Chapter Two:

It was too late for boisterous Italian music in Gabriel's opinion, but that didn't change the fact that he was there in the parlor, listening to the aria from a dark corner of the room. His shoulder had mended, but it still ached occasionally, and tonight was one of those nights. Gabriel rolled it uncomfortably and massaged it with a hand as his eyes flitted around the room, watching. He noticed the smallest of details: a whisper, a touch of the hand, a note passed down the row.

"She's good, isn't she?" murmured the man to Gabriel's left.

"Such a large voice, and in such a small room," Gabriel replied without glancing at his companion.

"Such a lousy critic, and with such an inflated head," the man retorted with a laugh.

Gabriel only frowned.

Eventually the music faded, the pianoforte's last notes disappearing in the applause.

"Now see, aren't you happy you came, Gabriel?"

"Mm," Gabriel replied with a noncommittal grunt. His eyes were fixed on the woman at the front of the room and the man who rose to stand beside her.

"My friends, thank you all for coming. One more round of applause, please, for Mademoiselle Bartoli."

Turning his head slightly, Gabriel indicated the man up front and murmured to his friend, "Were you aware, Henri, that Citoyen Beaumont has royalist sympathies?"

Henri shot a disapproving glare in his direction. "Not here, Gabriel."

"What do you mean, 'not here?'" he retorted. "The man is guilty, he is hiding it, and soon I will catch him."

"You're positively shameless," Henri responded sternly. "I invited you here to appreciate beautiful music, not to stand in this dark corner and spy on people. Really. Leave your work at work, I say."

"I'm not spying; I'm observing," Gabriel protested. "You're only pouting because I leave conversation to the socialites and the politicians."

"Come. You're going to be polite and sociable, or I shall sic my wife upon you."

"She's not a dog," Gabriel quietly scoffed. A bitch, yes, but not a dog, he thought to himself. Henri led him into the crowd. "You can't order her to attack me."

"Oh ho," Henri chortled, "you assume I need to order her, mon ami. She'd gladly attack—Oh, yes, hello, Citoyenne, you look lovely this evening."

With his friend distracted, Gabriel seized his chance, turning away with the intention of fading into the crowd. A hand caught him by the arm, fingers digging painfully through the fabric of his coat.

"Speaking of dogs, you need a leash," Henri muttered sotto voce. Smiling, he added, "As Citoyen Beaumont will be in Marseille for the next several months, my wife and I have offered our home to the lovely Mademoiselle Bartoli."

"That painted songbird?" He didn't try to hide his disgust; Henri practically had to drag the man along after him.

"You may find you actually enjoy Clara's company."

"Why in God's name would you think that?" Gabriel inquired, his voice filled with equal parts irritation and laughter.

Henri didn't answer the question, explaining instead, "She's from the Venetian Republic. Citoyen Beaumont knew her mother and father, who recently passed away. He brought her to Paris and found her a place with the opera company."

"Could she not sing in Venetia?" scoffed Gabriel.

"You do recall that it's crawling with French troops right now, don't you?" Henri replied impatiently. "Her mother was Austrian, and they killed her for it. Killed her father too, just for the hell of it, I suppose. She was in danger there."

Gabriel stopped for a moment, his gaze landing on the woman across the room with renewed interest. Any mention of the enemy nation was sure to rouse his attention.

"I know that face," Henri noted.

"She could be killed on the spot here for having Austrian sympathies," Gabriel pointed out, his eyes still fixed on the woman.

"Now really, Gabriel. She's a poor girl from Venetia. She's never set foot in Austria. Do you really think I would be foolish enough to house a traitor here in Paris, right under Robespierre's prominent nose?" Henri's brown eyes met Gabriel's steely gray ones.

Gabriel sighed heavily. "No, my friend. I do not doubt your loyalty. But others will talk."

"Then let them talk!" laughed Henri. "Come. Meet her yourself. We'll see what you think of her in a moment, mon frère." He clapped Gabriel on the shoulder and warned him with a chuckle, "Put on your armor."

Henri raised a hand and waved. A small woman at Mademoiselle Bartoli's side waved back. Eloise Lefevre—Henri's new, much younger wife—had wide green eyes and delicate features. She reminded Gabriel of a porcelain doll. Except a doll knows how to be silent, he thought with a scowl of distaste.

