Light Fantastique (15 page)

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 possible 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.

“The question, Mademoiselle, is whether you are serious about managing what happens to you on the stage. And dare I say, off stage as well? I have seen you wandering with the tale of your struggles to maintain your sense of self and sanity written on your face as your feet take you where the role does.”

Marie crossed her arms against the shiver his words brought. That was what had happened before she saw him the first time. “Keep talking.” As she listened, she tried to pay careful attention to his voice so she could figure out why it sounded so familiar. She also tried to trace his accent—American, but from which part?

How does he know so much?
Yes, he's observant, but we actors are an eccentric lot.

“Great talent comes with a price. I can help you minimize the cost, but I require compensation.”

“Trust an American to put it in terms of money.” Marie couldn't help the twist at the corner of her mouth—now he reminded her of Cobb. “But I prefer that to you attempting to control what I do and who I see.”

Another chuckle. “That is your soul's price, not mine. How are you to learn to control the role erupting from inside you if you allow other impulses to drive you? No, Mademoiselle, discipline in all things first.”

Merde
, he's right. If I indulge my desires, how can I possibly contain this talent, which is its own urge? No, I must practice discipline, as he said.

She sighed her frustration and allowed her arms and shoulders to relax. “Fine. Where do we start?”

“There is an alkaloid in the smoke I use that helps control the part of the brain from whence these impulses arise. First we use that so your mind knows what it feels like to drive your talent.”

“But it also loosens my tongue and brings up vivid memories I would rather not relive.”

“And that, Mademoiselle, is my price. Shall we begin today's treatment?”

Marie opened her mouth, but she couldn't agree right away. Yes, she wanted to control her acting talent to keep the roles from overtaking her and eating away at her soul, but she didn't want to reveal too much of the past, and she disliked not being the one to drive her words.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why help me? What do you want?”

“Because I know you are the greatest actress of this era, and I want this theatre to thrive. Otherwise, this poor old spirit will be without a home.”

She didn't believe him, but he had made one slip with his comment about her mother. If she cooperated, he would make others, and she could find out who he was and what he truly wanted. Then she could finally make up to her mother her mistakes of two years previously and not have to bring up old wounds to do so. She didn't know exactly how she would accomplish that, but she knew it was all connected somehow. She would only need to cooperate to a point to get the information she needed.

I'm thinking like a spy.

She sniffed and caught the smell of the smoke, but without Cobb's tobacco in it. She strolled to the fainting couch and reclined on it, making sure her head and neck were in a comfortable position.

“Now tell me about Inspector Davidson.”

* * * * *

Hotel Auberge, 17 May 1868

Marie alighted from the carriage, still shaken from her encounter with the man who had pulled a knife on her.

Focus on getting your traveling papers back.
Obtaining them had cost her most of the francs she'd managed to squirrel away and hide from her mother's ever watchful gaze, not to mention the trouble of managing the meetings and appointments with government officials to receive them. She wondered again how they'd ended up on top of the dressing table and not in the secret drawer. Sometimes her talent made her do things she didn't remember, which was one more reason she needed to get away from this place and figure out who she really was. Then maybe she could balance everything and keep from losing her mind.

She walked into the hotel lobby and noted immediately the difference between it and that of the theatre. Whereas the theatre was red-carpeted and dark wood-paneled, the hotel lobby was like being inside a golden egg. A crystal chandelier shimmered above gray-streaked marble floors. All the wood was light, and the accents brass. The people there, mostly foreigners, generally ignored her. Marie straightened her shoulders and allowed herself to take the first deep breath since leaving the theatre.

“Mademoiselle St. Jean?”

Marie's breath ended in a hitch as she turned to see who had spoken her name. The man didn't look like a servant, and although his accent was good, she picked up that he was not a Parisian.

“
Oui?
”

“A word before your meeting?” he asked in English, and she picked up he was himself British.

“I'm sorry, but I really have to go. I'm already late.”

“I will only take a moment of your time, and it is an urgent matter.”

“You and everyone else.” But she followed him to the restaurant, where he led her to a table in the corner.

He held up two fingers to the waiter.

“I don't feel I should have alcohol this evening, Monsieur.”

“Not to worry. They know me here. I've ordered us some tea. You'll need the extra alertness when dealing with Cobb.”

Marie raised her eyebrows. “How do you know?” It then occurred to her she shouldn't have confirmed her errand.

He shrugged and waited to answer until after the waiter brought the tea service with scones. Marie's stomach growled—she hadn't eaten since that afternoon.

“Please.” He gestured to the pastries. “I've had dinner and am not hungry, so help yourself.”

She buttered a scone. “While I appreciate this hospitality, Monsieur, I must ask you to state your business. I cannot afford to miss this appointment.”

“I don't want to alarm you, Mademoiselle, but I do feel it necessary to warn you that with Parnaby Cobb, things are not what they seem.”

Now she gave him a look she'd often seen on her mother's face. “Don't take me for a fool. I had already gathered that for myself.”

“Then you know you are being drawn into a dangerous game.”

“Yes, that has been made quite clear.”
Although I do prefer tea and scones to a knife at my throat.
“What, specifically, do you want me to look out for?”

“I appreciate your directness, but I don't want to put you in additional danger by revealing why I am interested in Cobb and his affairs. Just trust your instincts and make note of anything that seems unusual.”

Marie finished her scone and stood. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. I won't give you my name, but if you are in any sort of danger, I can be reached at the Hotel LaVue down the street. Ask for the Englishman. They'll know who to look for.”

Marie nodded and walked out of the restaurant. Now she had two men interested in using her to get at Cobb. What had the man done to deserve such attention?

That matters not. I just need to get my papers and not worry about the rest of it. I'm not interested in these games, even if Marguerite the Spy would be.

But as she crossed the lobby, she felt the role coming over her again and smiled with the confidence of a
femme fatale.

* * * * *

Marie awoke on the chaise lounge but waited before opening her eyes. She listened to determine whether anyone was in there with her, but her ears picked up only the scrabbling of something behind the mirror.

Wait, something behind the mirror?

Marie moved as quietly as she could, but whatever it was heard her and skittered off. Had it been any day but Sunday with the theatre being as quiet as it was, she wouldn't have noticed it among the various other sounds, but the quality of the noise confirmed her certainty there must be a space back there large enough to lead from a secret passage.

But which one?

If she could figure that out, she could possibly entrap her spirit and find out what he really wanted and why he insisted on digging up uncomfortable memories.

And then I wouldn't have to involve
Maman.

She turned from the mirror to see the script lying on the desk. She'd memorized the first few scenes but knew she had a lot more lines to learn. Doing that was more difficult this time around too.

I'm out of practice.

She shoved aside the thought that there could be a price to not using her strange talent equal to the trouble of allowing it to take over. Previously, the lines sprang to mind when she needed them with a minimum of prior effort on her part. Now they slipped away almost as soon as she memorized them, or thought she did.

With a sigh, she placed the newspaper clippings in a drawer and turned up the lamp. She'd just gotten settled on the chaise when a knock on the door interrupted her.

“
Entrée,
” she called.

The door opened to reveal Frederic. He carried his violin case, and he glanced around the room. His shoulders dipped before he assumed his typical assertive stance.

“You are alone?” he asked.

As far as I know…
Marie gestured to the empty room. “I don't see anyone here, do you?”

“Monsieur Bledsoe—” Frederic shook his head, and the little she could see of his neck below his ears turned pink. “I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I did not mean to impugn your reputation.”