Priceless - excerpt

⏣  Prologue  ⏣

New York City, 1879

The smack of a hand against a cheek reverberated over the hum of machinery. Evan knew better than to turn and look, or even wince.

“But I don’t know how!”

New boys. The foreman slapped the boy again, and he whimpered. He’d learn soon enough. When the owners were here, you did as you were told, and never mind if it wasn’t your job. They’d take any excuse to hit you. The bruises and swelling didn’t show underneath the grime.

Evan scrubbed the floor harder, in case anyone was looking. The foreman brushed past him.

“Mr. Reynolds, sir, it’s such a pleasure to have you here today! Mrs. Reynolds, charmed, ma’am.”

Evan scooted behind the nearest machine and grabbed his chalk. He’d be safe here for now, though the adults might eventually circle back around to this area. Best to look like he was working. He scratched a few marks on the floor, then scrubbed them away, to make it appear he was actually cleaning something. He wrote his name. Scrub. Some numbers. Scrub. His mind began to wander, as it always did when he was bored. Scratch, scratch, scrub. Scratch, scratch, scrub. Scratch…

He could fix the mechanical rat. If he rounded off the nose and moved the key…

Numbers began to dance in his head and the world drifted away.

“What’s that you’re drawing, boy?”

Evan jerked back to reality. The chalk clattered to the floor and he lunged for the rag.

“No, don’t wipe it.”

Mr. Reynolds loomed over him. Mrs. Reynolds stood nearby, in a pale yellow dress as spotlessly clean as anything Evan had ever seen.

“What is that?” Mr. Reynolds asked. “Tell me about it.”

Evan coughed—a horrible, sick, hacking sort of cough. He’d get smacked for sure for coughing in front of the owner, but he couldn’t control when the fits came on. Mr. Reynolds waited, staring him down. Maybe he’d do the smacking himself.

“It’s a cleaning rat,” Evan choked out.

“Not one I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a better one. The ones we got, they get stuck.”

And often. The smaller boys, like Evan, crawled under the machines to pull them out. When the owners weren’t here, at least.

“This one, it don’t gots that pointy nose what gets wedged under stuff. And it gots its key on the end like a tail so’s it don’t stick up. And you can’t see the legs, but they’re gonna be tucked up underneath so’s they won’t get caught.”

“Stand up, boy, and let me have a look.”

Evan leapt to his feet, his fingers clenching on the rag, bracing for a smack. Mr. Reynolds walked a slow circle around the drawing that marred his factory floor.

Mrs. Reynolds lifted a cloth to Evan’s face. He flinched, but the material was a gentle caress against his skin.

“Such a beautiful child under that dirt. How old are you, dear? Six?”

“I’m nine.”

“Such a tiny thing. Here, do you like apples?”

She presented him a shiny red fruit from her bag. Evan didn’t remember what apples tasted like, but his mouth watered.

“This is brilliant!” Mr. Reynolds exclaimed. “You even have measurements!”

“It gots to have numbers so’s people make it right.”

“You have talent, boy. Damned brilliant talent. Do you know how to read?”

“Yes.”

It was only half a lie. Evan knew all his letters. He could write his name and he’d taught himself every word on every sign in the factory.

“Good. What’s your name?”

“Evan Tagget. People call me Mite.”

“Tagget. I’ll remember that. You’re a little young, but train you up a few years and you could make me a fortune. Excellent, excellent. Come, Mrs. Reynolds, let’s see what other surprises are in store today.”

Evan watched them go, clutching his apple, still trembling in anticipation of the beating that had never occurred. His eyes dropped to the fruit in his hand. He had never seen anything so beautiful. It crunched in his teeth, flooding his mouth with the sweetest taste he had ever experienced.

He chewed slowly, savoring the flavor. With his second bite, he closed his eyes, shutting out everything but the perfection of the apple.

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“What’ve you got there, brat?” The foreman snagged the apple from Evan’s grasp. “You stealing?”

“No!” Evan panicked, clawing at the air in a vain attempt to reclaim his treasure. “Give it!” The blow to his head brought tears to his eyes. “It’s mine!”

“Not anymore.” He chucked the most precious thing Evan had ever had into the nearest furnace.

Evan howled in rage and despair, slamming his fist into the foreman’s meaty thigh.

The man slammed him against a metal press. Pain blossomed throughout his left side, and the tears swelled to a deluge. The foreman smacked him one final time, cursed at him, and shoved him to the floor.

“Get back to work.”

