Prologue
Calais, France, June 1795
Brigitte Dubois wrapped her arms about herself and trudged down the deserted street, darkness swallowing her every step. Night air toyed with the strands of hair hanging from beneath her mobcap, while mist from the sea nipped relentlessly at her ankles and a chill slithered up her spine.
It mattered not that it was summer, warm enough to sleep without a fire in the hearth, warm enough to draw beads of perspiration on her forehead, warm enough to attend her rendezvous with a shawl rather than a cloak. The cold came from inside, deep and frigid, a fear so terrifying she could hardly stay ahead of it. So her feet stumbled forward, over the cracked and chipping cobblestones, past the rows of houses shuttered tight against the darkness.
One night. One meeting. Then she could go home, gather her children and leave this wretched city.
Or so she hoped.
The breeze from the Channel swirled around her, ripe with the salty tang of sea and fish, while the clack of her wooden shoes against the street created the only sound in the deserted city besides the rhythmic lap of waves against the shore. The warehouse loomed before her at the end of the road, dark and menacing and ominously larger with each step she took toward its rusty iron doors.
Another shudder raced through her. Would this place become her tomb on this muggy summer night?
No, she’d not think such things. She had a house to return to, children to feed and a babe to tend. Alphonse wasn’t going to kill her, not tonight. Her children were too important.
Which was why she had to get them away.
She slowed as she neared the warehouse, raising her hand to knock upon the small side door. But just as her knuckles would have met the cold iron, it swung inward.
“You’re here.” A guard hulked in the doorway, his voice loud against the empty street and tall stone houses.
“As I was told to be.” She straightened her back, but not because she wanted to. No. Her shoulders ached to slump and her feet longed to slink into the shadows hovering beside the building, to creep back to her children and her house and the safety those four square walls offered.
But safety was a mere illusion. No one was ever truly safe from Alphonse Dubois.
“Come in.” The planes and edges of the guard’s face glinted hard in the dim light radiating from inside. He was huge, taller than her by nearly half a mètre and powerful enough to fell her with the club hanging at his side. Her eyes drifted down to the massive hand gripping the door, and she took a step back.
“That’s the wrong direction, wench. And Alphonse doesn’t like to wait.” The guard’s knuckles bulged around his club.
“Of course.” She spoke easily, as though her body wasn’t trembling. As though her lungs didn’t refuse to draw breath at the idea of stepping over the threshold.
“I said move.” The man yanked her inside.
The door slammed behind her, its bang resonating through the packed warehouse. Gone was the grimy smell of coal smoke and familiar taste of the sea that permeated the streets of Calais. Aromas sweet like chocolate, tangy like salt and smooth like tobacco wrapped themselves around her.
Crates towered high, leaving only a narrow pathway through which to walk. Labels marked the sides of each and every box: silk from Lyons, and lace from Alençon and Arras, Dieppe and Le Puy. Tea from India, cocoa and cigars from the Caribbean. Sea salt from the Île de Ré, and more barrels of brandy than one could imagine. All sat stacked one atop the other in endless columns.
The contents of the single warehouse were worth a fortune in any land. But with France and England at war, Alphonse would reap even greater sums for his illegal French goods once his men smuggled them onto the English market. The trade materials like tea and chocolate and cigars would arrive on British shores under cover of darkness and away from the greedy eyes of the king’s excise agents, bringing yet more profit to the smuggler.
And Alphonse had warehouses like this scattered through half of northern France.
“This way.” A hot hand clamped around the back of her neck and shoved her forward, weaving her in an interminable maze toward the center of the warehouse.
When the crates finally stopped, she stood in a small open area in the middle of the warehouse.
With Alphonse Dubois looking on, seated dead in the center of his smuggling empire.
Heir to a seigneury by birth, he wielded more power now than an inheritance ever would have given him. All of Calais knew his story, though she knew it better than most. He was a firstborn son who hadn’t been content to accept the lands handed down for centuries, nor had he wanted to make do with his family’s dwindling coffers. So rather than sitting in his chateau and watching as it crumbled about him while he ran through his precious few ancestral funds, he’d gone off and gotten himself rich.
Illegally.
Now Alphonse had as much money as England’s king himself—and just as much power in a town such as Calais.
“Brigitte.” The thin blade of his voice sliced through the air. “How pleasant to see you.”
As though he’d given her a choice, as though earlier this afternoon he hadn’t sent two of his henchmen to her house and summoned her while her children watched.
He studied her through eyes yellow with age, that putrid amber and the pale pink tint to his lips the only colors in a face otherwise gray as stone. “Sit.”
It had come to this then, time for him to issue orders and her to defy him. Did he see the way her hands trembled? The fear that threatened to burst from her chest in a sob?
“I prefer to stand, mer—”
The guard shoved her forward, and she nearly toppled into the table. “A defiant one, she is. You can see it in her eyes.” He planted both hands on her shoulders, forcing her down until she crumpled into the chair.
Alphonse’s pink-tinged lips curved into a cruel smile. “You’re dismissed, Gerard.”
The guard moved back against the crates to stand beside another man, equally as muscular and thick of chest, and carrying another large club.
Alphonse took a sip of steaming liquid from a mug beside his hand, then reached for a sweet biscuit sitting on the table. He wore gray as always, the color matching his silver-tinted hair and aging skin. The monotonous color palate created an image more akin to a corpse then a living, breathing man.
“I hear you plan to leave Calais.”
He’d found out.
She clutched her shawl against the base of her throat.
“Foolish woman.” His eyes hardened into two frigid stones. “Did you think I’d let you steal my grandchildren away in the night?”
She hadn’t a choice. He’d suck