Night Novellas - Lisa Kessler

Chapter One

Paris – 1840

Marguerite followed the tall blond gentleman with broad shoulders, careful to keep her presence hidden. As he approached the crowd at the edge of the Champs-Élysées, she hitched up her skirts to move faster.

If he got too far ahead, she’d lose him and his gold, gem-encrusted pocket watch in the mass of Parisians.

He’d first caught her eye at a gala nearly a month before.

That night, he wore the watch on the front of his vest, and the telltale bulge in his pocket hinted at a healthy money pouch.

With any luck, his deposit would bring her goal within reach.

Hope made her bold, but even so, she’d lost him before she made his acquaintance.

She hadn’t seen him since. Until tonight.

Now he stood only a scant distance in front of her, as did the rest of Paris, awaiting the processional carrying Napoleon’s remains under the massive Arc de Triomphe on its way to Les Invalides. She needed to get closer.

The hearse carrying Napoleon’s body to its new tomb circled underneath the Arc, and the crowd surged closer to the black coach. The gas lamps glowed overhead and extra torches cast long shadows, marking its route. Cheers deafened her, and the stench of unwashed bodies and old wine assaulted her nostrils when the sweat drenched horses passed by. Their long route from the seashore to the center of Paris was nearly at an end.

Marguerite rose on her toes, struggling to catch sight of her gentleman, but none of the fair-haired men in the street had shoulders as broad as his, and none of them were tall enough.

She’d lost him again. Damn.

There was no time for self-pity. She took in her surroundings and made her way toward a portly gentleman standing at the edge of the crowd.

He stood with his back to the Seine River, one foot cocked and his chest puffed out. His light blue silk jacket, shirt with gold-trimmed ruffles, and buffed and polished shoes said he was no commoner.

Perfect.

She plucked her fan from her bosom and flicked it open, sauntering toward him with an extra sway to her hips.

“Bonjour.” She tipped her head slightly, gazing up at him from beneath her lashes. “Pardon. I must catch my breath.

There are so many people. I feared I might topple over and be trampled.”

He drifted toward her, wetting his lips. Taking her elbow with a demanding grip, his greedy gaze lingered over her cleavage. “Surely you did not attend the funeral alone.”

Marguerite allowed him to lead her a few steps from the crowd. “Oui. My husband is ill, but I promised to tell him every detail.”

She stayed close to the man, in spite of the heavy perfume that failed to mask his body odor. She fluttered her fan and brushed against him, but the purse eluded her until he leaned over and caressed her arm, giving her the opening she needed.

Lifting her shoulder, she parted her lips, keeping his attention on her mouth, while she caught the bulge of his coin purse in his jacket and traced the edge of the pocket.

“The hearse is making its way closer now.” His hot hand ran up from her elbow, across her back and around her waist.

“May I escort you to the front for a closer view?”

“Oui.” She masked her disgust with a flirtatious smile.

“Merci.”

As soon as he maneuvered her into the crowd, she bumped against him, nimble fingers snagging the loop of his purse. One more nudge and she yanked it free.

He never felt a thing. This brought a true smile to her lips.

The sound of hooves striking the cobblestones grew in volume, and the crowd pressed forward toward the approaching carriage. Marguerite moved into the current, leaving her fragrant companion behind. Clutching the purse, she made her way farther from the Arc de Triomphe and tucked her prize into her corset.

It wasn’t the treasure she’d hoped for, but every trinket brought her closer to freedom.

From a distance, Kane watched the throngs of people following Napoleon’s remains as the national funeral parade passed on its way to Les Invalides. His gaze scanned the crowd. Servants, farmers, ladies with their gentlemen, and children all cheered, loving their fallen leader.

He’d only met the man once, but he had no doubt Napoleon would have enjoyed this spectacle in his honor.

Kane turned to leave. When the pageantry ended, the wine would flow, and violence would follow.

From the corner of his eye, a slender blond woman caught his attention. The porcelain beauty of her face, framed by her curled locks