Chapter 12 - In which the hounds go hunting
Bruce was actually very well behaved, panting in the center of the lift as it descended to the Paris alley pavement. It was Phileas who seemed to be in need of discipline, with only one foot on the very corner edge of the platform, his hands tightly knitted into the cable to steady himself. The awkward arrangement was no doubt intended to prevent Bruce from again decorating his coat and trousers.
"Take care," Rebecca warned him. "If you fall and break your leg, where will we be then?"
"With a broken leg and unstained trousers," he informed her, eyeing the dog warily. "I can't even begin to wonder where it must come from."
"I thought you liked dogs."
"I'm fond enough of a few breeds, yes. That," he nodded toward Bruce, "is not one of them."
It was, of course, a sham. Easier to talk about a dislike of the bloodhound as a breed and to be fastidious than to think about the loosely tied parcel Phileas carried beneath his arm. Because to think of the nightshirt might mean one might think of the child who had worn it. And where she might be now. And what she might be doing.
And what someone might be doing to her . . . .
Bruce, however, took neither Phileas' comments nor attitude to heart. The creature was a muscle-bound, amiable, elephant of a dog. He panted and drooled, occasionally shaking his massive head and letting an extended rope of saliva flying in a random direction. More often than not, it just happened to be toward Phileas.
As soon as the ground was within sniffing range, Bruce loped forward with one long, undeniable stride. Rebecca felt as if her arm were being pulled from its socket - it was all so unexpected - and she nearly tumbled from the platform. But a quick flip of her hand helped her to loop the leash around her wrist, giving her slightly more control. Phileas was suddenly there, putting his trousers within danger of a wetting of saliva, his own hands on the upper part of the leash as a stabilizing factor.
It was still evening, the hours heading toward midnight at a languorous pace, as they always seemed to in Paris. With the onset of the chill night air the shutters were closed and echoes of drink, merriment, and argument were at a minimum. The sounds would burst into life, echoing off the brick and plaster slum walls as doors occasionally opened and closed, but the general setting was one of stillness, accompanied by the faintly unpleasant odors that one would find in such a place.
Phileas stood still, but surveyed the area. Rebecca found herself not at all pressed by Bruce, who lay down on the street and panted, having exerted himself obviously beyond measure in stepping down from the descending platform and pulling her after him.
"Where did it happen?" asked Phileas, after a long pause.
"Over here." Rebecca started toward the mouth of the alley, not fifteen feet ahead of them - and was brought up short when the dog on the other end of the leash did not move. When she turned to glare at him, not being pleased by nearly having her arm wrenched from its socket twice in one night, Bruce seemed wholly unrepentant. Or, more precisely, completely oblivious to her desires. "Come, Bruce," she said sternly, tugging on the leash.
The dog looked up at her with apologetic eyes, but did not move a muscle.
Phileas whistled through his teeth, a high-pitched, sharp squeal of a sound. Bruce immediately swung his body up and back into activity, loping along until he'd reached Rebecca's side.
"I'm very much obliged," she said, with no small amount of wonder
"Happy to be of service."
She headed toward the wall again, Bruce walking easily on her left side and Phileas on her right. "And you knew he would respond to the whistle-?"
"Because he's obviously nothing more than a dumb brute that's been well-trained by someone." Phileas made an ineffectual swipe with his handkerchief at a new Bruce-induced stain on his coat. "Someone with either an enormous laundry bill or a tailor on constant call."
There was only starlight to guide them - their examination of the scene was hardly thorough, but Phileas still took a moment to look, moving close to the wall and then running his gloved hand along a certain part of it. "Verne ducked here."
"Yes," she agreed.
"At least that's a start." He turned toward the length of the alley, took the parcel from beneath his arm into his hands, and opened it. "Is there a procedure for this sort of thing?"
"I'm not sure. This is my first bloodhound, too, you know."
"I didn't." Phileas met her eyes for a moment, a slight smile on his face. "Trust to luck then, and nature taking its course."
There was no sense in being particularly fastidious - the brown paper in which the shirt had been wrapped to hide the scent from the dog was no longer of use. Phileas tore the package open easily, then leaned close enough to thrust the item it had contained beneath the dog's enormous snout.
Bruce merely stared at him with baleful eyes, snuffled for an instant, then turned its head, obviously disinterested.
"I see we're off to a roaring start," noted Rebecca.
Phileas shot her a sharp look. Then he carefully got down on one knee, grabbed the dog's head and tried to get the shirt beneath its nose. "Come on, Bruce, do what you do best."
The dog focused its eyes on him when he said its name, snuffled again . . . and turned its head away.
"Are we absolutely certain this is a bloodhound?" asked Rebecca, as Phileas rose to his feet and began to wipe off his knee.
"It's too ugly to be anything else." He looked away for a moment, then back at her. "We've no other option, have we?"
She shook her head slightly as her only response.
Phileas considered the dog again. "Third time might be the charm."
"There's one thing you haven't tried - you might ask Bruce," suggested Rebecca.
"Ask it? And how am I supposed to 'ask' it? 'If you wouldn't mind, could you take a sniff of this shirt and trace a little girl for us, oh, about eight years old or so?'"
There was a note in Phileas' voice that was impossible to place, a mixture of incredulity and outrage. Rebecca might have laughed aloud if the situation weren't so serious.
Time was running out . . . .
Giving Phileas a dismissive shake of her head, she pushed aside her skirts and squatted down beside Bruce. One yank and the nightshirt was transferred from her cousin's hand to her own. She immediately placed the cloth beneath the dog's nose and said, "Bruce, please concentrate. This is important. We need you to find - no . . . fetch-"
She'd barely uttered the word when Bruce turned his massive head, nearly knocking her over. The suction from the dog's sudden intake of breath stuck the nightshirt to its nostrils as if magnetism had been involved. Then it bounded forward so quickly that Rebecca was forced to drop her hold on the leash or she would have been dragged through the filth of the alley.
"After him!" she cried, when Phileas hesitated long enough to attempt to offer a hand up. He took to his heels after the dog as she scrambled to her feet and then she also was in pursuit, leaving the discarded nightshirt behind.
However brutish and heavy the animal might have seemed when quiescent, his gait was marvelous to behold in full flight - it was like trying to match a well-muscled racehorse in a furlong. Phileas had a head start and a longer gait, but Rebecca pushed herself to draw abreast of her cousin. She scraped her hands careening off a brick corner in an attempt to match the pace when the alley emptied into an even darker and smaller street. They were barely able to keep Bruce in sight as he raced down the length of an alley only to turn at another, paws barely slipping at the unsignalled movement before he fell back into stride again.
Bruce bellowed as he ran and the full-throated barks echoed from the walls on either side. They would have been hard-pressed to track him from the sound, for it seemed not only to come from ahead, but behind and from the side as well. Had they a destination in mind, it would have been easy to outflank the animal. That not being the case, all that could be done was to follow. And if they lost the dog or if the dog weren't truly following the scent or lost the scent . . . .
Running was much more comforting than thinking. Rebecca found herself grateful that she'd taken the time to slip into her work clothes - her dress corset would have killed her by this point in the chase and God only knew when it would end. The bite in the night air helped, cold dampening the unfortunate odors that gathered in the less sanitary parts of the alleys they raced through. It would need a good rain to wash away the refuse.
But a good rain would destroy any sign of Aimee's scent.
And then, when Rebecca began to seriously consider that perhaps Bruce was leading them on his version of a nightly walk, with no more intent behind it than a call of nature and even Phileas cast her a dubious glance as he once again passed her . . . Bruce stopped.