Evan crawled across the factory floor, weeping in pain and fury. The moment the coast was clear, he scurried under the loose grating to his nest beneath the steam forge. He hugged Ratty to his chest and curled into a ball. The familiar bumps and angles of the battered old cleaning rat brought only mild relief to the hurt and anger boiling inside him. Mr. Reynolds had called him brilliant. Mrs. Reynolds had called him beautiful. He was smarter, prettier, better than those bullies. He would get out of this hellhole, and he would make it so no one could smack him around or tell him what to do ever again.

Someday, Evan Tagget would have all the power.

⏣  1  ⏣

Paris, June, 1905

The wardrobe dug great gouges in the floor planks as Violet hauled it across the apartment. The landlord would be furious. The landlord would never see her again.

Heavy boots thundered up the staircase outside. Vi gave the massive cabinet a final shove and it teetered and fell against the door. It would buy her a moment’s time.

She made one last sweep of the room, looking for anything of value she may have missed. A single paint brush lay in the dusty rectangle where the wardrobe had once stood. She snatched it up and shoved it through the knot of hair atop her head. No sense leaving good tools lying around. She cinched her purse at her waist and threw open the window.

Her head swam. Four stories up, and no way down but the rickety metal pipe that had been haphazardly affixed to the building to carry water to the upper floors. She swung one leg over the sill. Voices shouted from the hall and fists pounded at her door. She had no choice. She grabbed hold of the pipe and slid out the window.

Several terrifying seconds later, her feet hit the pavement and she let out a gasp of relief.

“Lovely knickers,” the neighbor boy said in French, leering at her.

Violet gave him a contemptuous smile. “Aren’t they, though?” she answered in the same language. “I stole them from your mother.” She scampered off, leaving him staring, open-mouthed.

Vi wound her way through town, disappearing into the crowd, putting good distance between herself and the now-abandoned apartment. It was time to lay low for a few days. She knew several boarding houses that would take overnighters, no questions asked, but her current pursuers were savvier than usual and might know about them. For tonight, she’d drop into a theater or folies house. She could always blend in with the vibrant colors and carefree ways of professional entertainers.

On the bustling streets of the city, Violet at last began to relax and consider her future beyond the night’s accommodations. Perhaps she would travel north for a time. She’d never been as far as London, and she wouldn’t be sad to spend some time in an English-speaking country. She could hardly remember the last time she’d had a conversation in her native language. Yes, a few months across the Channel sounded just the thing.

Her mind occupied with plans, she turned to enter the theater and nearly crashed into a familiar face.

“Ah, Mademoiselle d’Aubergine, how nice to see you.” Monsieur Berger’s blue eyes glinted as the French words rolled smoothly off his tongue. “Might I bother you for a moment of your time?” He took her arm and steered her away from the entrance.

Vi tried to shrug out of his grip, but his fingers were as unyielding as a steel manacle. “What do you want from me?” she demanded. “I thought our business was concluded.”

“It pains me to say so, mademoiselle, but your business has only begun. These gentlemen here would like a word with you.”

A trio of uniformed police marched toward her, closing in from all sides. The same goons who had been chasing her earlier. Damn. She squirmed, but her captor didn’t relax his hold until escape was an impossibility.

“Why are you doing this? You… you hired me!”

Berger’s smile was gentle. “Under false pretenses, mademoiselle. I’m truly impressed by your work, but I fear your criminal career has come to an end. Running will only make things worse.”

“You bastard,” she spat out.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I know you to be a resourceful woman, and I’m certain you will handle the situation with aplomb.” He tipped his hat to her. “Best of luck, Miss Dayton,” he said in English. Perfect English, spoken with the crisp accent of an upper-class Londoner. A spy? Damn and blast.

“I do believe you will go far,” he added. He spun on his heel and departed, leaving her in the clutches of the police.

Violet fumed internally as they ushered her to the station. The betrayal stung. How could she have been so stupid? She had liked Monsieur Berger—if that was even his name. He was shrewd and witty. She’d even thought him rather attractive, though he had to be pushing fifty. Stupid, stupid girl. How could she not have learned after all these years? Intelligent men were her weakness.

She plopped down on the wobbly stool and stared up at her interrogator, meeting his harsh gaze with one of indifference. She wouldn’t be cowed by brutes, and she wouldn’t confess to anything.

“You are Mademoiselle Violette d’Aubergine, correct?” asked the inspector, a stony-faced man named Crevier. Despite Berger’s revelation of her real name, Crevier addressed her in French.

“Oui.”

“And you are an artist?”

“I am.”

He flipped through a stack of papers. “You have been very busy, it seems, Miss d’Aubergine. Or should I call you Vérité?”

“Call me whatever you wish, but I make no guarantee I will respond.”

