Page 92 of Evie and Louis: The Story so Far

“Tais toi!” he hissed as misery hit him in a wave.

Barnaby stiffened and Louis cursed himself and all the vileness that came with him. Barnaby’s French was limited but Louis had been helping him, and he knew what shut up sounded like.

“Not you, Barnaby,” he said, knowing he must sound utterly unhinged.

He had to see Evie. This only confirmed his suspicions that the past was coming for him. It was not possible, and yet Louis knew with a sickening sense of certainty that it was true. They must be married before everything went to hell or he would lose her, and lose himself, and any hope of happiness. He would not allow his life to be ruined yet again. No one would take this astonishing chance he had been given away from him. He tugged the drawer in his desk open, unlocking the small box inside and taking out the lock picks. Tucking them away in a pocket, he slammed the box shut and headed for the door.

“Louis!” Barnaby called after him, but Louis ignored him.

Barnaby would have him wait, be sensible, behave like a gentleman, but he could not wait any longer. If he were a different man, he would give Evie the time he had promised her, he would prove himself to her parents and marry her with their blessing. But he was Louis César de Montluc, God help him, and he could not change that. He would be whatever Evie wanted him to be once they were married, he would have the rest of his life to prove to her parents that he was what she needed, that he could make her happy, but there was no more time.

Chapter 42

Sinfully Daring

Early hours of the 4th of July 1842, Peregrine House, Grosvenor Square, London.

Barnaby watched Louis as the carriage crossed Grosvenor Square, though he could see nothing but the glitter of his eyes against the unremitting black. His driver would let Louis down on the far side of the Square, so no one would suspect Barnaby’s involvement in this dreadful scheme. He wished to God he could have talked Louis out of it, but he may as well talk to the wall, so he held his tongue, afraid to upset his friend and damage his trust. He suspected trust was something Louis did not give lightly or easily, and he did not wish to risk that. Yet he had a bad feeling about all of this. Knight was not a man one crossed, and he wondered if Louis understood what he was getting into.

Sometimes Barnaby wondered if he was getting into something himself by being Louis’ friend, for the man was clearly hiding a great deal. Not that it would have changed a thing. Louis was Barnaby’s friend. That was all he needed to know in the end.

The carriage drew to a halt and Louis moved, reaching for the door.

Barnaby reached out a hand and grasped his arm. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said desperately.

Louis smiled, patting Barnaby’s hand. “Ne t'inquiète pas, mon ami. I will be fine, and so will Evie. I promise.”

Barnaby sighed and nodded. “Have it your own way, but if you need me—”

“I know,” Louis said softly. “And I am more grateful than you know.”

With that, he slipped out of the carriage. Barnaby shifted to the window, looking out at the lamplit street, but Louis had already gone, vanished into the shadows.

Though he had sounded sanguine enough when speaking to Barnaby, Louis had not underestimated the difficulty in getting into the Knight residence. Unlike at Swan Hall, this would not be a simple case of climbing a building. What he had not explained to Barnaby, however, was that he was very used to breaking into large and exclusive houses with too many servants. Having been a servant himself—if you could give such an exulted title to a boy treated like a mangy dog—he also understood how houses like this worked. The easiest way in was the place no one wanted to be, the same route the rubbish took.

He slipped past a night watchman prowling outside the garden walls and climbed the high gates that secured the entrance to the back of the house with ease, running noiselessly down the alley. The door into the basement and the storerooms was easy to locate and though the lock was a secure, modern one, it was child’s play for Louis to pick. A moment later and he was inside, careful to relock the door after him so as not to raise suspicion. He could hear voices from the kitchen, as there would still be a few staff on hand in a household like this, even at this ungodly hour, just in case the family needed anything. Louis clung to the shadows, his eyes having adjusted to the dark as he moved down the corridor in search of the servant’s staircase. Twice he had to duck out of sight, but luck was on his side tonight and he made the staircase with no problems.

From past conversations with Evie, he knew she was on the third floor, facing the square, information she had dropped innocently, and he had tucked away, out of habit. He’d had no nefarious intentions, nor did he consider his intentions in such a light now. He ought not be here, of course, but he loved her, and he was gambling his all on the fact that she loved him too. Not that she had ever said so, but then neither had he, until the note he’d written that night. Now she had it in black and white. His heart stripped bare.

He paused in the darkness, suddenly breathless. Not from nerves because of what he was doing, but because he would face her shortly. He would stand before her with his heart exposed, as if it beat on the outside of his chest. Louis understood what it was to be vulnerable, to be at another’s mercy, as few did. Yet the realisation that he was about to face the possibility of her rejection struck him then and made him more afraid than he’d ever been.

Don’t be a fool, he told himself, closing his eyes. She won’t let you down. Not her. Not Evie. She had put the candle in the window for him. Why do that if she did not want him to come to her?

Steeling himself, he carried on, listening at the bottom of the staircase and discovering the house above him quiet. He ran, slowing towards the top to scan the corridor, pleased by the plush carpets that would muffle his footsteps. The next staircase was just the same and the next, and to his relief reaching the third floor posed no difficulty, but now he must find her room, very aware that her siblings must sleep on the same floor, perhaps her parents too. He froze as a door opened and closed somewhere in the house, listening intently. There was no other sound, so he carried on, and eventually found himself standing before a window on the landing that looked out over the square, judging where he was in the house by what he could see. Then that door to his right was Evie’s.

Heart thudding, he tugged the silk scarf from his face and moved towards it, turning the knob silently and easing it open, relieved to discover the hinges well oiled. He slid inside, closing it behind him, and paused as he heard a little gasp of shock.

Evie.

She stood before him in the golden lamplight, dressed all in white, like a virgin sacrifice. Her nightrail was a feminine extravaganza of ruffles and ribbons, putting him in mind of sweet treats and expensive confections, and the desire to unwrap her was tantalising. His immediate instinct was to run to her and take her in his arms, but the look in her eyes made him stop in his tracks.

His heart froze, the first stirrings of panic rising in his gut. He leaned back against the door, watching her warily. She stared at him, studying him as if she had never seen him before, as if he was something other than she had believed him to be. So, her father had spoken to her about what he’d discovered.

“What did he tell you?” he asked, wondering if she could hear the fear in his voice as audibly as he could. There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

“Bad things,” she whispered, wrapping her arms about herself as if she were cold. “Terrible things.”

They stood that way, a distance of mere feet between them and yet in this moment it felt like an ocean, as if she was being drawn farther away with every passing second.