It was at a thoroughly unremarkable door - wood with iron fittings - set into a brick wall. There were small windows on either side and Phileas took the one, Rebecca the other.
The grime obscuring the glass appeared to be on both the inside and outside of the pane, for a wipe with her handkerchief did little to improve the blurry view of a room. There was movement within. There was sound - even through the glass. A raucous gathering of drunkards, but how many?
"Fifteen," announced Phileas. "Perhaps eighteen."
"No 'perhaps' about it. Eighteen."
He joined her at the window on the left and peered in. "Eighteen. No visible weaponry, but that doesn't mean they're unarmed." His lips drawn into a wry smile, Phileas gestured toward the door. "After you?"
"You're too kind-"
Before Phileas managed to get his fingers on the handle of the door, it was thrown open. They stepped back in more than enough time to avoid being struck. Bruce, who'd had his nose wedged at the base of the door, let out a yelp. The ruffian exiting the place started at the noise; Bruce slipped past him and into the watering hole, the leash trailing behind him.
It was quite by accident that Phileas dropped toward the leash just as she did - they were usually far more synchronized in their movements and the fact the leash moved in fits and starts with no discernible pattern seemed to complicate matters. Rebecca smacked her forehead on the flat pane of the door in an attempt not to collide with Phileas. Her cousin, however, over-balanced and landed flat on his face just inside the doorway of the dubious establishment.
To characterize the floor as filthy would have been an understatement. To say that sound ceased completely, an exaggeration. The truth between those two was that Phileas rose to his feet unassisted, brushing his coat and trousers as he moved, his expression absolutely blank. After touching her forehead and checking her fingers for blood - they were clean - Rebecca moved to stand beside him, generally assured that she hadn't completely cracked her head open on the door.
She glared at Bruce, who was watching them with wide, sorrowful eyes from beneath a rickety wooden table. "Bad dog," she scolded. "Very bad dog."
Releasing a whine, Bruce lowered his head to his paws, as if unwilling to move. Rebecca stepped forward to take the leash from the floor beside him, but found herself cut off by a man who smelled abominable - he was scruffy and looked as if neither he nor his worn clothing had seen water in the nearer side of a fortnight.
"Looking for something, mademoiselle?" he asked, his accent declaring him Parisian-born. That he was so ill-bred she decided was not entirely the fault of the city.
She opened her mouth to respond in kind, but Phileas caught hold of her arm and stepped in front of her with a move of such elegant simplicity, she almost found herself more admiring than annoyed by the maneuver.
Almost.
But Phileas was well accustomed to situations like this and lifted his fingers from her arm a mere second before she would have shaken off his hold . . . or forcibly removed it, if necessary. His eyes and his attention were centered completely on the man who had confronted her.
"I need to find a man named 'Dondre.'" The room quieted further as the statement settled upon them, then he added, "And a child."
The light was minimal, oil lamps hung at intervals on walls that were cracked, caked with soot and other substances. There were three tables of varying sizes, a few chairs and two benches, all mismatched and obviously having seen better days. One even bore ancient traces of gilt. Loot from the revolution? Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
She could not bring herself to think that of Phileas. Even with a smear of dust on his cheek, his coat and trousers stained, he was every inch a gentleman. He waited as the crowd of men at the bar and near the tables parted. He knew how to bide his time.
So, it seemed, did Dondre . . . if he was the man hunched over a drink at the bar, his back toward them. What Jules had described as 'old' was more a dissolute man in late-middle age. There was a skeletal look to the hand that lifted the ceramic mug from the bar, a slight shake that could have been palsy or too much spirits or both. His clothing had no doubt seen better days, and those must have been long past before the coat and trousers fell into the procurer's hands.
"So you're the one," he said aloud. Another swallow from the cup, then it was dropped to the bar, discarded as useless. Dondre turned, his eyes studying the length of Phileas. "Yes, it would be you. He was lucky to find you for her. Or has he pimped for you before?"
The man's gaze made her feel as if something cold and disgusting had touched her bare skin. She didn't shiver, refusing to give him the benefit of anything but an angry glare.
Dondre smiled, rotted teeth showing in his mouth as he chuckled to himself and took a none-too-steady step forward. "I can see why you'd prefer the little girls - this one must be too much to handle. Leave her with me, though, and I'll break her for you. When you came back she'd be mild as a -"
"The child," said Phileas, in a tone of voice Rebecca recognized as one he used when addressing men he'd already marked for death. "Where is Aimee?"
"You want her for the night?" There was a hesitation as he considered Phileas' grim expression. "No, you want her for your own. Have to give the boy that - cleaning her up was the right thing to do."
It suddenly struck Rebecca that she'd forgotten about Verne, now drugged senseless in the Aurora so that he might sleep through the initial pain from the beating he'd received. The beating this man had ordered. The beating this man had watched and no doubt enjoyed.
Phileas knew her too well, anticipating her move forward, catching her wrist and holding the edge of the sleeve so the knife she had prepared to throw at Dondre caught in the lace at the edge of her cuff. The metal tip drew blood from her wrist, biting into her skin, and she hissed her anger in Phileas' ear, coming up hard against the back of his interfering shoulder.
He stood against her, even the force of her anger unable to shift him. Eyes fixed on Dondre, Phileas asked, "How much for the child?"
Dondre picked up the nuance of none-too-subtle threat in her cousin's tone, taking a half-step backward. He continued his appraisal of his opponent, then shook his head. "No. This isn't just the one thing for you, is it? No matter what I say, you'll pay it. Or double it." He bit his lip thoughtfully. "I sell you the girl now . . . and I think I might not wake up tomorrow. I keep the girl, you leave me alone. You kill me, she dies."
"I'll find her before that happens," Rebecca hissed in her cousin's ear, still glaring at Dondre over his shoulder.
But Phileas didn't respond, either to her, or to Dondre. She realized that his gaze was now centered on another man at the bar, the man who'd been standing beside Dondre.
Verne had been right - the man was large enough to block out the sun. He had several inches on Phileas in height and his chest seemed broader than the width of her skirts. The cloth of his shirt was drawn tightly across his back, as if it barely fit him, and the muscles of his arms were well defined even beneath the thin sleeves. Part of her went wild at the challenge he would pose as an opponent, at the possibility that he would evenly match her if they battled with any kind of weapon.
Her common sense told her that she'd want weapons. Because if he got his hands around her throat, he could snap her neck as easily as wring the life from a chicken with one swift twist of the spine.
"Good God," she whispered. "It's a wonder Jules wasn't killed."
Phileas ignored her; his attention was fixed on Dondre. "You're right - as long as you have the girl, you're safe. But I won't stop until she's out of your hands. We've reached an impasse." He nodded once, as if deciding something. "Will you stand a wager, to settle the matter?"
"A wager?" asked Dondre, licking his lips with interest. He glanced at the men around him, none of whom seemed disposed to move forward to help . . . or hinder. "What sort of wager?"
"I'll take on your man, there, for the best of three rounds."
For a moment, Rebecca thought she'd swallowed her tongue. She got as far as, "Phileas! Are you-?!" before he raised the back of his hand at the height of his shoulder as a signal to silence her.
The boxer, turning to face them from the bar, succeeded where Phileas did not - she was speechless at the sheer size of him. His nose had been broken at least once, and poorly set, but she didn't like the way he eyed Phileas. The slight upturn of his lip was an expression of utter confidence in his own ability.