Crevier’s laugh was nasty, condescending. “As you can see, mademoiselle, we have a great deal of information about your career. More than enough to lock you away for decades. At present, however, we have larger concerns than rich fools buying fake masterpieces. You have contacts and connections in the criminal world. You know art, and you know the intersection between art and vice. We would like the assistance of someone like you, Miss d’Aubergine, to sniff out a thief. One who has thus far eluded us all, and whose plunderage and audacity continue to grow. Track him down, bring him to justice, and you can go free.”

Vi pursed her lips, weighing her options. The door was too well-guarded to make a run for it, and she couldn’t fight her way out, despite the small knife she kept concealed beneath her clothing. She didn’t believe for an instant he would truly let her go, even if she did do what he wanted. But if she agreed to Crevier’s terms, she could escape the police station and perhaps arrange to skip town.

“What resources will be at my disposal?” she asked. Best to have all the information she could get and imply she was considering the matter seriously.

“Resources?” Crevier snorted. “Mademoiselle, your brain and your connections are your resources. We are not in the habit of giving handouts to reprobates.”

Vi glared at him. “Then it’s impossible. I can’t track down a master thief without money and transportation at the very least.”

“I will give you papers with information regarding the thefts. Anything further is your own responsibility.” His haughty smile grew wider. “And don’t think you can run, Madame Vérité. If you try, I will publish your artist name, your real name, and your criminal name in every major paper from here to your hometown of Melbourne.” He waved a hand, and a man behind him lifted a camera and snapped several photos. “Your photograph, will, of course, be included.”

“Of course,” Violet replied, her jaw clenching. They hadn’t even taken a real mugshot of her. This entire “negotiation” was underhanded and probably illegal. 

“My offer is generous, considering the circumstances,” Crevier continued. “Accept it and you have a chance to walk free. Defy me, and you will never work again unless you’re flat on your back. Do we have an agreement?”

Violet had no other option. She forced calm into her voice. “Will you make your offer in writing?” The paper would do no good except to prove he’d blackmailed her, but it was better than nothing.

He gave her a nod, his lips curling in a sneer. “I suppose that can be arranged.”

“Good. Bring me the document and you have a deal.”

*****

The smell of paint and the chink, chink of hammer and chisel in the background would forever conjure up a soothing sensation of home, even though Violet hadn’t lived in Sophie Pascal’s artists’ commune for years. Once Vi, too, had worked in this large, open room. Today, she had only come for a visit.

She stretched out her legs and regarded her friend across the large, oak desk that dominated the corner office area.

“You’re certain you won’t stay?” Sophie asked again. She wound a hand-painted ribbon around one of her tight braids and studied the result in a hand mirror. Another prototype for her booming business of artistic accessories for Black women. The commune thrived off the profits.

Violet eyed the new ribbons. Good for any number of hair textures and styles. Many women here in the multicultural artists’ enclave would be eager to display the new merchandise. Maybe some of them would carry the products back to their homelands and aid Sophie’s dream of taking her company international.

The thought of homelands caused a momentary pang in Violet’s chest. She missed Australia.

“Amal and I would love to have you here,” Sophie pressed on. She glanced over her shoulder at her husband, who paused in his sculpting to wave. Some twenty years younger than Sophie, he was passionately devoted to only two things in life: his wife and his art.

“I know you would.” Vi replied. “But you know me. I prefer to make my own way.”

“Oui, oui.” Sophie waved a hand breezily. “So independent. Always wanting to do it all yourself. Well, we are here if you need us.”

“I only need to store my things until I’ve planned my next move.”

“Of course. There’s room for all your paintings in our art storage, and anything else can simply go in a closet.”

“Thank you. It won’t be for long.”

Violet loved the people at the commune, and cherished the memories of the months she’d lived here when she’d first come to Paris. Even so, relying on her friends had felt like living off charity. And that wasn’t part of her plan.

Her current troubles with that harassing, corrupt Inspector Crevier had set her timeline back somewhat, but she was still close. A few more commissions and she’d have enough saved up for her dream exhibition. She had ideas. She had visions.

All she needed was someone to fund her search for this art thief. Someone with money to burn, the right knowledge, and nothing better to do.

“Sophie…” Violet stared off into the distance, out past where Amal chipped away at his block of marble. “Do you remember that story several months ago about an unscrupulous American businessman? Something about telephones and spying?”

“Monsieur Tagget? He enjoys art, I believe. Were you planning to sell him one of your paintings?”

“Not exactly. But if you had an idea of how I might contact him…”

Sophie laughed. “You know the hotel La Belle Maison?”

“Of course.” It was a huge, wildly popular, gorgeously decorated hotel. Violet had once spent two solid hours lounging in the sumptuous lobby before someone realized she wasn’t a guest and kicked her out.

