The black slip-on shoes are less impressive, the shine of the fabric is dulled by a fine, musty coat of dirt that collected as he moved around the cellar. The smell of wine and damp earth mingles with his natural scent, and it goes right to my head.
I could sneak into his quarters later, but with Trevor on board, the ship feels like a prison and conjugal visits probably aren’t a good idea with the Benefactors watching every move.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Nico says, “Position yourself as not just the ward of Miracle Madeira’s purveyor, but a writer—a poet worthy of elevation in both the French and English courts—and you’ll get Lady Mary’s and Lady Anne’s patronage. It’s a two-for-one package: Fagin brings the wine, you bring the entertainment.”
“Not the worst idea in the world. The Boleyns do love all things French,” I say, allowing the concept to settle in my brain.
Nico steps onto the teleport pad and, smiling, extends his hand. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out Plan B. There’s more than one way to crack this nut.”
I slip my hand into his warm grip and step onto the teleport pad next to him. “Have a little faith, Dodger. We’ll get through this and be home before you know it.”
He flashes a mega-watt smile and the sincerity and sweetness in his eyes reassures me. We may be jumping each other on the regular, but it’s the solid bedrock of loyalty and friendship, the easy camaraderie we’ve developed over years of partnership that seems to be turning me and him into an “us.”
In the split instant before the teleport whisks us back to the ship, I realize a new problem: this apparent shift from casual sex to something more serious invades the space where my vengeance lives, making it weaker, less urgent in the context of this thing with Nico.
The trajectory of my life has never propelled me anywhere close to ‘happy ending’ territory. Yet, Nico’s touch makes me want to believe I can be happy in love. From what I’ve seen, love and vengeance are mutually exclusive pursuits.
There are dark impulses brewing inside my rage, and it feels like I’m being pushed down a path that’s impossible to avoid. What if I can, somehow, prevent the carnage that King Henry and Anne Boleyn’s offspring will wreak on the world and my family?
What if I don’t? What version of happy can I live with?
Our first days in Calais are a whirlwind of exhaustive, frenetic activity, and at the center of it all is Becca Trevor, scrutinizing everything from the details of the strategic mission operation plan to the culinary choices on the dinner menu. She’s worse than the Benefactors’ babysitter-snitch; she’s a fucking micromanager.
In the past thirty minutes, the lieutenant has tripped through the The Staple Inn’s salon five times. She has commanded the servants assigned to manage our wardrobe trunks with all the finesse and touchy-feely empowerment of a rabid wild boar on one of King Henry’s hunts. Except for a small figure kneeling at the fireplace— a young scullery maid intent on fanning a recalcitrant spark into flame —there isn’t another maid or footman in sight. The lieutenant has alienated everyone at the inn willing, or able, to dispose of the trunks by unleashing a barrage of verbal abuse at everyone within shouting distance.
On her sixth trip through the salon, she stops abruptly, then strides over to servant girl and stands with her arms folded across her chest. I’ve caught glimpses of the cunning and devious bent in Trevor’s personality. This demeanor is something else entirely. I recognize the aggression set in her posture, and my nerves—already jangled by Nico— are set even more on edge.
“Marie,” Trevor says to the maid through an artificial smile that surely hides clenched teeth. “Isn’t it cold in here? You’re not trying to freeze us all to death, are you?”
The raven-haired housemaid, little more than twelve or thirteen years old, cowers in the veiled rebuke. I feel the indignity of the insults hurled at this child as keenly as a branding iron on my skin. An image rips through my memory. My old master, Captain Bartholomew, boxing my tiny eight-year-old frame into a corner. “Stupid, good-for-nothing girl,” he says, his voice snarling like a vicious dog. “How many times must I show you how to build a proper fire in the grate?”
His hands balled into fists and he pummeled me into submission, blackening my eyes and splitting my lip as he screamed insults about the disobedient and wild spirit that possessed me.
“Mademoiselle,” I say, looping my arm through Becca’s, trying to sound nonchalant. “A word, please?”
“Clémence,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will keep until I’ve finished helping the maid build a proper fire.”
She gasps when I dig my fingernails into her flesh. “Now,” I say, dragging her into a small anteroom behind the salon and shutting the heavy wooden door.
“Stop it,” I say.
“What? I was being nice. That fire should have been lit half an hour ago. These people need a strong-handed supervisor.”
Nope. Not having this passive aggressive shit. Even with the Consigliere’s warning to not put a toe out of line echoing in my head, I can’t let this pass. “Being nice, my ass. You’re supervising them toward revolt all day. Keep it up, and I’ll lock you in closet for the duration of this mission.”
“Are you challenging my authority to lead?”
“I don’t care what your orders say. Fagin is the one in charge. You can save the posturing for the daily reports to your bosses.”
“No, honey,” she says, in the fake sweet tone that makes me want to vomit. “Fagin answers to me. All of you do. The Consigliere warned you what would happen if you complain about your duties or hesitate to obey orders.”
My mouth goes dry. I hate that she knows so much. I open my