To be honest, she couldn't blame him.
Dondre, too, was eyeing his man and then Phileas in turn. He was still none-too-steady on his feet but seemed to take his time appraising the situation. "A wager between gentlemen, heh?" Black rot showed through his uneven grin. "One round, market rules. You win - you get the child. I win -" he leered at Rebecca, "I get what's left."
"Done," announced Phileas, then turned toward Rebecca to enlist her aid in removing his coat. "If I lose," he whispered, "run like hell."
Her glare was sufficient unto itself to let him know what she'd do if he lost . . . and it obviously didn't include running. But she took his coat as he slipped his arms from it.
"I'm serious," he added, starting on the buttons of his vest. "Head for the Aurora."
She slapped his hands from his vest and began to undo the buttons methodically, already imagining Passepartout's murmured sighs about torn buttonholes. "You're a bigger fool than I thought if you believe I'm going to run off and leave you here at the mercy of that-that-"
"Language, Rebecca," he said warmly, "remember, we're in company."
"You'll forgive me if I don't appreciate the company you keep." The vest was open and he shrugged out of that as well, handing it to her. She folded it neatly over a chair and turned to find him unfastening his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up to his forearms. "I don't see how you can win. That's not a man - that's a bear wearing trousers and bracers."
"The crowd seems to have some faith in me." With a slight smile, Phileas nodded toward a table upon which franc notes were being tossed; one man loudly declaimed the change in odds as more and more money fell to the table. Phileas listened for a moment, then winced. "Two to one odds - better than I'd expected. If you've any pin money left, I'd suggest you place a wager."
"I'll do a damned sight better than that." Before he could protest, she reached down to unhook her skirt and stepped out of it, then shrugged out of the blouse as well, thankful that she'd dressed for action.
It took her a second to realize that absolute silence had fallen and every eye in the place was upon her leather clothing. Then, just as suddenly, the man at the table collecting wagers was inundated as fistfuls of francs rained down upon him and the calls of the men placing bets reached the level of a full-blown din.
"Now you've queered the odds." Phileas shook his head disappointedly. "I'll never know what they might have given me."
"Learn to live with the disappointment," she said sharply. "As your second, I hope to help you do just that." Rebecca glanced down to see a man draw a chalk line at the center of the room, while others pushed chairs and tables back against the wall. "Do we have any idea what their market rules entail?"
"No. Although I should think they'll be more at odds than not with the London Prize Ring rules." Phileas rubbed his left fist against the palm of his right hand then reversed the maneuver, watching his competitor drink at the bar the entire time. "Whatever his plans, he can expect no less from me than he gave Verne."
The fighter's second was far less imposing - he had the features of a stoat, with tiny eyes and a slim, wiry frame. She realized that she could take him within two moves and relaxed slightly, turning her attention back to the man-mountain at the bar. "You don't intend to kill him?"
"If I can avoid it. He's no more than a dog on a leash." Phileas gestured toward Dondre in an off-handed manner. "Keep your eyes on the procurer. When it starts to go badly for his man, he'll slip away and lead you to Aimee."
"You won't mind if I don't entirely share your over-confidence."
"If there wasn't any risk, it wouldn't be worth the wager." He met her cold look with a grim smile, then placed his hand on her shoulder. "The child is in far more danger than I. We both know that."
"But we don't both have to like it." She frowned at him, then kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Luck."
"I'd rather have skill on my side. You will manage to keep that ferret from slamming the side of a chair into my kidneys when my back is turned?"
"I thought he looked rather more like a stoat."
"Stoat?" Phileas raised an eyebrow, gave the man in question an appraising stare, then nodded. "I think you're right. A ferret has more dignity."
"Come to scratch, gentlemen, if you would please," called a man from the center of the floor, pointing down at the chalk line at his feet.
No gentleman would have fought with his fists and in his shirtsleeves unless he considered himself a 'gentleman amateur' . . . at least not under these circumstances and certainly not in England, where prize-fighting was contrary to the Queen's law in many places. But Rebecca fought the urge to inform the linesman that he was mistaken.
She'd never seen Phileas box. There had been tales of his performances at school and occasional friendly bouts with Erasmus at an even earlier age. Those had developed into rough-house contests ended only when a item of furniture or bric-a-brac had been broken, a piece of clothing torn, or one of them was caught at the collar by an intervening servant. That Sir Boniface had never personally intervened had not seemed strange to her at the time - there was always a servant at hand for that. But as she thought back now at the look on his face as he'd watched the fighting, it was never that of a father watching his sons, but as a general watching his officers in training.
Odd, to think of that now.
She'd seen Phileas fight, had fought beside him herself of course, with and without weapons . . . though a gentleman preferred weapons to bare-fisted brawling. A weapon could be controlled and used to advantage, while there were too many uncertainties without one. Weapons required specified skill, but fighting with nothing but one's fists and wits involved other skills. Phileas had the required grace of movement and the strength . . . but she wasn't entirely certain that he had the physical brute force so evident in his opponent. He would have to be clever, have to discover the man's inevitable weakness - for there would be one, no man of that size and shape would be tied to a creature like Dondre if he could make money in sporting houses. For Phileas, it was only a matter of finding his opponent's Achilles' heel before he had his own skull crushed.
The stoat took his position some three paces behind his man and she mirrored him. There was no circle drawn, as in a proper match, but the crowd provided their own limitations to the battlefield, hovering close and giving the air a heady mixture of stale liquor, sweat, and a general state of unwash as their contribution to the event. Their cries were raucous, bordering on and passing into obscenity even before the action began; she made note of three distinct French phrases that she vaguely understood and would like to use in future. Perhaps she could ask Verne.
Or perhaps not. It was tempting, if only to make him blush.
Verne would not approve of this, not only the sport - his opinion most likely being that it encompassed the worst of senseless brutality - but also that it was a form of revenge on his behalf. After the fact, she might be able to convince him that he was wrong about the latter assumption. This was only a means to an end, a way to remove Aimee from the clutches of Dondre and his ilk in such a fashion that not even the local thugs would assist the villain if he again attempted to abduct the child - they, after all, had their own sense of fair play.
It was just as well Verne wasn't present, for he would see through her words of excuse to the lie they shielded. One look at the expression on Phileas' face - the cold, collected, determined look he reserved for those who had wronged himself and his - and there would have been no question. For her own part, she approved of this. One could be magnanimous during the great game, where the slaughter of nations could be dismissed by great powers as a lady might not deign to notice a gentleman's tread upon her skirt hem. Even when individuals were involved, the code of conduct still remained somewhat set, and though losses might fester, one took such things in stride. This however, the deliberate beating of a friend and an innocent who only sought the salvation of a misplaced child, was not to be tolerated.
The boxer paused only to remove his shirt, tearing it from his chest with a disregard to buttons and buttonholes that would have made Passepartout wince, and to the accompaniment of a cheer from the ravening sportsmen. Naked from the waist up, he was all muscle.
She hoped that description could also be applied to his brain.
Silence fell, as the lineman raised a handkerchief into the air. His fingers released it, the cloth fluttering to the floor not unlike a wounded dove. It had barely fallen to rest when the first blow landed and the voice of the crowd rose about her like a sea of sound, thirsty for blood, and hurt, and pain . . . preferably someone else's.