"Oh, Henri!" she cried to the man. "Come here, my dear husband."

With Gabriel's coat sleeve still pinched in one hand, Henri approached the two women and greeted both with a resounding kiss on each cheek.

"Hello, mon amour. Clara." Stepping back, Henri tugged a very reluctant Gabriel forward, nudging the back of his heels with a well-placed kick.

Gabriel forced a wan smile and inclined his head to each of the women in turn. "Citoyenne. Mademoiselle."

"Gabriel," Eloise greeted him flatly. "Dour as usual." She made a face that she hid poorly behind her colorful fan.

Gabriel ignored her, already sizing up Mademoiselle Bartoli.

From the dark corner in the back of the room, she had looked like just another painted face, and mostly mouth at that. Up close, Gabriel had to admit that she was a striking woman with unusual features: a strong chin, a plump red mouth, and two fierce hazel eyes that regarded him with intense interest.

Henri stepped forward, a hand resting on Gabriel's shoulder, pulling him closer. "Clara, I'd like you to meet a dear friend of mine, a man I've known since childhood. This is Gabriel Allard."

"Inspecteur Allard," Gabriel corrected the man.

"Inspecteur." Clara gave him a small curtsy. "Surely you are not the same Inspecteur Allard spoken of so highly by the Comité?" she inquired curiously, her accent heavy, her voice lilting and musical. "The one they call le lion?"

"That depends on which committee you are speaking of," Gabriel replied, one eyebrow raised. "The Committee of General Security does not speak highly of any of her servants. The Committee of Citoyen and Citoyenne Lefevre, on the other hand, will praise just about any fool that crosses their threshold." He shot a pointed look at Henri and Eloise, who both smiled guiltily.

"So you are a fool then?"

Gabriel stared at her, startled.

Henri stepped in before Gabriel could respond. In mixed company, that was probably for the best.

"Gabriel is indeed the lion. Lion of the interrogation chamber, at least. Nobody he questions is found innocent."

The sharpness of Gabriel's gaze could have pierced the man like a sword, but Henri ignored it. Gabriel turned his attention back to Clara, only to discover her watching him with a smile.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Lion, if my teasing was too disrespectful," she apologized gracefully.

"Call me a fool all you like, Mademoiselle. I don't need my ego stroked, unlike most of the men in this room."

"You're very candid," she noted with smile playing on her red lips. "You don't get invited to many soirées, do you?"

"I rarely have the time," he replied coolly, meeting her gaze unwaveringly. "You performed well," he added. "Very…energetically."

His remark earned him a raised brow. "Salieri's music requires energy. He is Venetian, after all."

"I hear he still composes for the Viennese court," said Gabriel.

"Yes."

"Have you been?"

"Where?"

"To Vienna."

"Regrettably, I have not," she answered.

"I see."

"Enough with the interrogation, Gabriel," Henri chided his friend. "You'll frighten the lady."

The lady did not look frightened at all. In fact, she eyed Gabriel with distant calculation, the same expression he imagined he had when he questioned his suspects. He found it…unnerving.

"Forgive me." He inclined his head in polite apology, adding in Italian, "You speak the language well, signorina."

Clara's face lit up. The excited flush that rose on her cheeks was quite becoming. "Parla italiano?"

"Un po'," Gabriel answered quietly, adding in French, "Very little."

She sighed. "Ah well, it is still a pleasant surprise. You should practice it with me someday. You might even help me with my terrible French."

Shifting uncomfortably, Gabriel reached into his waistcoat pocket, drawing out his pocket watch and glancing at the hour. "Mademoiselle, forgive me, but I have already taken too much of your precious time. I must be going."

She curtsied gracefully. "A pleasure, Monsieur Lion."

Gabriel gave her a short bow. "The pleasure is mine." With that, he nodded respectfully to Henri and Eloise and took his leave.

"Henri, that man really is quite strange," Eloise murmured as she watched the man vanish into the crowd.

"What's that, ma chérie?"

"I really don't see how you put up with him."

Clara glanced at Eloise, a slight smile curving her lips. "I don't know," she said with a small shrug. "I found him interesting."

Eloise leveled a flat look at the woman. "When I was five years old, I found dog turds interesting. I grew out of it."

But Clara wasn't listening.