Chapter 22
Nathaniel came to L’Orchidée briefly on Tuesday morning, only long enough to collect Maman’s ring and reassure Isobel that arrangements were unchanged for the Théatre de la Ga?té.
How things at Cercle des étrangers went the previous night, he did not say.
He also did not specify what the contingency plans were should things not go quite as expected, only that they were prepared.
She was not certain she wished to know details given they were meant for if matters took an acutely dangerous turn, and her mind was already supplying numerous terrifying scenarios.
“I will not tell you not to worry,” he added, “but we do have matters in hand. I expressly trust each man assigned a part in this. Pereira and Quinn in particular are extremely good at their roles, and I’ve worked with both of them for years now.
And although I won’t be inside the theater, I will be nearby and will ensure your sister gets away safely. ”
She nodded. Just as he’d stood between her and danger, so he would also do for Lucy.
What else was there to say, really? Hopefully she and Lucy would be well away from here by dawn tomorrow morning, beginning their journey home.
It was why she’d come to France, even when she hadn’t hoped it possible.
Even if she knew how to voice the immensity within, what purpose would it serve?
She could thank him for all he’d done, but even the words for that dried up, so insignificant, although her gratitude was anything but.
He hadn’t anything more to say than she did. Although, truly, she’d never met a man less inclined of his own accord to fill silences.
His mouth quirked. He’d picked up on her amusement despite not knowing its source.
“Nathaniel . . .” But no, she really did have no words to finish it.
He shook his head brusquely and then closed the distance between them to catch her by the shoulders. One of his hands slid upwards into the hair at the base of her skull, the other tight on her hip.
It was no tender kiss, not at first. She did not feel tender. She felt fierce. Alive, too, with all the good and ill, the joy and heartbreak both, that attended being among the living.
The kiss was— He was saying something, or maybe she was.
But whatever it was could not matter. The kiss gentled.
Mr. Quinn, Mr. Pereira, and Nathaniel would escort Lucy to her. He would see them off on the road to Dieppe if he could, but this was goodbye.
He turned when he reached the door. She still stood in the middle of the room, exactly where he’d left her. He looked for a moment like he might say something else, but instead he smiled: a full one, stealing her breath even as her throat constricted. Such a beautiful man when he smiled.
Her answering smile was tremulous, but it was all she could manage.
Nate checked his watch. Amélie had provided information about the melodramatic performance currently staged at the Théatre de la Ga?té. Pereira and Lucy Muir ought to be coming out shortly.
Amélie had arranged for a distraction should a diversion be necessary to facilitate Pereira aiding Miss Muir.
One of Baudelaire’s men was stationed inside, armed.
Still, had it not been unwise, he’d have preferred being inside himself.
Miss Muir knew him by sight. The risk was too great, however; they did not want Cuvelier to connect Miss Muir’s disappearance with him—with Beaumont.
He had other skills that would serve anyway, the reason he was in this ruelle adjacent to the Théatre de la Ga?té. Quinn had found him a Baker rifle like those they’d both used as sharpshooters in the 95th.
He checked his watch again. Any minute, unless Miss Muir had been unable to get away or Pereira had encountered difficulty.
One of the theater’s outer doors opened.
Miss Muir emerged first, resplendent in a primrose opera dress, Pereira a step behind her.
Monroe, waiting on a nearby bench with a newspaper, casually fell in behind them.
The trio started in the direction of boulevard du Temple. Quinn waited there with a fiacre.
From among the many pedestrians, he spied a man moving with intent behind them. One of Compton’s and Dubois’s men, Corbin by name, the man he and Baudelaire had trailed to Les Moineaux on the day he apprehended Isobel.
Not unexpected. He’d anticipated that there would be more eyes on Miss Muir and Cuvelier than just his. The rifle was ready.
The crowd eddied and swelled on the street. Damnit. He needed passers-by to clear or he was apt to hit someone innocent should he need to fire.
Monroe caught the man’s approach at the last moment, but he was a second or two too late turning.
They struggled briefly; a knife flashed in Corbin’s hand.
Monroe got a single shot off from his pistol as he went down, missing Corbin.
The report echoed off stone, scattering the crowd like gaily colored finches taking flight.
And now I have an opening.
Pereira turned, a knife in his own hand, but Corbin was faster. He snaked an arm around Miss Muir’s throat from behind, pinning her to his body, his knife against her breast.
