Light Fantastique (29 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

1
7 May 1868, Hotel Auberge, 17 May 1868

Armed with her role of Marguerite the Spy, femme fatale and deadly assassin, Marie ascended in the lift, barely acknowledging the operator. She had a goal, a mission. The warnings she'd received about Cobb swirled in the back of her mind, but her role gave her confidence she could handle him. Men fell at her feet at the theatre, after all, and gave her whatever she wanted. Why should this one be different?

She knocked, and Cobb opened the door. Every part of her body that his gaze fell on felt like something horrible and grasping raked over it. It required all her willpower and Marguerite's confidence to not shudder.

“You look lovely,” he said and stepped aside. His hotel suite had a parlor, where a pull-in table held silver-domed dishes.”

Simultaneously anxious and relieved, Marie asked, “No servants?”
Or witnesses.

He took her cloak. His hands lingered on her shoulders longer than needed, and his breath tickled her ear. “I thought you wanted to speak to me in private.”

Marie thought she heard the lock on the suite door click from the outside but quelled the panicked urge to test it. If it was, indeed, locked, she would have to escape with her wits, and for once she was glad to have the role on board. She focused on the mission, or missions, she had been given and walked around the room, pretending to be awed by the sumptuous surroundings but really searching for signs Cobb had been involved in smuggling or had something he shouldn't. Not that either man had given her anything specific to look for.

There was a drafting table in the corner, where Marie saw a drawing of something mechanical. A quick look at the table told her that her own papers weren't there, and she pressed her lips against the frustrated sigh that wanted to escape.

“What's this?” she asked. She picked up the large piece of paper, and whatever it was seemed to look back at her. It reminded her of a drawing she'd seen in a museum by DaVinci, but instead of multiple views of muscles and the male parts, it had numbers, lines, rods, and gears.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” Cobb took it away and rolled it up. “May I pour you a drink?”

Marguerite and Marie both said, “No, thank you.”

“Oh, but I insist. I ordered this especially for you.”

He pulled a bottle of wine out of a bucket, and Marie was relieved to see the cork still in it. He opened it and poured some of the golden liquid in a glass.

“To our friendship,” he said. “And I have a proposition for you.”

The sip Marie had just taken turned bitter at the back of her mouth, but Marguerite stretched her lips into a knowing smile.

“And what would that be?”

He pulled a chair out for her, and she sat at the table. He lifted the domed covers off the dishes. “I read the papers you're so eager to retrieve.”

“And?”

“I believe I can help you with your goal of traveling the world in a way that would be mutually advantageous to us both.”

The food smelled heavenly—creamy and with an expert mix of herbs—but she'd lost what little appetite she had. Marguerite told her this would be the perfect role, the opportunity to get closer to Cobb's affairs and investigate his wrongdoing. Marie told Marguerite to shush, that she only wanted to get her documents back so she'd have the freedom to choose her own path.

Don't anger him until you have your papers in hand.

“How so?” she asked and took a bite of quail.

“I recognize that you think you need a break from the stage. It happens sometimes with particularly talented people, they need to step away from their vocation and mature in other ways, but the danger is that you'll find something you think is comfortable and never return.”

“I can determine my own needs, thank you.”

“Ah, but trust me as someone older and wiser who has seen much wonderful potential go to waste. I propose that you come work for me on my airship. You're smart, and you have the singular ability of being very convincing in whatever role you choose, so you can be my eyes and ears in places where a man can't go.”

Marie swirled her wine and pretended to consider, but one thing she and Marguerite agreed—she needed to get out of there with her papers, but he wasn't going to let her go easily. “Although your offer is tempting, I cannot accept it.”

“I will pay you generously, if it's money you're worried about. Much more than you make as an actress.”

“Thank you, but I'm afraid I have to go. My papers?” She held out a hand.

“Allow me to convince you further.” He took her documents from his waistcoat. She saw her autograph scrawled across the outside. Instead of giving them to her, he walked to the fireplace, which was lit against the late spring chill. Too late she realized what he was about to do and had only half-risen when he threw them into the flames.

“No!” She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker, but the letters had already been mostly consumed. The ink from her autograph blazed in a flash, and then they were all gone.

“No,” she whispered. Tears smeared the flames into a wall of light, and she turned away. She clenched the poker, and Marguerite whispered to her to put it to good use, take her revenge, and run. Cursing her lack of innate ruthlessness, Marie dropped it, fell to her knees, and sobbed into her hands.

A gentle hand stroked her hair. “There, now. I can take you to places you've only dreamed of.”

She wobbled to her feet and rubbed her eyes with her hands to clear the tears. “I don't want to go anywhere with you. I'll find a way myself.” She grabbed her shawl and stalked to the door.

“I wouldn't leave just yet, Mademoiselle.” He lowered his voice. “A photographer and reporter are waiting outside this room, and two more are in the lobby. All of them have received tips that famed actress Fantastique is having a torrid affair with an American entrepreneur, and you know the press has been looking for evidence that you're a wildcat in bed like every other actress. Do you want to give the papers something to squawk over in the morning? It would kill your mother.”

Marie stilled with her hand on the knob. “I do not take kindly to being blackmailed, Monsieur.”

“I'm only trying to convince you of what's best for you. Leave with me tonight.”

“And that wouldn't be as scandalous, to just disappear?”

“No one would have to know. You're between shows, so it will be weeks before anyone misses you. You can even say goodbye to your mother, although you don't need to pick up anything. We can get clothing made for you easily.”

Part of her wanted to tell him to shove off, that she would weather the scandal, but a bigger part of her wanted to escape. If she could only make it out of France, she could start over. Especially if he were to pay her well. And she could help the handsome detective and escape from the man in the carriage.

