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Authors: Edie Harris
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releasing the leather tie of the sheath riding his forearm, the gleaming blade it held sliding neatly into his palm. In less than a second, he stood battle-ready, and it was only a curse in muttered Russian that halted Gaspard with the walking stick already raised to strike. “Faron?”
Audric Faron, the fourth in their wicked quartet of spies and ne’er-do-wells, glared at Gaspard from where he’d stumbled back against a decorative hedge. “You’re the most paranoid bastard I’ve ever met, you know that?” His native French was as low-class as Gaspard’s could be when he wasn’t paying attention to his enunciation.
With a dark chuckle, Gaspard returned the knife to its hiding place and quickly retied the leather strap in a knot designed to come loose with a specific rotation of his wrist. He’d practiced it for hours when he had first started carrying the knife, years ago, but those hours had paid off. He had long since lost count of the number of instances in which he’d needed to use the weapon or else forfeit his life.
“Dangerous times.” He eyed the dark-hued garb the shorter, broad-shouldered man wore. “Been visiting our friend the duke?”
Faron’s scowl didn’t dissipate. “He’s got something up his sleeve, something deadlier than that knife of yours. Just don’t know what it is.” He paused, glancing warily at the mansion at Gaspard’s back. “Yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. Another couple days, and Sabien says we’re free.”
Faron shook his head. “Men like us are never free, Toussaint.” Gripping the collar of his woolen pea jacket, he tugged it closer to his neck. “You get the list?”
“Yes. Want to see it?”
The look Faron gifted him with was both derisive and pitying, and Gaspard suddenly recalled that the other man couldn’t read. Shrugging, he pulled the list from inside the sleeve that didn’t house his knife. “I’m about to hand it over to Évoque.”
Faron narrowed the distance between them, lowering his voice. “Did you read it first?”
“No.” Honestly, Gaspard didn’t care whose names were on that list. He’d lived this long by not sticking his nose in his employer’s business and doing only what he was told. It rankled, but it kept him alive.
Faron grunted. “Read it to me.”
“Why—?”
“Just read me the names. One of us should know, and he’ll burn the list the minute he’s done with it.”
Gaspard unfolded the small sheet of paper he’d earned by prostituting himself to the opera-house manager. Too dark to decipher the letters scrawled on it. “Follow me. Under the window.” He glanced up again at the windows he’d noticed earlier, hurrying to stand near the shaft of light seeping through the sheer curtains providing the room’s occupant with a semblance of privacy.
Lifting the paper toward the light, he skimmed it, then whispered to Faron, who stood on watch to his left, eyes scanning the garden for any sign of movement. “Renaud. Vireux. Louvel.”
“Again.”
“Renaud. Vireux. Louvel.” Gaspard pocketed the list. “They’re stable hands at the opera house.” It didn’t take a genius to determine the duke’s plan. Pinning the blame for some horrible act on an unsuspecting commoner was an old game, and one Évoque had made habit over the years. “Do you know what he’s having us do this time?”
“I’m sure he’s about to tell you.” Faron shifted farther from the light. “We’ll meet tomorrow night, you and me and the others.”
“Max has his party tomorrow night.” And Gaspard had a woman to win.
“Sometime after midnight, then, in Denney’s study. We need to talk this through.” Without another word, Faron sprinted silently away from Gaspard, toward the rear gate and vanishing into the night.
A shadow moved across the window, across the ground below, and Gaspard sidled back against the cold stones at the mansion’s foundation. He lifted his gaze to the glass panes, two stories over his head, and
Audric Faron, the fourth in their wicked quartet of spies and ne’er-do-wells, glared at Gaspard from where he’d stumbled back against a decorative hedge. “You’re the most paranoid bastard I’ve ever met, you know that?” His native French was as low-class as Gaspard’s could be when he wasn’t paying attention to his enunciation.
With a dark chuckle, Gaspard returned the knife to its hiding place and quickly retied the leather strap in a knot designed to come loose with a specific rotation of his wrist. He’d practiced it for hours when he had first started carrying the knife, years ago, but those hours had paid off. He had long since lost count of the number of instances in which he’d needed to use the weapon or else forfeit his life.
“Dangerous times.” He eyed the dark-hued garb the shorter, broad-shouldered man wore. “Been visiting our friend the duke?”
Faron’s scowl didn’t dissipate. “He’s got something up his sleeve, something deadlier than that knife of yours. Just don’t know what it is.” He paused, glancing warily at the mansion at Gaspard’s back. “Yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. Another couple days, and Sabien says we’re free.”
Faron shook his head. “Men like us are never free, Toussaint.” Gripping the collar of his woolen pea jacket, he tugged it closer to his neck. “You get the list?”
“Yes. Want to see it?”
The look Faron gifted him with was both derisive and pitying, and Gaspard suddenly recalled that the other man couldn’t read. Shrugging, he pulled the list from inside the sleeve that didn’t house his knife. “I’m about to hand it over to Évoque.”
Faron narrowed the distance between them, lowering his voice. “Did you read it first?”
“No.” Honestly, Gaspard didn’t care whose names were on that list. He’d lived this long by not sticking his nose in his employer’s business and doing only what he was told. It rankled, but it kept him alive.
Faron grunted. “Read it to me.”
“Why—?”
“Just read me the names. One of us should know, and he’ll burn the list the minute he’s done with it.”
Gaspard unfolded the small sheet of paper he’d earned by prostituting himself to the opera-house manager. Too dark to decipher the letters scrawled on it. “Follow me. Under the window.” He glanced up again at the windows he’d noticed earlier, hurrying to stand near the shaft of light seeping through the sheer curtains providing the room’s occupant with a semblance of privacy.
Lifting the paper toward the light, he skimmed it, then whispered to Faron, who stood on watch to his left, eyes scanning the garden for any sign of movement. “Renaud. Vireux. Louvel.”
“Again.”
“Renaud. Vireux. Louvel.” Gaspard pocketed the list. “They’re stable hands at the opera house.” It didn’t take a genius to determine the duke’s plan. Pinning the blame for some horrible act on an unsuspecting commoner was an old game, and one Évoque had made habit over the years. “Do you know what he’s having us do this time?”
“I’m sure he’s about to tell you.” Faron shifted farther from the light. “We’ll meet tomorrow night, you and me and the others.”
“Max has his party tomorrow night.” And Gaspard had a woman to win.
“Sometime after midnight, then, in Denney’s study. We need to talk this through.” Without another word, Faron sprinted silently away from Gaspard, toward the rear gate and vanishing into the night.
A shadow moved across the window, across the ground below, and Gaspard sidled back against the cold stones at the mansion’s foundation. He lifted his gaze to the glass panes, two stories over his head, and
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