Sins of Omission

by Irina Shapiro

Chapter 51

  Hugo wrapped his arm around the baby and pressed her a little closer to his side. Valentine was sleeping peacefully, and her solid little weight gave him a world of comfort. Neve had been apprehensive about allowing the baby to nap with him, but Hugo overrode her objections, claiming that bonding between father and daughter was medicinal. His chest felt as if someone was branding him with a hot poker every time he shifted his weight, but otherwise, he felt better. The fever had broken, and according to Doctor LeGrand, the wound was healing cleanly now after the infection cleared up.

  Doctor LeGrand heartily disapproved of Neve’s methods, but grudgingly admitted that she’d probably saved his life. It would take at least a week until Hugo was allowed out of bed, but at least he was on the mend. Doctor LeGrand stopped by every day to check on his progress, and despite his better judgment, refrained from commenting on the poultice of garlic and honey applied to the wound by Neve. Hugo smelled like roast pork, but the mixture seemed to be aiding in the healing process and preventing the wound from festering again.

  It was almost noon, and Neve had gone downstairs to talk to Cook, which was a blessing since she was watching him like a hawk, her face taut with worry every time he so much as winced. He remembered only too well when the situation had been reversed, and he was mad with guilt and anxiety after breaking Neve out of Newgate. Sometimes being the patient was easier than being the one who loved them. Valentine made a sweet sound in her sleep and pursed her lips as if she were having a bad dream. Did babies have bad dreams? Hugo wondered as he held her closer. The moment passed, and the baby smiled dreamily. At three months old, she was a miniature Neve, with her golden curls and wide, brown eyes. Just looking at her made Hugo catch his breath with wonder, and fear. He was responsible for this little life, and Neve’s as well, and he had let them down, again.

  Hugo glanced at the window, which was just visible through the bed hangings. The day was overcast; the sky blanketed in thick, thunderous-looking clouds that leached daylight from the room. It wasn’t raining yet, but it was bound to. The branches of the trees outside shivered in the wind, and a loose shutter banged somewhere on the upper floor. Fat drops of rain began to fall as Hugo looked on, quickly covering the window in a film of moisture, and soaking the world outside. It was the perfect sleeping weather, but Hugo couldn’t sleep, had barely slept since the effects of the laudanum had worn off. The same question went round and round in his mind, but he was no closer to an answer. Hugo shuffled the names of everyone he’d met in France like a deck of cards, dealing the names this way and that. Who would benefit from his death? Who might want revenge for an offense, real or imagined? But he wasn’t making any headway.

  The only person who would benefit from his death was his nephew, Clarence. Clarence was fourteen and living with his stepsister in London. Bradford Nash had actually forwarded a letter from Clarence which had arrived only a few days ago. The boy was trying to be brave and talked of his studies and the running of his estate in Kent, but it wasn’t difficult to read between the lines. Clarence was bewildered by his mother’s suicide, frightened, and worried about the future. He made sure to tell Hugo that Magdalen and her husband were kind to him, and that their two children were simply precious, which Hugo took to mean that they were little monsters. Clarence knew Hugo couldn’t come home, but he could sense the boy’s longing, and wished he could reassure him that everything would be well in time.

  Aside from Clarence, no one would stand to gain anything from Hugo’s death. If memory served, he hadn’t inflicted any insults, nor had he so much as looked at another man’s wife, sister, or daughter, so there could be no motive for retribution. The only name that kept coming back was that of Sir Trumbull. According to Luke, the English envoy had been reprimanded by London for acknowledging Hugo and banished to the Ottoman Empire, but Hugo couldn’t, and wouldn’t, believe that simply not snubbing him in front of Louis XIV was cause enough to send a man to Constantinople. Something else was at play, something he wasn’t privy to. William Trumbull had a reputation for being short-tempered and at times brutally frank, but he was a career politician, one who knew when to speak and when to remain silent. The idea that Sir Trumbull might want him dead was ludicrous, especially since Hugo’s death would do nothing to alter his predicament. And yet…