A quick visual assessment of Monroe revealed no obvious wound, but he was clearly incapacitated, sprawled and gasping at Corbin’s feet. No help there.
Pereira still held his knife but took a step back. Defusing the situation, in theory, but in truth stepping out of Nate’s way. They’d discussed various contingencies in advance.
Time slowed down in the peculiar way it does in moments of extreme gravity.
He’d already estimated the distance; that was still automatic after nine years with the Rifles. Close to seventy-five yards, no breeze to correct. An easy enough shot if he had line of sight.
I need him to release her so she isn’t in the way.
He called Corbin’s name.
Corbin wheeled around, clutching Miss Muir. She was forced up on her tiptoes, face bloodless, pushing ineffectually against his beefy forearm.
“That lamp on the next building over,” he called to Corbin. “It’s thrice again as far from me as you are.”
He shouldered the rifle as Corbin turned his head in the direction of the lamp. The lamp exploded in a hail of glass and oil.
He had the Baker back on his hip by the time Corbin’s head swiveled back around. Through the first shot’s smoke, he kept his eyes on Corbin. “That was a warning shot. Let her go.”
Corbin looked nonplussed. “Non, I do not think I will.”
He flipped open the pan with his thumb without removing his eyes from Corbin. His hands still remembered the tasks like clockwork. “You should rethink that. Let the girl go. You have less than twenty seconds to decide.” Only a few seconds slower than on the Peninsula.
“You are known to me, Beaumont, if that even is your name. I was to tell you, if I saw you, that this is not a business of yours.”
Cartridge now. “I disagree.”
Even at a distance, Corbin’s arm visibly tightened against Miss Muir’s neck. “You will force me to hurt her.”
Several men crept silently from the ruelles to the north and east of the theater. Baudelaire’s men. Corbin noticed them as well, craning his head wildly. “Do not take the littlest step closer, any of you,” he warned.
He tore off the end of the cartridge with his teeth. “Let her go,” he repeated for a third time.
Corbin sneered, but it was edged with panic. And his grip had not slackened at all on Miss Muir, his knife still at her breast.
Faster. Men were at their most unpredictable when they panicked.
He was done negotiating. He took his eyes off Corbin just long enough to attend the priming. Baudelaire’s men would move no closer without cause. Pereira would wait for a signal unless Corbin tried something rash.
“This is not a business of yours,” Corbin repeated. “The man who pays me, she is his concern.”
Close the pan. Butt of the rifle on the ground now, barrel between his knees. Ram the cartridge home with both hands on the rod.
“What is your plan, Beaumont?” Yes, panic in Corbin’s voice now, matching his expression.
“To shoot me down on the boulevard like the dog that is rabid?” His eyes darted, seeking escape routes.
“I do not think you can hit my person with your fancy English gun.” But his voice had lost its bravado.
He was wholly exposed in the middle of the street.
Rod back in its pipe. Steady now. He swung the rifle into position on his shoulder. Sighted on Corbin.
Just behind Corbin, Monroe had come silently into a crouch, back in play. He nodded his head ever so slightly, acknowledging Nate’s readiness to fire, before lunging.
Startled and off balance, Corbin’s arm dropped. Miss Muir shoved free. As soon as she was clear, Nate fired.
Corbin’s right knee shattered, exactly as he’d intended. He’d always been as good a shot as any man in his company. Corbin was scum but hired scum only, more useful alive than dead.
Monroe flipped Corbin face down, and one of Baudelaire’s men produced a length of rope. Pereira sheathed his knife, an arm around Miss Muir’s waist, speaking calmly to her.
He reloaded the rifle as a precaution, although Pereira would get her to safety where Quinn waited. Pereira glanced at him in acknowledgment, still speaking low to Miss Muir.
She returned something, tone sharp but words indistinct at this distance, hand coming up to rub her throat where Corbin had hooked her. Pereira shrugged one shoulder before walking her over.
“You will send word to my sister now.” Her voice, hoarse, shook slightly, but her expression was vehement.
“Aye, I’ll see it done as soon as I’m able.”
“Now.” Her face was hard. “She will be worried.”
He motioned Monroe over. Baudelaire’s men had Corbin in hand; the French agents had interest in him for reasons of their own. Monroe looked a bit sheepish, but save for ballocks that were likely to be sore for a day or two, he was no worse the wear. He could deliver a verbal message to L’Orchidée.
Satisfied, Miss Muir allowed Pereira to direct her down the boulevard.