“He owns it.”

Vi’s jaw dropped. Well. This would be interesting.

⏣  2  ⏣

“Darling, won’t you come to bed?”

Evan flicked the half-smoked cigarette over the rail and watched it spiral to the ground and die out in the mud below. The lights and sounds of the city lacked their usual vibrancy tonight. Or perhaps that was only an illusion. Nothing seemed exciting these days.

He stepped in from the balcony, pulling the doors closed behind him. The din of the streets faded to a muffled hum. His lover beckoned to him, but the suggestive smile aroused neither his interest nor his body. Three weeks this had lasted. Better than some. He undressed slowly, while his impatient paramour fidgeted in the bed.

“I will be leaving in the morning,” Evan stated coolly. “You’re welcome to keep the apartment.”

Laurent nodded, his handsome face impassive. He’d seen it coming. They all did. It was why Evan took care never to imply that his romantic relationships were anything but temporary. He wanted simple companionship, not heartbreak. These past months, however, even companionship seemed less than satisfactory.

“I knew you’d be leaving,” Laurent replied. “You’ve withdrawn, and been so silent these last few visits. But I shall move on.”

“Yes. I don’t doubt you shall.” Evan snaked a finger down his lover’s chest. “Tonight, however, I will ensure you enjoy what time we have left.”

A short time later, the young Frenchman lay writhing and moaning, his fingers clenched in the bed sheets. No one could ever say Evan Tagget left them unsatisfied.

Too bad he couldn’t say the same for himself.

Morning brought no relief from the relentless ennui. Only another day of phone calls and telegrams. Business as usual. Even an escape to the one-time warehouse that now served as his workshop did little to improve his mood. As he’d done all too often these days, he drank a glass of cognac for dinner, and decided to turn in early.

“Mr. Tagget, sir?” a bellhop interrupted him on his way through the hotel lobby to the steam lift. “There’s a young lady here to see you. She’s been waiting for some time.”

Evan flinched. A young lady? His heart hammered. Eden? Impossible. She would never leave her husband. Unless something entirely unforeseen had occurred? Then what? Would she have accepted Evan’s invitation to join him overseas? Would she have sought him out?

“I took the liberty of escorting her to your suite and sending up dinner, sir,” the boy added.

“Thank you.”

Evan bypassed the lift and took the stairs two at a time, his stomach churning with excitement and dread. What would he do if his visitor was Eden? He was dying to see her, aching to fling his arms around her and hug her senseless. And… nothing more. Any thoughts of romance were long-since banished. If she were here for such a purpose, he’d need to find a way to tell her he’d come to value their long-distance banter and wasn’t willing to risk romantic entanglements. Dammit, her letters were the only thing he ever looked forward to.

By the time he reached the penthouse, Evan was wheezing and cursing himself. He knew he couldn’t run for any distance. The filters simply weren’t strong enough. He leaned on the wall for several seconds, catching his breath. He couldn’t greet his guest panting like some totty-one-lung.

Ding!

The steam lift settled into place with a mocking clank. So much for efficiency. Pushing himself back upright and taking a slow, deep breath, Evan slotted his key into the lock. The mechanical door slid open.

The woman lounging on his settee was most definitely not Eden, though she dressed with a similar bohemian style. A sleek black corset covered a lavender blouse, and her fluffy, plum skirt tumbled just to her knees. Black and white striped stockings hugged shapely calves. Her boots were scuffed and practical. She could run in those, or kick a man in the balls.

She set down the pastry she was eating and sat up straight. Intent eyes of a dark amber color assessed him. Rosy lips pursed in a slight frown. Dark brown hair streaked with golden highlights had been twisted into a messy knot atop her head and skewered with a pair of paintbrushes. A few stray wisps dangled loose to caress the skin of her neck. Her complexion was unfashionably tanned from the sun, with a handful of freckles. Evan had to admire a person who wasn’t afraid to eschew convention.

“Mr. Tagget, I presume?” the woman asked in French. Her voice was luxurious, her accent unfamiliar.

Evan nodded and replied in the same language. “I am he.”

“Thank you for dinner. The food is excellent. I assume you paid for it?”

“In a way. I own the hotel.”

“So I’ve been told,” she replied. Her lips arced in a smirk fine enough to match his own. She stretched out her long, lean legs, then rose gracefully from her seat to address him eye-to-eye.

Who was this woman? She was bold, beautiful, and unafraid to seek him out in his own personal quarters. A spark of desire stronger than any he’d felt in ages ignited inside him. Whoever she was, she was worth knowing, inside and out.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mademoiselle...?”

