Violet thanked the maid and said she’d be down at once. She went to her room to smooth her hair and wash the remnants of chocolate from her face before she descended to the ground floor. Drawing a long breath, she opened the door of the parlor.
And found herself looking at Monsieur Lanier, the banker who’d hired them a couple of nights ago. With him stood two men in the uniforms of the French police.
Violet halted, frozen.
“Yes, that is the one,” Monsieur Lanier said. “Told me she was a princess from Russia. Then she and her friend tried to rob me.”
The policemen looked stern. “Mademoiselle, we will have to take you for questioning,” one said.
Violet stared at them for another stunned moment, then she turned and ran.
It wasn’t panic that made her run, or a sense of guilt. The agreement was that if the police in whatever town they were in came after them, Violet, the swiftest runner, would lead them on a merry chase. This would give Mary time to gather what she could and take Celine to safety. Violet would meet up with them later at the designated rendezvous.
Violet picked up her skirts and ran down the street, the old-fashioned high-heeled slippers clicking on the cobbles. The police came right behind her, swift on their feet.
The boardinghouse maid really should have mentioned the visitor’s name and that he’d brought the police, Violet thought in irritation. Probably the policemen had told her not to. The landlady, who didn’t much like them, must have agreed. Blast and bother.
Violet had no money with her, but she knew how to be resourceful. She’d slip away from the policemen and find some way to get herself to the meeting point.
This meant she’d have to leave Daniel behind. Violet had never regretted departing any town, even the lovely ones, but now her heart swelled with pain. She didn’t dare send Daniel word, even a good-bye. She and her mother must disappear again.
The beautiful time she’d had with Daniel, her awakening, was over.
He’d searched for Violet the last time she’d vanished. Would he this time? Or would Daniel have lost interest in chasing her?
She knew where his family lived in London. She’d made it her business to know. Violet could write to him and explain, sending the letter to Ainsley. After she got her mother to safety. Daniel might not answer, might not look for her, might not even bother to read the letter. But she had to try.
Violet swerved into a narrow, arched passage between houses, trying to be light on her feet in the foul-smelling muck. She’d gone halfway along it before she realized the policemen were no longer following her. The entrance to the passage remained empty, the only sound the echo of her shoes and her labored breathing.
Violet let her satin skirts drop, never mind the muck. Damn it. If the policemen had given up on Violet so soon, they’d gone back to find Violet’s mother.
Celine couldn’t be arrested. She’d take ill if she went to jail, unable to bear the cold, the foul airs. She was too delicate for such things. And Mary—Mary had been arrested for stealing clothes once upon a time in London, released only because the magistrate said he didn’t have enough evidence for a trial. Mary had stolen to feed herself and her child, who had died all the same of some pestilence that had raged through the poorer parts of London.
Mary was much more resilient than Celine, but if the police discovered her past arrest, they might ship her back to London. A magistrate might not be so lenient for a second offense, and who knew what influence Monsieur Lanier, a rich and respectable banker, would have.
Violet jogged back through the passage to the morning streets. Those on early errands stared at her in her beaded velvet and satin as she ran past. She reached the boardinghouse again, yanked open the door, and dashed inside and up the stairs.
The police were clustered, with Monsieur Lanier and the landlady, at the door to their private rooms. The landlady’s keys clinked as she prepared to unlock the door.
Violet rushed forward. “No!”
The landlady, ignoring her, unlocked and threw open the door.
The sitting room was empty. Celine and Mary were gone, the breakfast things scattered, the tea cooling, the remnants of an omelet congealing.
Violet exhaled in relief. Mary had gotten Celine away. Her mother would be safe.
Violet, on the other hand, was seized, her hands shoved together in front of her, iron cuffs clapped around her wrists.
The cold of the cuffs stirred Violet’s panic. Pushed aside for too long, it rose like a monster—Trapped, trapped, can’t run.
The panic made her fight. She kicked and bit, screams escaping her mouth before she could stop them. Her terror was complete when she felt a hand go down the front of her bodice—she was certain the two policemen and Monsieur Lanier were about to share her between them. And no one would help her.
The policeman jerked his hand from her bodice. “Nothing. She didn’t hide the money there.”
Violet, her breath ragged, managed a glare at them all. “My solicitor will have something to say about this.” She tried for imperious tones, but her voice came out weak and scratchy.
“You see? She’s not Russian at all,” Monsieur Lanier said. “A pure fraud. Probably from the gutters of Paris.”
He wasn’t far from wrong. Violet lifted her head, pressed her mouth shut, fought down her panic, and didn’t struggle anymore. As the police marched her down the stairs, the two spinster sisters and other tenants popped out of doorways to watch as Violet was taken into custody.
The policemen took Violet to a barred police van. A crowd had gathered around it, the populace eager to see who was being rounded up this morning. A few men laughed as one of the policemen shoved Violet into the cart and slammed the door. The driver clucked to the horses, and Violet was taken down the streets of Marseille to the nearest jail at a slow walk.