Louisa Rawlings (3 page)

Monsieur Parmentier returned to his bench and picked up a half-finished shoe. “Young. Well turned out. And exceeding tanned, by my faith! As brown as a nut.”

At this last, Topaze gasped. “Tanned? Did you say
tanned
? With a scar on one cheek, and eyes as cruel as the devil himself?”

“No. No scar. A very comely man, to my way of thinking.”

Thanks be to Sainte Thérèse.
Not the man with the scar, but still… What could he want? Asking for her near the square where she’d stolen the purse! “How…how did he ask for me?”

“He spoke of the color of your hair. The color of your jacket. Said the girl he was seeking was small—and so you are, my little one. He said you were with a boy of eleven or so. I knew at once he was describing you and Michel.”

“And what did you tell him, Monsieur Parmentier?”

“Why, not a thing. I pretended not to know you.” He smiled benevolently. “It seemed the wisest course. Perhaps I’m mistaken, but I think if you went to church,
ma petite
, you’d have much to confess.”

She bowed her head in shame. “God bless you, monsieur. You have my gratitude.”

“Wait,” he said. “Before you go, you should know that he went toward the square. You’re very generous with your smiles and greetings, Topaze. Many people know you. There may be those in the square who won’t be as discreet as I.”

“I understand.” She left his shop and took a narrow street that led away from the square. She tried to reassure herself: The man had nothing to do with that devil whose knife she’d stolen; it was only a coincidence that both were deeply tanned; Bordeaux was filled with travelers from the tropics. Still, the very thought of that wicked-looking man made her uneasy. And she was carrying his knife. She hadn’t wanted to leave it in the room with the little ones this morning. She took it from her pocket, loosened the neckline of her jacket, and dropped it down the front of her chemise. She’d laced her bodice tightly today; the knife rested on her bosom, just above her snug stays.

She resolved to keep far from Sante-Croix today. Bordeaux was large; whoever the man was, he’d soon tire of looking for her. It was more important to put food on the table. She was alone. Despite his protests, Michel had been bundled off to apprentice himself to Guillaume the carpenter. Topaze frowned. Picking pockets was far too dangerous without a partner. She’d try a different game.

She wandered down to the harbor. There were always carriages about, and heavy wagons loaded with goods destined for ships or warehouses. She and Michel had become quite adept at pretending to be hit by a lumbering horse, a turning wheel.
What luck!
A handsome coach was coming down the street, its matched pair of grays snorting steam into the cold air. As they dashed past, she spun about and shrieked loudly; the nobleman within leaned out, cursed, and tossed her a handful of coins, to be rid of her. She put them safely away, and moved on to another street. This time—when she dodged a heavy wagon filled with casks of rum, and collapsed to the cobblestones moaning—it took a quarter of an hour’s arguing to convince the driver that he owed her something for her pain. It was only when she threatened to take him to law, couching her threat in legal-sounding nonsense, that he grudgingly handed her a livre. She spent the rest of the morning seeking fresh prey, with no success.

She sighed. It hadn’t been a very profitable day. She was cold and hungry. And covered with mud. In one of the streets, a water seller had dropped his copper pail onto the dirty cobbles as she passed; before the water had had time to freeze, a small carriage had come flying by, splashing her from head to foot with the filthy water. And the damned coachman hadn’t even stopped to see what he’d done, let alone give her a sou!

I’ll go home
, she thought. The afternoon was still young. And Guillaume might have let Michel go early on his first day. With her brother’s help, there was yet time to supplement her “earnings” with a stolen purse or two.

She made her way down a crooked alley, between two rows of dingy shops. She looked with longing into the dirty windows. Goods were cheap in this part of the city, but still too dear for her meager purse. A shop door opened just ahead of her. She glanced up and gasped aloud, her heart thudding in her breast.

The man with the scar stepped into the street.

She turned to flee. Behind her a man had just emerged from another shop. His face was as darkly tanned, though his hair, beneath his tricorne, was blond and sun-bleached. Ignoring Topaze, he pointed down the road and spoke over her head. “The draper thinks she lives in that direction, Lucien.”