“Very well, Monsieur.”

“Good. Shall we seal our arrangement with a kiss?”

Marie held out her hand. He kissed the back of it.

“And now shall we finish dinner? The baked Alaska here is delightful, they say.”

Marie took her seat at the table. Cobb acted the gentleman that night, but she was too naive. Soon the circumstances of her employment included more than she'd been led to believe, and by the time she returned to France, her reputation was thoroughly ruined, as was her innocence.

* * * * *

T
héâtre Bohème, 5 December 1870

Johann was a cad. He'd been called that many a time by many a woman, but this was the first occasion he felt it. Even in her trance, Marie's face showed the strain of the memory, what her attempt at independence cost her. He breathed through the mask, which smelled of something acrid, but whatever it was, it kept him from falling into the past like she had.

When they'd started on this strange journey, he'd only seen her as a maid and then as an actress who could be treated like the others. None of them had ever indicated to him that they were anything but willing to bed him, the famous musician, but he now wondered if that was because he'd never looked for shadows behind their eyes or had mistaken the cynical twist of their mouths for flirtatiousness. And he certainly hadn't tried to know them better, to discover the courage that led them to choose their own paths or the tragedy that had forced them into their lifestyles.

Now he stroked Marie's hand and willed for her to come out of the nightmare.

“Have you found what you were looking for?” he asked the spirit behind the mirror.

“Yes. As I thought, Cobb stole the plan for my automaton. I had never received confirmation until now.”

“How do you know it was yours?” Johann asked.

“Because of what she described. I was inspired by Leonardo DaVinci's Vitruvian man, and so that's how I drew out my plan.”

Marie stirred, and Johann directed his attention to her face. Some color came back to her cheeks, and anger at the spirit flooded through him. Was that one detail worth risking Marie's health and forcing her back through the worst experience of her life?

“And you couldn't just draw another one?”

“If a composer loses a symphony, can he just write another one? If a novelist loses their book, can they just produce another one with the same elegance and inspiration? No.” Now the spirit's voice echoed around him as its volume reached agitated levels. “No, Monsieur, I could not
just draw another one
, for he also had my developmental notes, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not reproduce the genius of the first attempt.”

Or you were smoking something when you drew it the first time and couldn't remember what you did.
Johann didn't voice the words, but he'd met composers who swore they couldn't create without opium or some other substance to help them. The memory of their erratic behavior and less than clear logic made him bite his tongue over his thoughts. The spirit still held a gun, after all.

“Will she be all right? How long will it take for her to come out of this?”

“You can remove the mask. I have doused the Persian lamp.”

Johann decided to wait until Marie was fully aware in case there was something in the air still. He'd already spilled his secrets, but he wanted to be able to move if the spirit decided to take Marie with him. Not that he could stop a bullet, but perhaps he could wrest the gun away or—

I am a true fool. I have no plan, no good one, anyway.

“She is beautiful when she sleeps, isn't she?”

Johann stood between Marie and the mirror, or at least as much as he could. “Yes, but she is spoken for.”

“Brave words, monsieur, considering I'm the one with the weapon. But you are powerless—she will not be with you unless I give her leave to do so.”

“She is her own woman!” Now Johann tore off the mask and stalked to the mirror, but Marie's whisper stopped him.

“Johann, please don't.”

He took another step.

“Oh, please come closer, Monsieur, so I can get a clear shot with my camera if not my gun. The violinist in the actress's dressing room shall be a juicy tidbit for the papers, particularly if he is found murdered there.”

“You wouldn't dare. That would ruin the theatre. You got what you came for. Why pursue this further?”

“My business is not finished with Madame St. Jean. Until it is, I cannot allow her daughter her freedom, but you may feel free to court her under my watch here to make sure nothing improper happens. You know her judgment isn't sound. Just beware she is a tricky one and can take on many faces.”

“There's no need to insult her.”

“Johann, don't worry about me, just come back,” Marie pleaded. She half-sat and leaned precariously toward him. He dashed back to support her before she fell.

“And remember, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, if you try to escape, my ravens will catch you or the Prussians will chase you back in or shoot your airship down. Your lives are mine for the foreseeable future.”

The spirit's
laughter faded, presumably as he walked back down the hidden corridor.

Johann helped Marie to sit fully, but his hands, which he was ashamed to think had supported many women in various states of reclining, felt clumsy. Once she sat, he moved away. He didn't want her to think he put her in the same category as the actresses he'd used in his campaign to prove his irresponsible nature.

“So now that you know, are you disgusted and disappointed in me too?” she asked. Perhaps the smoke left a rasp in her voice, but Johann suspected he heard the tears she fought back. Her dark locks fell about her shoulders, and this new look, the disheveled tangle, made her seem young and vulnerable.

He sat next to her and took her hands so he wouldn't give in to the temptation to bury his hands in her hair and revel in its silkiness. “Absolutely not. We've both made mistakes that we're not proud of.”

She tried to smile, but tears fell on to their joined hands, and she collapsed against him. He held her while she sobbed.

“I just want to get away,” she whispered once she'd calmed.

“I know you did.”

“No, now. There's nothing for me here, but we're trapped.”

“Hey,” he said and lifted her chin. He couldn't resist kissing her. “We'll get out of this. The siege can't last forever, and I have the marquis's promise even if he is no longer alive.”

She nodded, and he was glad she didn't mention the airship. The spirit might try to shoot it down himself. He captured her mouth again, and she opened to him, running her fingers through his hair. He grasped her and pulled her to him.

A squawk and thunk made them jump and pull apart, and Johann saw a red glow behind the mirror.

“We're being watched,” he said. He wished he could throw something at the raven.