  Then, of course, there was de Chartres. Perhaps he’d decided that his association with Hugo was proving to be less than beneficial, and decided to rid himself of an unwanted asset. Of course, there was no reason for de Chartres to want Hugo dead. He could simply tell him that the deal was off the table, but that seemed far-fetched. The Marquis de Chartres was not a man who would ever turn down intelligence, no matter how trivial it might be. Hugo couldn’t give him much now, but in time, he could become very valuable. Hugo smirked as he remembered watching some show on television when he visited the future where spies who’d been deep undercover for years and awaiting activation had been referred to as “sleepers.” Well, putting him to sleep permanently would accomplish very little.

  In order to find out who’d ordered his death Hugo needed information, but there was no one he could talk to until he was well enough to leave the house. His first port of call would be de Chartres. He wished that Luke was still in Paris, but Luke left two weeks before, dejected and angry by Frances’s refusal to accompany him. Frances had refused him in person, but Luke had come to see Hugo in the hopes that Hugo might exercise his power over Frances and force the match. Hugo hadn’t been sure why Frances was so reluctant to marry Luke, but now that the reason was clear, he was glad that he hadn’t pressed her.

  Frances and Archie. Who would have thought? Something would have to be done about those two, but he couldn’t bear to think of it just now. His head hurt, and the baby was starting to fuss. Hugo lifted Valentine with one arm and rolled her onto his chest, wrapping his arm around her. She lifted her head and looked up at him, her mouth stretching into a sweet smile.

  “So, what do you think, Val,” Hugo asked conversationally, “who is trying to kill me?” The baby just cooed, and reached out her hand to grab his finger which she tried to pull into her mouth.

  “You don’t know?” Hugo asked. “I don’t know either. But, will they try again?” Hugo mused as he made a face at the baby which made her smile. “And what should we do about Frances? Should we make her marry that rascal Archie? I can’t see that union working for long.”

  Valentine got tired of playing with the finger and remembered that it was time to eat. Her face went from contentment to outrage in the space of a second, and she opened her mouth in preparation for an epic howl only to be scooped up by Neve, who appeared as if by magic.

  “She doesn’t think Frances and Archie should marry,” Hugo told Neve as she put the baby to her breast.

  “Really? Did she also give you the lotto numbers?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. You need to get some rest. You didn’t sleep a wink last night. Don’t think that I didn’t notice. Would you like some more laudanum?”

  Hugo was about to refuse, but his head ached dully, and the wound burned and itched, making him even more short-tempered than he already was. A few hours of sleep would be just the thing, and maybe he would be able to reshuffle his deck of suspects and see it more clearly once he was rested.

  “Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “All right, you can have some after you’ve eaten. I don’t want you taking it on an empty stomach,” Neve answered in a no-nonsense tone that reminded him of his nanny. “And stop smiling at me like that; I will mother you until you can no longer stand it.”

  “I’m actually enjoying it very much,” Hugo lied, making Neve harrumph with disbelief. She hadn’t said anything about a possible second attempt on his life, but he knew that fear was gnawing at her, as it was at him. Were Neve and the baby safe?

  Chapter 52

  Max spent his first week in Paris settling into the household and getting to know the Benoit children. Saying goodbye
to Banjo had been harder than he could have imagined. The boy cried and wrapped his arms around Max’s legs, before one of the servants physically disentangled him and carried him off into the house where he would serve as a page. Max never thought of himself as a particularly emotional man, but he knew that he would remember Banjo for the rest of his life, and always wonder what became of him. Having grown up in safety and privilege, he’d never given much thought to the suffering of others, but seeing a five-year-old boy taken from his family to be sold to someone as a pet left a mark on his heart that would never truly go away. He hoped that Banjo would have a better life than he envisioned, and have the strength of spirit to overcome his circumstances and forge some happiness for himself.