Fearing the worst, Topaze turned again to the man called Lucien. He was smiling in triumph, his teeth white against the bronze of his skin. “She’s saved us further trouble, Martin,” he drawled. “For here’s the little chit herself.” He came toward her.

“Hellfire,” she muttered. Eyes wide with fright, she looked over her shoulder to see Martin advancing. She was trapped—an animal caught in a cage—between two men who were determined to have her, who had clearly searched for her half the day.

Lucien lunged. Topaze made a desperate move to elude his strong grasp, but it was useless; she felt herself held fast. His hands pinned her arms to her sides. She struggled for a moment, then kept still and glared at him with all the venom in her soul. “Damn you.
Damn
you,” she said. “Leave me be. I don’t have your knife no more.”

He laughed. “My knife. Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten about my knife.” He shifted his hands so that he was now holding her wrists together in one hard fist. With his free hand he patted her apron pocket, the two side pockets of her skirt. “Not there? Alas.” Smirking wickedly, he put his palm against the front of her jacket. His insolent hand rubbed across her bosom once. A second time, and less gently. Then it stopped at the middle of her breasts, where the knife rested. “Well?” he asked, his dark eyebrows angling more sharply into the smooth expanse of his forehead. “Do you want
me
to fetch it out?”

“I can’t do nothing without a free hand, damn your liver!”

“Of course. But don’t try to run away.” He released one of her hands, but kept the other firmly in his grasp. As she fished out the knife and handed it to him, he bobbed his head in a mocking salute. “Thank you. For the knife you
said
you didn’t have.” He put the penknife into his own pocket, and caught at her free hand again.

“Bastard!” she hissed.

He smiled over her head at the other man. “You see, Martin? I told you she was a most convincing liar. It will be to our advantage, I think.”

The man called Martin came around to stand beside the one he’d addressed as Lucien. Topaze frowned at him, studying his face. Soft and young, with warm brown eyes. Far more handsome than the gaunt-faced devil who grinned beside him. He seemed civilized. Reasonable. Possibly sympathetic. She softened her expression, composed her face into a mask of helpless grief. “Monsieur,” she whispered, “I appeal to you. What have I done? The man has his knife again. I didn’t mean to take it. I swear it. What further can you want of me?”

Martin seemed torn, swayed by the tears Topaze had managed to squeeze out. “Really, Lucien…”

Lucien snorted at Topaze, ignoring Martin. “
Brava!
A beautiful performance, girl. But there’s not a shred of conscience in your dishonest, thieving soul, I’ll wager.”

Her fear was becoming hot anger. She wriggled furiously in his hold. “What the devil do you want of me?”

“Keep still.” Lucien pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, spit on a corner of it, and began to wipe the dirt from Topaze’s face. “By Lucifer, what a mess!”

“Damn you!” She grimaced and squirmed, shaking her head from side to side.

“Keep still, I say. And stop making faces.”

For answer, she stuck out her tongue at him.

He laughed in delight. “She’s saucy and fearless, Martin. You’ll grant me that, eh? I tell you, you should have seen the game she played in the square. Just a slip of a girl, but I’ve never seen a bolder one.”

She scowled at him. “Do you mean to turn me in because of the purse? You whoreson, it’s long gone. They’d laugh you out into the streets if you tried to prove I took it!”

He finished wiping her face and put away his handkerchief. “Look at her, Martin.” He studied her intently, his blue eyes scanning every curve and pore. She found it unnerving. She had never been examined in so personal, so intimate a fashion. She felt exposed. Naked. Yet his perusal was cold and dispassionate as well, as though he were looking over a horse he meant to buy. “I tell you, Martin,” he said at last, “it’s remarkable. Tell me how old you are, girl.”

“Go to the devil.” She drew back her foot to kick him, but he jerked her sharply away.

“Not today, you imp. I haven’t forgotten yesterday. If you kick me again, you’ll regret it.” Though he continued to smile, there was something in his eyes that froze her, rooted her to the spot. Her struggles subsided. “Now,” he said, “I asked how old you are.”

She stared at him. She would give him nothing, damn his black heart.