That someone else was Phileas - an Englishman, a stranger, and a member of the upper class. Even with his fists raised in the traditional manner, the boxer had been too quick for him. His nose appeared slightly bloody, but not broken - there was no telltale swelling and she was certain she would have heard the crack even above the thunder of the crowd's approval. That he had managed to keep his skull from being smashed in meant that he'd drawn back in time, yielding a foot from the line. Not the most auspicious beginning. For a few seconds Phileas was driven to parrying the blows that rained heavily upon him, giving ground. His shirt buttons were beginning to suffer from the body blows, falling underfoot with no real notice.
It was not long before both men's skins shone with the sweat of their efforts. The boxer's arm shot out, the blow aimed at a place Phileas' eye had been a moment before, but that his fist had replaced. There was no foolish attempt to stand his ground - Phileas knew enough to move to wherever the boxer was not, but his efforts were reduced to blocking blow after blow. With a target so large, she would have thought it would be easy to find an undefended square of skin on that broad body, but the pugilist had experience on his side, knowing when to turn, when to block, and how not to leave himself undefended. It would take, however, an infinite engine to keep a body that size running in such a manner. Rebecca was quite certain that Phileas meant to tire his opponent before pressing an advantage - but could he last long under such a merciless assault?
The question became moot - the stoat shifted from his position behind the champion to the side of the ring. He appeared to be enjoying the spectacle as much as any other member of the crowd, carrying a ceramic tankard in one hand, but his eyes kept watching Phileas. Either he planned to spill the liquid to the floor and cause Phileas to fall, or the tankard could be used as weapon in the side or small of the back without eliciting too much comment from the watchers. These were, of course, 'market rules.' The seconds in this match were as much a part of the show as the combatants.
It was too easy. Rebecca maneuvered herself to the stoat's left. When he stepped forward she tripped him, so that he fell not into the ring but into the spectators. As he attempted to rise, she offered him a hand . . . and an elbow between the shoulder blades that knocked him to the floor.
Wisely, the stoat didn't move from that position. An old codger at the front of the crowd met her eyes, winked approvingly, and handed her his own ceramic cup. She smiled, sipped at it, fought to keep from spitting out what only these men could call 'wine,' then turned her attention back to the match.
Rebecca had never found the sound of a fist smacking into flesh overly appealing. She learned, through training, what the varying sounds of blows might signify. To see an opponent favor his left shoulder after having delivered a kick to the joint that echoed with a resounding 'thwack' did make one's next move somewhat easier to decide. More often than not the roar of the crowd and the ever-increasing call to wager muffled the sounds of impact. The few she heard were not at all informative.
There was little blood as yet - the pugilist had drawn nothing since the first shot when he'd struck Phileas' nose. The bruising on their bodies would not appear immediately, although she could begin to see some discoloration on the boxer and the part of Phileas' chest not covered by his shirt. That the boxer had received such damage surprised her - she hadn't seen the blows. The two different styles were now evident to her; Phileas' fists were quick, his strikes sudden and directed, while the pugilist relied upon the power of the body behind his fists, pummeling. It was the difference between the sculptor using a chisel and the quarryman using a pick, each would remove sections of rock but with far different results.
For Phileas and the boxer it became nothing more than a matter of gaining ground. Neither was striking below the belt - although how much longer that would last, she couldn't say - but they grappled at least twice after the removal of the stoat from the proceedings. The larger man was tiring. Although sweat covered each of them, their foreheads and necks shining even in the dim light from the oil lamps, the pugilist was the one who struggled. Perhaps he wasn't used to fighting an opponent with excellent reflexes and maneuverability? Phileas seemed to change position each time she blinked, never where his opponent's fist landed but always to the left or the right, ready to land a counter punch to the shoulder, or arm, or chin.
That isn't to say that he went untouched. At one spectacularly mis-timed interval, Phileas caught a blow to the side of the chin that sent him spinning back into the crowd of spectators. They helpfully threw him into the pugilist's path, but he ducked, caught the boxer with some tight punches in the stomach, then launched himself sideways when the boxer began to crumble down around him.
Rebecca grabbed hold of Phileas' right arm and pulled him to his feet. "You might avoid trying to get hit."
"I'll - remember - that." He was nearly bent double, hands on his knees, watching as the boxer attempted to disentangle himself from the crowd. "One - more - and - he's through."
"I think he'd say the same about you." Grabbing a half-filled cup from someone's hands, she held it up to his lips.
Phileas took a long swallow, then spat it out and turned an accusing glare on her. "Rebecca!"
"Can you do this?" She nodded toward the boxer. "Finish him off?"
He continued to glare.
"Honestly?"
"Yes."
"I'm after Dondre, then." She raised her head enough to see the tail ends of the man's coat disappear beyond the crowd, through a doorway.
The boxer was heading toward them, murder in his eye. Rebecca gave Phileas a slight pat of encouragement on the back, then turned and pushed her way into the crowd. The first foreign hand that touched her body as she passed received a broken finger for his pains. After that, the crowd gave her a considerable berth. She paused just as she reached the door and looked back at a roar from the crowd.
The boxer had just landed a blow that appeared to have left Phileas dazed; her cousin had been knocked back to the rim of the crowd and was fighting his way unsteadily to his feet. The boxer, unhurried, was grinning broadly, moving forward with the air of a hunter that has finally sighted a mortally wounded prey.
Frowning, Rebecca realized she wasn't going to make it back through the crowd in time to intervene, nor could she risk throwing a knife without endangering Phileas. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she took the one course open to her.
She whistled, long and loud, precisely as Phileas had earlier that evening.
There was an answering bark from Bruce, who leapt to his feet from beneath the table under which he'd been crouched, wagging his tail. He began to weave his way through the crowd, as if attempting to make his way toward her.
There was also a momentary pause in the boxer, who looked directly at her in response to the whistle, meeting her eyes across the crowd. Puzzled, he stared for a second too long. When he turned back to his prey, he received a fist directly in the face for his distraction. His neck snapped back and he staggered. Phileas pressed the initiative, catching the giant on the chin before defensive hands could be raised. And he struck a second time; there was the weakness, exploited at every opportunity.
Rebecca didn't much think of the chances of the boxer regaining his feet, especially as Phileas kept moving forward to press his advantage. There was no exchange of blows, just a brutal, relentless pummeling, not unlike what had been done to Verne. The boxing match had turned into a beating. Although Phileas would not prolong it beyond time, this type of revenge was something of which Verne would not approve.
What Verne would never be told could not possibly cause him any grief. As for herself - Rebecca felt momentary satisfaction for bringing about the boxer's downfall, but the feeling was only momentary.
There was still the child . . . .
The door led to a thin wooden hall, the only light from the tavern area. She left it slightly ajar and that thin sliver of light from the tavern became a beacon in the darkness. Rebecca paused only long enough to let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom, then began to make her way down the hall with even steps.
The floorboards creaked, the wood on the walls was splintered; she could feel her fingertips pick up soot from previously hung lanterns. The tavern smells followed her here, merging into a combination of stale wine, and vomit, and urine, with the addition of a mustiness from the lack of fresh air and windows. The maze of corridors and small rooms might as well have been underground, twelve to twenty feet from an outer wall or window on one side and who knew how far inside from the other. There was no day or night in this place, except for the coveted rooms near the walls and the garrets that lined the roofline. She had thought Verne unfortunate in his housing and now she was forced to revise her option - he lived in a palace compared with the souls who might exist here.
Many of those who would live in such a place did so from desperation, needing a place to hide from the law, from creditors, from each other . . . but the cry of an infant, quickly hushed, made that realization all the more poignant. It was the others, trapped here by their family ties, by the lack of anything better ever being offered to them, that she should consider. Children like Aimee knew only two worlds - this 'home' and the grand houses of the men who abused them. She could not save them all.