  Max was given a small garret room on the top floor, next to Mathilde the cook, and Cherri the maid-of-all-work. He didn’t mind. He had a bed, a small desk, and a window with a nice view. There was even a hip bath that he could use in complete privacy. After his pallet in Barbados and his hammock on the La Belle, these were five-star accommodations. Madame Benoit, who’d come as something of a surprise to Max, found some clothes that no longer fit her portly husband and made alterations so that Max now owned more than one suit.

  Vivienne Benoit was petite and lively, with an elfin face which was dominated by large green eyes and framed by russet curls. She clearly had a flair for fashion, and although modestly dressed, used cut, color, and fabric to her best advantage. Most of her gowns were in shades of green, bronze, and burgundy, and offset her coloring in a dramatic and flattering way. She was one of the most beautiful women Max had ever seen, and he made a mental note to stay as far away as possible from his new mistress for fear of saying or doing something inappropriate. He needed this job, and would do nothing to cause Captain Benoit any offense. Had he come straight from the twenty-first century, Max would have had a hard time suppressing his arrogance and keeping himself in check, but having spent months on a plantation where any transgression could result in punishment, he now knew how to appear subservient and keep his thoughts and opinions to himself.

  The two boys, Edouard and Lucien, resembled their father. They were both round-faced, a little chubby, and good-natured, which was all that Max could ask for in potential students. They were eager to learn, and Max found himself enjoying their lessons. He’d had no idea where to start, but the beginning was always a good place, so he carefully wrote out the alphabet and then proceeded to teach the children simple, three-letter words that began with each letter. They, in turn, helped him improve his French by babbling incessantly. The boys had a natural curiosity which made teaching them that much easier. Max spent half their lessons answering numerous questions about England, the defeat of the Spanish Armada, which they seemed fascinated by, and the king’s menagerie at the Tower of London. Max answered to the best of his ability, and made up what he didn’t know. It’s not as if they could Google the answers and call him out on his mistakes. He drew pictures of elephants, lions, and camels, to the great delight of Lucien, who loved animals.

  Max was expected to dine with the Benoits, since Captain Benoit thought of him as nobility. Max didn’t care; he would have been just as happy to eat in his room. For the first time in his life, he was enjoying the simple pleasures, such as a bed, a book, a walk, and even the act of going to the privy and washing in private. It was June, and Paris was in bloom; the city not one he remembered from the twenty-first century, but a delight all the same, especially since Max was seeing it as a free man. He had a few hours of free time each day and spent them just walking around the city, savoring the sights and sounds of Paris.

  As he walked, he peered at every carriage that rolled by, unsure of whether he was hoping for a glimpse of Hugo or Banjo. He asked Captain Benoit about the boy, but the man put a finger to his lips, signaling that it was time for Max to forget about the child. No good would come of asking after him anymore. Banjo’s parents would be told that their son was happy and healthy, and maybe in time, receive a letter, most likely written by the captain himself. He was no longer interested in Banjo, and it was doubtful that their paths would ever cross, unless the new masters were unsatisfied in some way and wanted to give the boy back for a full refund. Max hoped that wouldn’t happen, and Banjo would make a home for himself with the family.

  Max was surprised when the captain invited him to come out with him after supper one night. The night was warm and intoxicating, the smell of chestnut trees permeating the air and light spilling from the windows. A full moon hung in the inky sky, countless stars twinkling in the heavens. This wasn’t the “City of Light” that Max knew from the future, but it came damn close. Benoit was in a fine mood, pointing out things of interest and telling Max something of the history of the city. Max was barely listening; he was just drinking it all in, his senses fully alive. He’d taken so much for granted all his life, and he would never do so again.

  “Where are we going?” Max asked, realizing that the captain wasn’t just out for his evening constitutional, but had an actual destination in mind.

  “It’s a surprise, mon ami,” the captain replied happily. “One that you are sure to like.”

