She turned her face to the window and closed her eyes. “Naught but a shade.”
Chapter 2
Nate paid the driver to set them down in a neighborhood near the Porte Saint-Denis. It was not far from there through several twisting alleyways to the back entrance to L’Orchidée. Before helping the woman down from the fiacre, he returned her bonnet, directing her to flip down the veil.
“Do nothing to bring undue attention upon us,” he warned. “Keep your face covered.” He gripped her upper arm as he helped her down, the other hand at the small of her back to steer her forward.
“I cannot see to walk.” It was not a complaint; her voice held too much resignation and weariness.
“Nor will you see where we go. The street is wet. Watch your feet so you do not misstep. I will direct you.”
She stumbled, swaying slightly.
“You are still unwell,” he observed. “Can you walk?”
“I will manage if you give me a moment.” Except she was clearly unsteady on her feet.
He firmed his grip on her. “When did you last eat? And drink?”
“This morning. An apple in the market and some wine. A bowl of coffee, later.”
Not enough to sustain a person for a day, let alone in the elements. “A meal,” he specified. “When did you last eat a full meal?”
A weary pause. “I am unsure.” Her voice was thin.
She’d had enough coin in her purse to eat.Naught but a shade, so she’d called herself.
“Have you so little care for yourself?” He neither knew her nor trusted her. Why was he angry?
She stepped hesitantly forward. “I believe I can walk now.” She looked at him, or at least he thought she did behind the veil. “I give you my word I will not run.” She made a sound that might have been a laugh, had there been air behind it. “Even could I, I’d not make it far. But I will not try.”
He maintained his grip on her arm. “I am ensuring you do not fall again.”
Keeping a wary eye out for other people on the streets, her coat and valise tucked under one arm, he guided her through the shadows until they reached the ruelle behind rue Sainte-Apolline and then took up position behind her, a hand still at the small of her back.
“You will unlock the gate,” he directed, passing the key over her shoulder. Her hand visibly trembled as she fitted the key in—exhaustion more than fear. She was too worn down for true fear to take purchase; he’d seen it before often enough, beginning with his days in the Rifles.
Rain gently tapped rooftops and ruelle, filling the dark along with the gurgle of water disgorged from L’Orchidée’s gargoyle waterspouts. Édouard, one of Amélie’s men, was posted near the back entrance, a formless shape in the darkness. A few twists ofNate’s hands conveyed that the gate needed locking. Édouard slid silently past.
Nate directed the widow up the interior stairs to the garret room above L’Orchidée. Once inside, he gestured her towards the wooden settle. She sank onto it, working at her bonnet’s ties. Her cap had become unpinned; her hair, damp from the rain, flowed heavy and loose down her shoulders, black in the light of a single oil lamp. She laid the cap aside and gathered her hair in one fist to coil at the base of her head, weariness writ in every movement.
It was chilly tonight in the garret, all the more so in their rain-damp condition. He debated briefly before handing over the greatcoat, empty now of knife and purse. Her glance might have been gratitude as she drew the coat around her shoulders.
He secured the remainder of her belongings in a drawer, pocketing the key, and turned a chair opposite her, straddling it. Arms crossed along the back, he studied her in the flickering light.
She was run ragged by fatigue. The pallor of her face was evident even in the dim room. She was too thin for her frame in the way of deprivation, her cheekbones in sharp relief on her oval face. The exhaustion etched around her mouth and in the hollows beneath her eyes made it hard to guess her age with certainty.Near my own age, maybe.Not above thirty.
She wasn’t a classic beauty, but even exhausted, frightened, and ill, there was something indefinably arresting about her. Theman in him appreciated it; the agent in him would be ten kinds of unwise to dwell on it.
Concealing herself beneath the veil of a widow in simple working-class clothing was prudent. There were many widows on the Continent after the wars, and she might pass unnoticed by most persons, going about her furtive business. It was perhaps her misfortune that he had taken notice of her before she left English soil.
Despite her secrecy and the knives tucked on her person, she did not comport herself like an experienced operative. Fear or something like it was driving her hard, unless he missed his guess, fear that predated their encounter.
She needs food.He had little need to keep food in these rooms but rose to prepare a plate with what he had on hand: the end of a staling loaf of bread, torn quickly into chunks, and some bits of hard sausage. Her eyes tracked his movements, but she remained passive as he set the plate on the floor between their seats. His motivation was not entirely altruistic; kindness could garner cooperation faster than intimidation.
Next, a tumbler of wine for each of them, more water to dilute hers than his. She accepted it with slight hesitation but took a sip as he resumed his position on the chair.
Time to see what answers you’ll give me tonight.“To where were you travelling after the Église Saint-Eustache?”