But she could save this one.
It would have been prudent to bring a light. The wall ended, the corridor twisting, turning, breaking into small hallways with doors and sometimes nothing more than curtains to delineate private rooms from the passageway. Rebecca took the time to peer into them - those that were not bolted or barred - little more than closets with chamberpots, some so small she wondered that anyone could lie full-length upon bedding. Sometimes there were lights and frightened eyes shone at her from the near darkness - hard-faced women with sleepy children clutched in their laps. In others there were sounds that told her she did not need to investigate too much farther, that this was not her goal. No one was disturbed by her prying, nor interested in her; such searches of this place were not uncommon. She found herself calling, "Aimee," softly, voice hushed in awe of the terrible oppression of the place, as well as the understanding that this was not her world and ambush was not only possible, but likely.
Minutes passed and yet seemed like hours. She held her breath in the darkness and listened to words, to sounds, to sobs, all but despairing of finding the child in this warren. And yet she could not return to Phileas, could not return to Verne and to the Aurora, without Aimee.
There was a sound that caught her attention, a rhythmic padding and heavy breathing. Floorboards creaked behind her. Rebecca flattened herself against the wall and made her way around a corner. Her own breath held, she listened as her pursuer approached. When she shot out from her hiding place, there was no neck or chest or shoulder to receive her blow and she nearly toppled headfirst into the wall, having been blocked by something just short of waist-high that was soft, furry, and deceptively well-muscled. She fell, caught herself, and found a blast of hot breath on her neck.
Bruce touched a cold wet nose to her upraised hand. His tongue seemed to wrap around her fingers, a head turn instantly coating them in slime. Hugging the animal, Rebecca wiped her fingers as best she could on his coat. "Good boy," she murmured. "Very good boy."
The tail thumped against one of the corridor walls and she made her way to her feet if only to move the massive creature to the center of the hall. "Well, Bruce, what shall we do now?"
The dog nuzzled the back of her knee and pressed close to her. Placing her hand at the back of his head, she scratched him absently while she thought. Tracking Aimee using Bruce would be ideal - he'd brought them this far after all - but they'd left the nightshirt with the child's scent back at their starting point. She had no idea if the dog could still track on the previous scent.
What else was there to do?
"Bruce?" She placed a hand beneath his head, lifting it upward slightly. "We need to find Aimee, Bruce. Fetch. Fetch Aimee."
Unlike the last time, there was a pause. Bruce took in a long breath of air - she could feel the lungs expand beneath her left hand, which rested on the dog's side. The head swung back and forth and then lowered to the floor. The sound of sniffing reminded her of the clockwork-like, mechanical noises that would issue from one of Passepartout's smaller experiments.
Then Bruce began to move. This was not the headlong dash they had experienced earlier, but a slow sweep of the floor as the dog, head lowered and nose down, began to follow her instructions. Rebecca fumbled in his fur for the collar and then for the lead, making an attempt to wrap her hands around it but giving herself a chance to release the leash if Bruce should take to his paws at full speed again.
He turned around, leading her back over the path she'd taken into the warren. She followed without question. Bruce had far more information than she at the moment, and his senses gave him a form of sight she lacked. At first she feared his bellow would echo from the walls, but he remained quiet, only sniffing, whining, and occasionally growling as he tugged her insistently through the corridors.
Rebecca allowed Bruce his head and kept her own senses tuned to the other sounds and presences around them. When he paused at a doorway or curtain, she waited for a heartbeat. If Bruce didn't move on, she investigated further, only to find nothing of interest. Habitation meant harshly muttered excuses in return for hostile looks, or sincere, calming words when facing a wide-eyed child. And still Bruce moved on.
There was no way to hasten the process, much as she would have desired it. It occurred to her that Phileas, after hopefully having defeated the pugilist and fighting his way out of the crowd of well-wishers, would have little hope of finding her. Perhaps it would be more prudent to find her way back to the tavern and begin again. There would be a dozen exits to a place like this. Dondre may have already fled and, God forbid, have taken Aimee with him as a form of insurance.
Bruce stopped. It was so sudden that she stumbled, placing her hands on his back to keep from falling. Realizing that his neck had risen as if he were about to bay, Rebecca dropped to her knees at his head and wrapped her arms around the massive snout. "Sssh! Bruce, be quiet. Quiet. Good boy. Quiet."
The dog whined under the constraints of her embrace, nuzzling against her. She carefully released her hold on his snout, and when he did nothing more than pant, she scratched his head between the mismatched ears and whispered again, "Good boy, Bruce."
It was a curtain rather than a door, and the sound of muffled sobbing could be heard - a child's voice. A slight touch on the end of the curtain showed only blackness - no light had been lit.
"Aimee?"
Her voice was soft, meant to be reassuring. The sobbing stopped, then seemed more subdued, as if dampened by a pillow or a fist.
"Aimee, it's Rebecca." She took a step into the darkness, feeling her way. Another step brought a wooden post to hand - some sort of bedstead or sleeping cupboard or storage cabinet? "Remember, you met me last night. We went shopping today and had lunch at the park. I'm Jules' friend."
There was a choked sob, unmuffled, from somewhere just down and to her left. "They - they - hurt - Jules."
"Yes, they did, darling. But the doctor is taking care of him and he'll be better soon. He's worried about you." She knelt now, brushing aside refuse from the floor - a blanket, some boots, a pipe perhaps - to find the edge of the wooden frame. "Where are you, Aimee?"
"Here. I'm here. Rebecca, he broke my doll! And she didn't cry or anything!"
Something brushed her arm. Rebecca stilled and brought her hands together, finally catching hold of the child's hand between her own fingers. That led to the rest of the arm and a scrawny body that molded against her. Arms moved to encircle her neck. There was the scent of soap and wet tears as a face was pressed beneath her cheek.
"I want Jules," said Aimee, in a half-sob.
"He very much wants to see you, too," answered Rebecca, tightening her embrace and choking back the break in her own voice. Little sense to cry now. Perhaps later, when this was over.
Yes. Later.
"Best to get you out of here," she said, a little more sharply than she intended. Rebecca grasped the wooded frame, pulling herself upward to compensate for the extra weight in her arms. "And perhaps a light. Aimee, is there a candle here?"
"Yes. But I'm not allowed--"
The child wasn't crying any longer - it made things easier. "Can you find it for me?"
Aimee struggled down from her arms. There were sounds in the darkness, then a small lump of wax was pressed into Rebecca's hand. She pulled one of the phosphorus matches from her kit and lit the wick.
It was not such a bright light, but sufficient for the purpose. Bruce's head was stuck beneath the curtain, his nose sniffing as if it had a mind of its own, pointed toward Aimee. The child moved behind her, one hand around Rebecca's waist, peering out at the intruder.
"It's all right," said Rebecca, dropping to her knee again and placing an arm around Aimee. "That's Bruce. He's a friend. He helped us find you."
"Jules?" asked the child, turning her face toward Rebecca.
She hadn't known what to expect. Tear stains, certainly, perhaps a swath of dirt. There had been a bruise on the left cheek, fading this morning but darkened again. The right cheek was matched by a scratch, probably the result of a slap.
