complete understanding. Quick as a wink, Jacob's son, Giles, slipped into the darkness, following Fantine.
The two would be an even match, Marcus thought with a grin. Before he had hired Jacob, the coachman and his son had spent their own time in the rookeries. It had not taken long for Marcus to discover Giles was as valuable as his father. The boy was quick and well versed in exactly the kind of tricks Fantine used. With luck, Giles would soon get him a little more information about the mysterious Fantine.
But in the meantime, Marcus had other things to occupy his thoughts, not the least of which was the growing chaos from within the Harris household. Steeling himself for the worst, Marcus pushed his hand into his pocket and drew out his watch. Well, at least she had seen fit to return it.
It was not until he heard the gasp of a nearby footman that he thought to look at the base of the chain. There, glittering in the evening candlelight, was an heirloom diamond and emerald bracelet worth at least six thousand pounds.
* * *
Fantine settled into the hackney and released a sigh. Normally she would not have bothered with the expense, but she was too frazzled, too tired to walk all the way home. So she had hailed a hackney and now only wished to close her eyes.
Just as she rested her head back against the worn squabs, she felt a telltale dip as the vehicle picked up another passenger. A street child no doubt, jumping on the back. She didn't care. If he was not caught by the driver, she had no objection to sharing her ride. She had, after all, stolen quite a few rides herself at one time or another.
Releasing a heavy breath, she willed away the tension of the last few hours. She blocked out the anger, the frustration, and all the other tangled emotions she had no energy to examine. All that was left was one image, one face, smiling tenderly at her.
Marcus.
No big surprise there. He seemed to dog her footsteps during the day, why not torment her at night, too? But she need not dwell on him. He was merely another reality of her existence, a force to be measured and managed, like Penworthy and Ballast and Hurdy.
Or so she told herself.
The difference, of course, was that none of them had ever touched her, stripping away her reason with the tiniest press of his lips. A single heated look from Marcus weakened her with alarming speed. If she were superstitious, she would have said he had the evil eye.
Fantine sighed again, the sound echoing in the dark hackney. Age was making her vulnerable to one thing a man like Marcus could offer her: luxury.
She had scorned it as a child, but now, at twenty-five, she couldn't run the streets by day without feeling the ache by night. She longed for the warmth of a good fire, the ease of a comfortable bed, and the sweet scent of clean clothes.
But such pleasures came with a trap. It came with men like Marcus who cared for nothing except their own personal pleasure. Women like her mother were taken, exploited, then thrown away. Fantine was eight when she vowed never to let a man use her like that. And no one ever had.
No one, that is, except Marcus.
She should hate him for that, for bridging defenses she thought no one could conquer. Yet when he had pressed his weight into her, when he had touched her breast and trailed kisses along her face, she had wanted nothing more than to be used, to be enjoyed, to be touched however he willed.
Her face burned with humiliation even as her breasts tingled with the memory.
Biting her lip, Fantine finally faced the brutal truth. Marcus had somehow stumbled upon her one weakness, the one legacy from her mother that she had been unable to subjugate—her own body. And he had not hesitated to use it against her.
Self-recriminations did not help matters. What she needed was a plan, a course of action that would neutralize his threat. But what?
Marcus was nothing if not determined. He would find her home, seek out her various aliases, even ferret out
The two would be an even match, Marcus thought with a grin. Before he had hired Jacob, the coachman and his son had spent their own time in the rookeries. It had not taken long for Marcus to discover Giles was as valuable as his father. The boy was quick and well versed in exactly the kind of tricks Fantine used. With luck, Giles would soon get him a little more information about the mysterious Fantine.
But in the meantime, Marcus had other things to occupy his thoughts, not the least of which was the growing chaos from within the Harris household. Steeling himself for the worst, Marcus pushed his hand into his pocket and drew out his watch. Well, at least she had seen fit to return it.
It was not until he heard the gasp of a nearby footman that he thought to look at the base of the chain. There, glittering in the evening candlelight, was an heirloom diamond and emerald bracelet worth at least six thousand pounds.
* * *
Fantine settled into the hackney and released a sigh. Normally she would not have bothered with the expense, but she was too frazzled, too tired to walk all the way home. So she had hailed a hackney and now only wished to close her eyes.
Just as she rested her head back against the worn squabs, she felt a telltale dip as the vehicle picked up another passenger. A street child no doubt, jumping on the back. She didn't care. If he was not caught by the driver, she had no objection to sharing her ride. She had, after all, stolen quite a few rides herself at one time or another.
Releasing a heavy breath, she willed away the tension of the last few hours. She blocked out the anger, the frustration, and all the other tangled emotions she had no energy to examine. All that was left was one image, one face, smiling tenderly at her.
Marcus.
No big surprise there. He seemed to dog her footsteps during the day, why not torment her at night, too? But she need not dwell on him. He was merely another reality of her existence, a force to be measured and managed, like Penworthy and Ballast and Hurdy.
Or so she told herself.
The difference, of course, was that none of them had ever touched her, stripping away her reason with the tiniest press of his lips. A single heated look from Marcus weakened her with alarming speed. If she were superstitious, she would have said he had the evil eye.
Fantine sighed again, the sound echoing in the dark hackney. Age was making her vulnerable to one thing a man like Marcus could offer her: luxury.
She had scorned it as a child, but now, at twenty-five, she couldn't run the streets by day without feeling the ache by night. She longed for the warmth of a good fire, the ease of a comfortable bed, and the sweet scent of clean clothes.
But such pleasures came with a trap. It came with men like Marcus who cared for nothing except their own personal pleasure. Women like her mother were taken, exploited, then thrown away. Fantine was eight when she vowed never to let a man use her like that. And no one ever had.
No one, that is, except Marcus.
She should hate him for that, for bridging defenses she thought no one could conquer. Yet when he had pressed his weight into her, when he had touched her breast and trailed kisses along her face, she had wanted nothing more than to be used, to be enjoyed, to be touched however he willed.
Her face burned with humiliation even as her breasts tingled with the memory.
Biting her lip, Fantine finally faced the brutal truth. Marcus had somehow stumbled upon her one weakness, the one legacy from her mother that she had been unable to subjugate—her own body. And he had not hesitated to use it against her.
Self-recriminations did not help matters. What she needed was a plan, a course of action that would neutralize his threat. But what?
Marcus was nothing if not determined. He would find her home, seek out her various aliases, even ferret out
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