.s.sa.s.sin worth his salt would let such an opening pa.s.s him by. Indeed, that was why she'd chosen to act tonight, and she'd just wanted to lighten the man's purse!

"Would it be too much to ask that something go smoothly, just once?" she inquired of the room, the G.o.ds, and the universe at large. "Just for the novelty of it?"

Her only response was a swell of concern from Olgun.

"You're right. We have to get out of here, and quick!"

The G.o.d couldn't have agreed more.

"Then it's settled. We leave. Now."

Again, she felt Olgun's heartfelt a.s.sent. Yet she didn't move. Her feet seemed to have taken root in the carpet.

"The window would be best," she continued lifelessly. "The tree's right there. I can climb it to the ground, and we'll be gone with none the wiser."

She felt Olgun's growing impatience, a buzzing hornet biting at her neck and head. Still, she found herself most a.s.suredly not moving.

The murdered maid stared at her accusingly, and Widders.h.i.+ns's shoulders slumped in defeat. She took a moment, her movements quite calm and methodical, to extinguish her miniature lantern and replace it in her pouch. She took a deep breath.

And then she was running, not to the window but out the door and into the hallway, careless of stealth now, speed her only priority. Olgun's startled squawk echoed in her mind as she pounded toward the stairs that would take her to the uppermost stories where she a.s.sumed-hoped-the guest of honor would be lodged.

"I know, I know!" she muttered between gasps and gritted teeth. "But we have to do this!"

The doubt was.h.i.+ng over her was thick enough to drown in.

"Look, I just escaped gaol not two days ago. Who do you think they'll suspect if de Laurent winds up dead?"

Olgun wasn't particularly impressed with her argument. Which was just fine, since Widders.h.i.+ns wasn't taken with it either. Bouniard knew she hadn't a violent offense to her name, and wasn't likely to think she was starting now.

And yet she ran, taking the steps three at a time, driven by a need she couldn't explain to Olgun because she didn't understand it herself. Maybe later, when she found a few minutes to think- Olgun shrieked even as her foot hit the top step, and something sliced from the shadows of the hall, something that gleamed in the flickering lantern-light of the top floor. Memories of Brock's brutal a.s.sault a.s.sailed her as she hurled herself violently aside.

The rapier etched a line of fire across her ribs, but the wound was shallow. It bled freely and it hurt like h.e.l.l-particularly when added to the lingering traces of stomach pain that clung tenaciously, even after several days-but it wouldn't slow her down.

Her desperate evasion carried her clear over the banister, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach into the empty s.p.a.ce beneath her. Throwing her legs out to the side, she spun completely over, like a roast turning on an invisible spit. For one heart-stopping instant, she was looking straight down at the floor almost forty feet below.

She lashed out, grabbing at the balcony's guardrail. Muscles screaming with the strain, aided by a swift boost from her guardian G.o.d, Widders.h.i.+ns yanked herself over the banister to land in a panting heap on solid floor.

Her side throbbed where the blade had cut her, her arms burned with the strain of her frantic acrobatics, and the pounding of her heart threatened to shatter her rib cage from the inside out. She wanted nothing more than to lie where she was, but she needed neither Olgun's warning nor the sound of running footsteps to know that her a.s.sailant hadn't abandoned his attack.

She did not rise, did not draw steel. She waited, favoring her injury, luring him closer.

The a.s.sa.s.sin lowered his rapier, echoing the lance of a charging knight of old, aimed unerringly at her bloodied rib cage. With a flex of her feet, the thief rolled at the last second, both palms planted firmly in the lush carpet. Even as the startled a.s.sa.s.sin stumbled past, braced for a thrust that never landed, Widders.h.i.+ns s.h.i.+fted the entirety of her weight to her already wearied arms and kicked back, mule-like, with both feet.

The a.s.sa.s.sin's grunt abruptly swelled into a crescendo of fear as he struck the guardrail and toppled over the balcony.

"Turnabout," Widders.h.i.+ns quoted to Olgun, "is fair-oh, son of a monkey!"

It was at that point, when the first screams wafted up from the ballroom below, that Widders.h.i.+ns pinpointed the flaw in her hastily conceived plan. Dropping a.s.sa.s.sins onto the heads of frolicking revelers did not, even by the most lax definition of the term, const.i.tute stealth.

Despite his worry, Olgun couldn't help but snicker.

"Oh, shut up! I swear, one more comment from you, I'll have someone make me a new pair of G.o.d-skin boots!" She ran even as she spoke, one hand pressed tightly to her wounded side, and tried not to think about the fact that she'd probably just killed a man. She heard the commotion below rise to a fever pitch, detected the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Rittier's bodyguards, no doubt.

Lovely. Could this evening possibly get any better?

Fortune, however, hadn't abandoned her entirely. There were, Olgun indicated to her, only three living souls in the immediate vicinity, and only one shone to him with the light of true faith and divine favor. Without hesitation, fully aware that lots of men with pointy objects were liable to surge from the staircase at any moment like some metal tidal wave, Widders.h.i.+ns hurled herself at the door. It flew open, crashed resoundingly against the wall, and the thief, face caked with perspiration, left side with blood, stumbled into the chamber.

An old man in a black ca.s.sock rose from behind a sizable writing desk, gazing at her with a startling lack of alarm. One hand was held behind his back; the other rested with deceptive casualness on a staff of office more than thick enough to serve as an efficient head-breaker.

"Is there something I can do for you, young lady?" he asked disapprovingly, as though her ill-mannered entry was his only cause for concern.

"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 gla.s.s, 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, a.s.sa.s.sin, 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 n.o.blewoman 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 d.a.m.n 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 ma.s.s 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, Franois?"

"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 acc.u.mulation of cloths, silks, and brocades that Franois 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 pa.s.sed 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 d.a.m.n.

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 pa.s.sed many hours in conversation as she convalesced, each learning about a sort of life they'd never imagined existed, and the weeks had pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sed, 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 G.o.d. 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 Franois 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l 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 embarra.s.s 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 d.u.c.h.ess 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, s.h.i.+t."