"Not Jules," said Rebecca absently. It took an effort not to raise a hand to the child's face, not to touch the new marks, not to pull the child into another embrace. "Jules was sleeping. Phileas and I --"
Aimee had moved her hand toward Bruce's snout, but jerked back as the dog shifted its head toward the door, its body moving to the far side of the curtain and into the corridor. There was a short, sharp bark beyond the curtain, followed by a low growl. Rebecca was on her feet before a second had passed, the child moved behind her, a knife shifting down into her left hand, the candle still held - fingers hiding most of the dim flame - in her right.
"I would be very much obliged, Rebecca, if you would refrain from putting a knife in my ribs."
Such a sense of relief filled her at the sound of Phileas' voice that she almost closed her hand upon the candle and snuffed the flame. A flick of her wrist set the knife back into place in its sheathe. "Yes, Phileas - I've found her. She's here."
The curtain was shifted to one side and he paused there, shirt partially rebuttoned where possible, rolling down his sleeves. His gaze, however, was for Aimee, who was still partially hidden behind Rebecca. "Any sign of Dondre?"
"None."
Phileas looked down as Bruce stuck his massive head beneath the curtain again, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he greeted Phileas by trailing a new lead of slime across his boots. "A good tracker, but a poor watchdog."
"You're friend, not foe," chided Rebecca.
"At least he thinks so." Phileas didn't move forward, remaining in place.
The action puzzled her until Rebecca realized that Aimee was still hiding behind her - only one eye peered carefully past the formidable bulwark of her fighting attire. After placing the candle on the wooden crate to her left, Rebecca turned to pick up the child . . . but Aimee backed away. Fingers pressed to her mouth, she was watching Phileas with wide eyes.
Her throat tightening, Rebecca stole a quick glance at him, wondering at this continued reticence. "Do you think . . . could he have touched her . . . could he . . . ." The words wouldn't quite form to bring so horrible a thought into common speech.
There was a sudden darkness behind his eyes. "Would it matter now?" Kneeling, but remaining where he was, Phileas said softly, "Come here, Aimee. It's time we took you to back to Verne."
There was the slightest break in his voice when he spoke, the tonal infraction imperceptible to anyone but her. At first the child didn't move, as if she were mesmerized, her eyes fixed on his . . .but then she launched herself across the small space and into his arms. Far easily than she would have thought possible, Phileas scooped Aimee up as if the move were second nature to him.
"Time to go," agreed Rebecca, taking a step toward him.
Phileas held up the flat of his hand, stopping her. "No. Not quite yet."
That's when she heard growling.
"Whistle for Bruce," hissed Phileas. "Now!"
Rebecca did so, placing two of her fingers in her mouth. The ear-piercing shriek echoed in the small space so that even Aimee placed her hands over her ears. The curtain shifted and partially tore away as Bruce came barreling through it, misjudging the distance and skidding into her feet.
Rebecca thought herself prepared for the hundred-odd pounds of uncontrolled canine and she was, generally giving little ground as the animal drove her back into the wall. It was as she picked up his leash that the candle flame caught the glint of a gun barrel in the hall and revealed a shadowy figure behind it.
Releasing a small whimper, Aimee ducked her head into Phileas' shoulder, turning her face away. There was a small gun in Phileas left hand, taken from his boot-top - it amazed Rebecca to think he'd been in such a furious brawl with it still in place. He could have blown off his foot, for heaven's sake!
And now it was gun against gun . . . plus the knife in her hand. She hand only to shift her wrist and--
"Rebecca, would you be so kind as to take Aimee from me?"
Damn the man. She could take Dondre with the knife. She knew she could.
And she'd hesitated a second too long. Not daring to take his eyes from Dondre, Phileas repeated stiffly, "Rebecca. If you would be so kind."
He needed his hands free, that much was understood between them. In other circumstances she might have fought him on the matter. He'd certainly hear about this later, in great depth and detail, but for now there was a dog and a child to protect.
Rebecca pried Aimee from Phileas' shoulder, all the while keeping taut hold of Bruce's leash. The dog was alert, looking from her to Phileas and back again, then growling low in his throat when Dondre stepped toward the room.
"That's close enough," ordered Phileas. With the slightest motion of his right hand, he indicated she should move into the multilevel sleeping closet. His gaze and his attention, however, remained centered on Dondre. "We've settled this matter. I've won - the child's mine."
"You've won the child," snarled Dondre, "but where's my protection now? What's to keep you from coming after me? No, it's not settled, not settled by half."
"We've reached another impasse." Phileas stepped out into the hall, forcing Dondre back, out of candle range. "I would imagine you have a suggestion?"
His hand reached up and closed what remained of the curtain. She could see his shoulder and the slight movement that told her he'd changed the gun to his right hand. He was good with either, but favored the right. A better line of draw when the muzzle flashed, he'd claimed.
"Like gentleman?" asked Dondre, something eager in his voice.
No.
"This is a matter of honor," agreed Phileas.
Rebecca swallowed and held Aimee close against her, not daring to speak the words aloud. Damn him and his ideals. Damn him for wanting his cake and eating it, too - observing the formalities and yet taking this notion of an eye for an eye down to the last blessed level. There were no seconds here. This was not the break of dawn in an agreed upon field covered with dew soaked grass. Only Phileas could be said to be dressed for the occasion and even he under-dressed at the moment.
There was so much that could happen, so much that could go wrong.
Bruce whined pitifully and Rebecca patted the rough and dirty padding in the floor bunk, getting the animal to join her. Phileas had been right - there was some protection in this dank, filthy hole. Better than being wounded by a stray shot. She could think of no place more inappropriate for such an event - a matter of honor between gentlemen.
Dondre was no gentleman. Perhaps that's why Phileas seemed to pursue the matter so eagerly.
She tried not to see the candle's reflection in their boots beneath the bottom edge of the curtain as they stood back to back. Dondre's voice was counting - but he'd never reach ten. He'd turn before that, giving himself an advantage in the almost total darkness.
The counting continued - at five, now.
Rebecca took the advantage from him, bringing her right hand down flat over the flame of the candle, smothering it. She could barely see the gray wisp of rising smoke and smelled the clean scent of the wick giving way to darkness.
With the darkness came a cry of surprise, a shot.
Aimee screamed and clutched her tightly.
Another shot, the sound of a body falling heavily upon a wooden floor.
A moan, half-words and solid footsteps.
A final shot.
Silence, but for more steps and the whisper of the curtain being drawn aside.
"Rebecca?"
"Here," she answered wearily. It was an effort to haul herself up with the child attached to her, but she managed. Phileas' hand rested lightly on her shoulder as if locating her, then he peeled Aimee from her grasp. She took hold of Bruce's leash, tugged on it fruitlessly, then whistled. She heard the dog lumber to his feet and felt the comforting body beneath her hand. Aimee was whimpering quietly and she heard Phileas whisper nonsense to the child in an effort to comfort her. They walked through the dark hallways, Bruce leading them back to the tavern.
Phileas' jacket and vest still remained in the outer room - Rebecca picked them up as they walked past. Dondre's champion was gone. The crowd parted for them, allowing them to pass. And why shouldn't they? Phileas had won, after all, and claimed his prize. They'd all heard the shots. If Dondre had been a poor sport, he had only himself to blame for his own end. His body would appear on a rubbish tip in a day or two, picked clean of anything of worth.
The adrenaline rush had passed. Phileas moved forward and she followed, Bruce wandering on his leash like an over-sized, multi-directional carriage that had a will of its own. Rebecca knew she could not have consciously retraced their steps if she'd tried, but Phileas seemed to know the way, Bruce occasionally loping ahead to herd Phileas away from an alley and into another street. The journey back seemed to stretch into hours . . . but there, ahead, was the lift and the Aurora, awaiting their return.