  Max followed the captain into a narrow building, squeezed between two prosperous taverns that were doing brisk business this evening. People were eating and drinking; snatches of song could be heard coming from the taproom, and an appetizing smell of food mixed with the stink of tobacco, spilled alcohol, and refuse coming from the alley. Max noticed in passing that all of the patrons seemed to be men. He supposed it wasn’t unusual for men to enjoy a pint in the evening while the wives saw to the house and the children; this wasn’t the twenty-first century where women enjoyed equal rights and enjoyed a night out at the pub as much as the boys. Captain Benoit rapped on the door, and a burly, middle-aged man let them in. He wasn’t dressed like a servant, nor did he act like one.

  “Ah, Captain, back with us, I see. Everyone will be happy to see you again,” he exclaimed, giving Max an appraising look. “And who is your associate?”

  “Be respectful to milord, Alfred,” the captain warned as he ushered Max inside. They walked down a narrow corridor and came into a large, well-appointed room lit by braces of candles. Several men sat in comfortable chairs, sipping cognac and brandy and flirting with the young women whose only purpose seemed to be to entertain them. Max had never been to a brothel, had never needed to pay for sex, but this was clearly a high-end whorehouse. The girls were all fairly young and beautiful, their skin still clear, and their eyes sparkling with humor and the promise of pleasure. They weren’t scantily clad as one would expect, but dressed in fine gowns and jewels, which were probably paste, but sparkled prettily nonetheless, bringing attention to slender necks and ample décolletages.

  Max felt a momentary outrage on behalf of Madame Benoit. Vivienne was more beautiful and graceful than any of the girls here. Why did the captain feel the need to dishonor the vows he made to her with whores? Of course, it was none of his business, but something of what he was thinking must have flashed across his face because the captain suddenly felt the need to explain himself.

  “I don’t do this often, but I thought it was fitting to bring you here. This is my gift to you, milord. Choose anyone you like. You can have her for an hour — my treat. I, myself, prefer Lucille. She always makes herself available when I’m at home. Ah, and there she is. Good evening, my angel,” the captain purred, forgetting all about Max.

  A blonde young woman came floating down the stairs, her lemon-yellow gown doing little to hide full breasts and ample hips. She was the polar opposite of Madame Benoit, who was probably lying in bed, wondering where her husband was -– or fully aware of his destination tonight. Max would have chosen Vivienne over Lucille any day, but the captain seemed to like blousy women who were free with their charms. Lucille was already sitting in his lap, her breasts in the captain’s face, and her hand lightly brushing against his breeches in invitation. The captain seemed to be in heaven, so Max left him
to it and looked around the room. He hadn’t been with a woman in nearly a year, and if the captain was giving, he was taking.

  Max’s gaze settled on a girl of about twenty, with glossy chestnut locks and wide blue eyes. She wasn’t as Rubenesque as some of the other women, but slender and short, with small, pert breasts and a narrow waist. Her coloring was different, but something about her reminded him of Neve. She seemed shy and reticent, not like the other girls who were flirting with potential clients and making suggestive comments. The girl hung back in the shadows, probably hoping that no one would pick her tonight. Max approached slowly, so as not to frighten her.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I’m Maximillian.”

  “Enchante, mousier. I’m Juliette,” she replied quietly.

  “You seem nervous,” Max observed, curious about the girl.

  “I’m new here,” the girl answered shyly.

  Max didn’t dare ask if the girl came to the brothel willingly, or if she had been forced into her line of work. It wasn’t his business. He wasn’t here to enforce civil rights or champion anyone’s cause. Whatever her story was, it had nothing to do with him.

  “Would you like to sit down?” he asked as he took her hand and drew her toward a settee in the corner. It was private enough to have a conversation, but that wasn’t what Max had in mind. He simply wanted the girl to get comfortable with him before he took her upstairs. A serving girl brought them snifters of brandy, and Max gratefully accepted, feeling more than ready for a drink. Juliette cradled her glass, but didn’t drink.

  “You are very beautiful, Juliette. Are you originally from Paris?”

  “No, monsieur, I come from the country. It’s a small town; you wouldn’t have heard of it.”

  “You are probably right,” Max said as he turned her hand over and ran this thumb over the inside of her wrist. Juliette stiffened, but didn’t take the hand away.