He seemed unconcerned by her silence. “I knew a man once who could tell the age of everything. An apple by its smell, a tree by the thickness of its trunk, and a girl”—his mouth twisted in a mocking smile—“by stripping her bare.”

“I do protest, Lucien!” sputtered Martin.

“But if it’s the only way, my friend…” Lucien’s eyes were on Topaze’s bodice. “Well?”

“A pox on you.” She watched in horror as his free hand went for the top of her jacket. “Damn you,” she cried. “Nineteen, near as I know!”

He grinned and dropped his hand. “Thank you. Your name is Topaze, I think they said.”

“So what if it is? You’re hurting my wrists.”

“I’ll let you go, if you promise not to run. We mean you no harm. We have a…modest proposal for you. In the way of business.”

She gasped her outrage. If Papa could hear them now! “I aren’t no whore, you damned gallows bird!”

Martin shook his head. “Name of God.
Listen
to her, Lucien. You’re the king’s own fool. You’ll never do it in time, even if she’s agreed.”

Lucien shrugged. “I’m willing to chance it. Can I let you go, girl?”

She nodded her head in silence, rubbing sullenly at her wrists when he released her.

“Where can we talk?” he asked.

Chapter Three

The
tavern was smoky and crowded. Topaze noticed that the two men lowered their heads and made for the dimmest corner of the room.
Holy Virgin
, she thought. What was she getting herself into? Were they felons, afraid to be seen? But the pungent smells from roasting meat and mulled wine drove every other thought from her head. She found herself trembling, suddenly aware of her painful hunger.

Lucien put his tricorne on the table, shifted his sword as he sat down, and snapped his fingers for the serving maid. “Wine, Martin?”

Martin grunted his assent, rubbing his cold hands together. He took the chair opposite Lucien, scarcely mindful as Topaze sat at the narrow end of the table. “A good Beaune,” he said. Lucien nodded and murmured an order to the girl.

A pox on them both
, thought Topaze. Ignoring her like this. As though she were less than nothing. She should never have suggested
this
place, for all that it was warm. She could hardly bear the tantalizing smells, the sight of the food. Her mouth began to salivate. She gulped, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

“My faith!” Martin’s voice was filled with surprise. “Are you hungry?”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. The well-fed, smug fool. What a crack-brained question! “Hellfire and damnation, why should I be? I supped with the king at Versailles only last night.” At her words, Martin blushed furiously beneath his tan, his brown eyes filled with embarrassment and remorse. His dismay was so genuine that Topaze almost regretted her sarcasm.

Lucien scowled. “The chit will have to learn to curb her tongue. Of course she’s hungry, Martin. Have you forgotten the inequities in this land? I’ve ordered her a plate of food.”
He waved away the serving girl.

“Wait,” said Topaze. She turned to Lucien. “Will it cost me aught? For the food?”

“No.”

“Even if I don’t do as you wish?”

“No,” he repeated, his blue eyes mirroring his impatience with such trivial details as the cost of food.

She wasn’t willing to be dismissed so easily. “Well, if it don’t cost me anything”—she smiled grandly at the barmaid—“bring me a flagon of ciderkin with the food.” What a treat that would be!

“No,” Lucien said. “Cider or wine. But not a poor man’s drink. Not ciderkin.” He turned to Martin. “Véronique would drink honest water before she’d stoop to a flagon of apple leavings.”

Topaze felt a surge of anger. The veiled contempt in Lucien’s voice emboldened her. “Whoever Véronique is,” she said, “she aren’t no better than me! I’ll have wine. Good Beaune for me as well.” Filled with lingering doubts about her good fortune, she smiled uneasily at the men as the barmaid moved away. “If it don’t cost me anything.”

“Nothing but listening to my friend’s proposal,” said Martin.

She allowed herself a quick glance at Lucien. Despite the white wings at his temples, he didn’t really seem that old. And the blue eyes, beneath their peaked and malevolent brows, were young. “Your friend looks evil. The Devil himself,” she smirked. “I’m feared it will blister my ears to listen to him. He has the smell of sulphur.”