Rebecca stared down at the alley as it slipped into the darkness beneath them. "We shall have a discussion about this later," she warned, without much passion in her voice.
"Tea or port?"
His answer was equally as drained. Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, considering. Tea discussions were often clear-headed and concise, leading to rifts that could last for days. Port discussions, on the other hand, were loud, boisterous affairs - or as boisterous as Phileas would allow himself to become - that ended only when there was no more port to hand and/or one of the combatants had fallen asleep or into a drunken stupor.
"Port," she decided firmly. "After my mission."
"Ah, yes. Your mission."
What more was to be said for the moment? Phileas waved away Passepartout when he tried to take the child from him. She expected him to deposit her on the chaise lounge in the salon, but instead he headed for the stairs.
"Miss Rebecca, what is--?"
"It's all right, Passepartout," she said softly, following her cousin. Then she turned at the stairway and added, "We should know where we're headed in a little while. Could you manage some tea in the meantime? And something meaty for Bruce - he'd best stay on the lower deck for the moment."
"Of course," he answered promptly, with a slight bow. "And hot chocolat for the littles girl?"
"I think she'll be too sleepy to drink it. Thank you, Passepartout."
Phileas had already entered the room by the time she rounded the top of the stairs. She stood at the door and saw him carefully deposit a sleepy-eyed Aimee beside Jules on the narrow cot. Dr. Picot stood to one side and met her eyes, nodding toward Phileas, who collapsed into a chair, propped his elbow on his knee, and rested his forehead in his hand.
She moved to stand behind him and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Passepartout should be bringing tea shortly. I've told him we should have a decision on a course by then."
"Something else to decide," said Phileas, his tone weary beyond measure.
"If you like, I'll tell him to send us in circles for a bit."
"No." He took her hand from his shoulder, squeezed it gently in his own, and then released it. "We don't have the time." Sitting straighter in the chair, he asked, "How is your patient, doctor?"
"Well enough. Sleeping peacefully, at any rate, but he'll need care for some time."
Phileas took a slow breath, then glanced up at Rebecca. "Duty calls, yes?"
"Yes," she answered sadly.
"Then if it would be possible, Dr. Picot, I'd ask that you arrange the appropriate care, for as long as it will be required. I will, of course, cover any fees."
Dr. Picot nodded slightly in agreement, then cleared his throat. "And if I may ask a favor of you, Monsieur Fogg?"
Rebecca walked over to the doctor and took his hand. "Anything within our power, sir. We're in your debt, for your care of Jules."
"Yes. Well." To her amusement, the doctor flushed slightly. "That's my life's work, mademoiselle, and I thank you for having brought me back to it this night. But there's a favor I would ask. About the child--?"
"What about the child?" asked Phileas, his upright posture suddenly less due to formality than interest . . . and perhaps alarm.
"Jules told me that you were looking for a place for the girl." The doctor folded his hands together, as if he'd rehearsed the words and had prepared himself for the speech in their absence. "There's a doctor of my acquaintance in Dijon with a thriving practice as a surgeon; he and his wife lost their only daughter last year to a wasting disease. His wife can have no more children and their house has been the emptier for it."
Something in Rebecca's heart had stilled at the first question - she'd met Phileas' gaze, but his eyes had remained locked with the doctor's throughout the speech, his expression concerned, interested . . . damn his indifference!
A percentage of his immediate reaction could be easily tagged as civility - Phileas was sometimes rude in jest or when annoyed, but never when faced with a man of breeding such as Dr. Picot, particularly after that man had done them such a great service. There was, perhaps, a certain percentage that could be laid at the doorstep of outright weariness; her cousin had just fought a man twice his size, beaten him at his own sport, then instigated an impromptu duel in absolute darkness with that monstrous pimp . . . .
Better not to think of that. Definitely a port discussion, to be sure. She might even use some of those new phrases she'd picked up this evening.
No, it wasn't indifference. He was seriously considering the matter. And she had to put a stop to it.
With her most charming smile in place, she gestured down at Aimee, saying, "This can surely wait until later, Phileas. The child is exhausted - she needs rest. Then there's Jules to consider, with his injuries . . . ?"
He would not look at her, would not meet her eyes. Phileas stared at the doctor, as if taking the measure of the man's word. "And he is . . . a good man?"
"I have found him such, yes. His wife, too, is very loving. I met them many years ago, shortly after the birth of their daughter. The loss of her from their lives left a terrible void." Dr. Picot raised the back of his hand to his nose and sniffed for a moment - Rebecca had the impression that he was trying to overcome the threatening exhibition of the heartfelt emotion they could hear within his words. After a second, he added, "I don't think you'll find a better accommodation for the little one, monsieur; they will treat her as if she were their own. And in the home of a doctor . . . she will find understanding she would not find elsewhere."
"Still," said Phileas thoughtfully, his gaze falling to the bed, "there is Verne to consider. I don't know his wishes. At our parting this morning, we--" he smiled ruefully at Rebecca, "we had not come to terms on this matter."
Lying was part of what she had been bred to do - for what was espionage but the task of weaving an elaborate web of deception, setting it alight, and then walking through the burning tatters of words and deeds to freedom on the other side? Rebecca lied very well. Well enough, in fact, to occasionally convince Phileas that black was white and that no one in China drank tea. It was one of her gifts.
She could tell Phileas that she didn't know what Verne thought or felt about the matter - they'd discussed it only in passing. She could play upon his guilt - he'd not caused the attack in the alley or the abduction of Aimee, and yet she knew he'd claimed that upon his own conscience, as a debt owed.
Of course he had . . . she'd done that, too. It would not be hard to win this concession now, with these two weapons at her disposal. And he was tired, weary of making decisions. One more arrow in her quiver. It could win them a few days, perhaps a week more . . . .
It would be so easy.
"Jules . . . said." Even as that winsome, inner demon cajoled her to be selfish, to be stealthful, to use her arts and crafts to their fullest measure, to lie . . . Rebecca could not. Nor could she look at Phileas, letting her gaze rest upon Verne and the child, each lost in a forgetful slumber. "Jules said that he would leave the matter to your discretion. I warned him that you'd return this evening with rooms rented and a nanny hired." She forced a smile, despite the tightness in her throat, and turned her gaze to Phileas. "You've not only proven me right, you've gone one better. If this is the place for her, Phileas, we don't have the right to keep her from it."
There was, in the instant she looked at him--before the civil, genteel demeanor could return--something in his eyes that was far from indifferent, far from disinterested. It was as selfish and as personal as the desire she held deep within her own heart.
Dear Lord, had he wanted her to lie?
She was saved from pursuing that inquiry by a happy accident of childhood - Aimee had shifted as she slept, nearly falling from the bed. When Rebecca moved to catch her, the child awakened in her arms with a soft cry. She yawned and rubbed her eyes as she was gently set down upon the edge of the bed. "Rebecca?" A quick turn and a half breath - she caught sight of Verne, sleeping. "Oh."
"You see, we brought you back to Jules," said Rebecca gently. "I told you the doctor was taking care of him."
Small fingers reached out to touch Verne's bandaged hand, then the bruise on his cheek. "He's sleeping?"
"Yes, he's sleeping," agreed Rebecca, forcing what she hoped was a comforting smile. "And you should be sleeping, too; it's very late for little girls to be awake."
Aimee seemed prepared to say more, but then noticed the doctor standing behind Rebecca. Her eyes widened at the appearance of this stranger and she looked back at Verne. Whether she was seeking protection or intended to protect him, Rebecca couldn't say.
"It's all right, Aimee," said Phileas, in a quiet, even tone. "That's Dr. Picot. He's been a very good friend to us, particularly to Verne. We owe him our thanks."
When Phileas spoke, Aimee nearly fell from the bed again, turning to locate him. She watched him for a moment, then looked back at Dr. Picot. She lowered her gaze, as if thinking, then looked back over her shoulder at Phileas again. "Is he a gentleman?"
And were they to answer that question without insulting the good doctor? Rebecca stepped forward quickly and her hand on the child's shoulder to reassure her. "He won't hurt you. See how he bandaged Jules? Dr. Picot is a kind man."
"Dondre told me that some of my gentlemen were doctors."
So matter-of-fact. Then again, it was all that Aimee knew. It was time that she knew better.
"Let me introduce you properly," said Rebecca, taking her hand and leading her from the bed.
Still not quite awake, Aimee went willingly, but drew closer to Rebecca as they approached the doctor. He'd long since shed his coat and Rebecca thought his loosened tie and partially unbuttoned vest gave him an air of charming dishevelment. "Aimee, may I present Dr. Picot. Dr. Picot, this is our very dear friend, Aimee."
"I am charmed, mademoiselle," said Dr. Picot gravely, holding out his hand.
Aimee carefully fit her small one into his grip, watching him all the while as he shook it, then drew her hand back to her chest and held it there after he released her.
The doctor glanced at Rebecca, as if uncertain what to say. "Jules thinks very often of you, Aimee. He'll be glad to know that you're safe."
Aimee leaned forward, her voice low as if she were telling him a secret. "They broke Jules, like they broke my doll. But worse." After a worried glance over her shoulder, she asked anxiously, "Can you fix him?"
"I have done my best, mademoiselle. Now Jules must rest, so that his body will heal." When she continued to stare at him, he chuckled lightly and added, "Yes. He will be fixed. But he must rest."
"We'll take care of Jules," promised Rebecca. She knelt down beside Aimee and placed a hand on each of the child's shoulders. "You trust us to take care of him, don't you?"
Aimee nodded, her gaze again going toward the bed where Verne slept. She yawned and rubbed her eye with the back of her hand, then looked up at Rebecca again. "When will I have to go back?"
"Never!" said Phileas, in such a sharp tone that Aimee started, one hand reaching for Rebecca's arm for support. Realizing that he'd unnerved the child, he rubbed the flat of his palm over his face and then shook his head. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean --"
Rebecca was quite certain that she would have had difficulty dealing with the emotionally naked, honest expression that Phileas had fixed on Aimee if it had been directed at her. But Aimee seemed oblivious to that. The child's brow was furrowed. She glanced at Rebecca, and then back at Phileas, as if trying to solve a puzzle.
"But I belong to Dondre."
"I promise, you will never see Dondre again."
His right hand was clenched into a fist as he spoke. Only that, and the barest edge to his speech, revealed anything of his anger. His tone was moderated, a quiet voice befitting the status of a sickroom and a conversation with a frightened, sleepy child.
And still Aimee was staring at Phileas as if she knew there was something more to this, not quite understanding. Nor, Rebecca hoped, would she ever. It was quite a burden to carry, to know that someone had killed another human being to avenge you, to keep you safe.
She reached out to draw the child into her arms, but Aimee moved away, taking small deliberate steps toward where Phileas was seated. Rebecca glanced at the doctor in concern, then rose to her feet and shadowed the child, uncertain as to what she might do. Phileas was simply watching her with a bemused expression, a bitter edge to his uncertain smile, as if he knew the child would bolt from him at any minute.
She paused within reach of him and placed a small hand on his knee. "Do I belong to you, now?"
"No." His movements slow, Phileas lifted her hand and placed it back upon her chest, over her heart. "No one owns you."
"I don't have to go back?"
"Never," he repeated, his hand still resting atop her own, over her heart. "We will find you a family." He glanced up to meet Rebecca's gaze, then looked over at Dr. Picot as if for confirmation, before returning his attention to Aimee. "You will live in a house with a mother and a father. You will have you own bed and your own dolls. And you will be happy."
"Will it be a glass house? And can Jules live there, too?"
Fighting to stay dry-eyed, Rebecca found her cousin looking up at her - he had no answer. "Perhaps," she said, touching the Aimee's hair lightly. "Perhaps."
That was what her mother had said to her when she was a child. It was not 'no,' or 'never,' but 'someday,' 'maybe.' It was an answer to ease fears, to quiet tears . . . an answer for a little girl to dream upon.
A little girl, with soft hair that curled at the ends.
"A cage," Rebecca said very quietly, "is not always a bad thing."
When Phileas looked up at her and echoed, "Perhaps," she wasn't entirely certain whether he was answering Aimee, or herself.
The child seemed to have come to her own decision. Taking a step closer to him she announced, with an unexpected gravity of tone, "I don't think you're a gentleman, Philly-ass."
"Indeed?" he asked, in a voice so soft that it was almost a whisper.
"Yes." Without warning, Aimee climbed into his lap and settled her head against his neck - to his credit, Phileas didn't move a muscle. She yawned and added sleepily, "But you must take better care of Jules."
"I shall endeavor to do just that," he answered, looking up with a grin and meeting Rebecca's gaze.
"Good."
His arms around the child, Phileas rested his chin upon her hair lightly, his head tilted slightly so that he could meet Rebecca's gaze. "Tell Passepartout to take us to Dijon."
Her own voice was hushed as she watched Aimee's eyelids fluttering - gravity was winning that war. She glanced back toward the doctor, who had the back of his hand to Verne's cheek, checking for signs of fever. "Are we certain, Phileas?"
"At the moment, I'm certain of only three things - that you have a mission awaiting you--"
"Damn the mission," she hissed, but then looked away at his reproachful glance, for neither of them believed she'd walk away from her duty.
"And that Verne will need care for a time. I'll trust Dr. Picot to arrange that when we return to Paris this morning." He leaned his head against the chair back and smiled weakly. "If you'd be so kind as to give Passepartout my instructions . . . and ask him to prepare my cabin - our good doctor is probably in need of more than a few hours rest at this point."
"What about you?"
"I'm comfortable, at the moment." Phileas shifted slightly, grimacing as he moved Aimee to a better situation across his lap, then sighed. "Quite comfortable, thank you."
"All right." Rebecca walked the few steps toward the door, placed her hand on the knob, then paused. Something that he'd said . . . . Turning back to Phileas, she asked, "What was the third thing?"
"Oh. That." Closing his eyes, he added, "If the child didn't leave my protection by tomorrow morning, I should find it impossible to ever let her go."
Had Phileas been less weary, more in possession of himself, he would never have said those words. His eyes were still closed and Rebecca suspected that he had been barely wakeful these past few minutes. She would erase the comment from her memory - the words had never been spoken.
Yet after she closed the door to the room behind her, Rebecca stood in the hall and leaned her forehead against it for a moment. Her eyelids shutting of their own volition, she allowed his words to echo one last time in her heart.
Perhaps.
It was time to head downstairs. There was the cabin to arrange for Dr. Picot, a heading for Dijon to be set, a proper bed prepared for the child . . . .
Perhaps.
She wondered, not without reason, how fate could be so unkind and so unfair to those blessed enough to be born with wings.
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End of Chapter Twelve
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