“Violette d’Aubergine.”

His brows rose. Odd, too. Even better. She’d make him a perfect mistress. Now all he had to do was convince her that a bored American millionaire was exactly her type.

*****

“D’Aubergine?” Tagget echoed. A smirk tugged at the corner of his arrogant mouth. Amusement sparkled in his eyes. They were a fascinating color, a mottled green full of lighter and darker flecks that flashed when he smiled. He had a naturally pale complexion, without a hint of exposure to the sun. His pristine suit and slender figure also implied he wasn’t a man who spent much time outdoors.

Violet held his gaze. “Do you have a problem with my name?”

It was a silly name. She’d known for years it was a silly name, but it was her professional name, and she refused to be embarrassed by it.

The smirk broadened into a full grin. “Not at all. What can I do for you, Miss d’Aubergine?”

His French was excellent, but with a strong American accent. There was no sense speaking a language foreign to the both of them. She switched to English.

“I have a proposition for you, Mr. Tagget.”

His neatly trimmed eyebrows twitched. “Excellent!”

Ack, that smug smile. The man was too handsome for his own good, and he knew it. Vi didn’t know whether she’d rather kiss that mouth or punch it. 

The grainy magazine photograph she’s scrounged up hadn’t done him justice. It made him look older, more serious. It didn’t show the single stray lock of hair curling across his forehead or the dimples at the corners of his mouth, too prominent to hide beneath his short goatee. It failed entirely to capture that wicked glint in his eye. He wasn’t the cold, merciless industrialist she’d imagined. His blood ran hot.

She’d also imagined him to be quite a bit taller. Standing here, staring at him, they looked exactly the same height.

“You and I are going to enter a partnership, Mr. Tagget.”

“Oh, are we?” He managed to both leer and sound suspicious.

“You have heard, I assume, of the rash of art thefts over the past few months?”

“That fool who styles himself ‘l’Exploiteur’? Is he the mastermind he claims, or just a braggart?”

“I’m told he has stolen near to fifty works of art, mainly from private collections and small galleries. His thefts grow bigger and bolder, and he has begun to taunt major galleries and museums with the promise of the greatest heists ever seen.”

“Well, that does sound dire, though I fail to see how it is of relevance to myself.” His dark brows quirked again. “Unless you are this Exploiter? If so, then I absolutely agree to join you on your next heist. What are we stealing?”

“No!” Vi put both hands on her hips. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not an art thief.”

“More’s the pity. I could use an interesting challenge.”

“I’m an artist,” Violet huffed. “I create, I don’t destroy. I want my work on display, where it can be enjoyed by all.”

Tagget stroked his beard. “Hmm. What, then, is your concern with this pilferer of cultural treasures?”

“I’m trying to learn his identity and put a stop to his crimes.”

“How noble,” he chuckled. “Standing up for the dead masters who can no longer defend their works?”

Obnoxious ass. She really was going to punch him right in his pretty mouth, then storm out and find herself a different assistant.

Violet clenched her fingers. Rich businessmen with questionable ethics and worldwide communications networks couldn’t be found loitering on any street corner. She was lucky to even have the opportunity to speak with him.

“I was asked to help in this case because of my own connections in the art world,” she explained, trying not to glower.

He frowned at her, causing a small furrow in his brow. “Your connections? What sort of connections would a lady artist have that would be of any use in this situation? Unless…” The frown twisted into a smile. “You’re involved in illicit dealings yourself, naturally. A forger, perhaps?” He twitched. “Well, I’ll be damned. Are you Vérité? But of course you are. ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’ Though you look rather youthful for someone who they say has been working for fifty years and faked three hundred paintings.”

“Ten years, twenty-seven forgeries. Many haven’t been discovered, and many works have been incorrectly attributed to me.”

With her police file as thick as a Bible, Violet didn’t see any need to hide her deeds, and she was proud of the work she had done. Tagget looked momentarily surprised by her admission, then his smile returned.

“Fascinating. You made a deal with the authorities, I presume? But you need assistance. Why me?”

“I heard you were kicked out of the United States for spying.”

Tagget’s green eyes twinkled. “Now, my lovely blossom, you mustn’t believe every rumor you hear. I bent some laws, perhaps, but didn’t precisely break them. People did take exception, however, so I thought it best to focus on my European interests until the furor dies down.”

Violet turned up her nose at him. “I don’t care about the details. I care that you’re a teletics expert. Can you or can you not record information over a telephone or telegraph line?”

“I can. Most of it is irrelevant chatter. Sifting through is usually a waste of time.”

“And you’re an inventor?” she pressed on. “You can build things, and understand how machines work? You could dismantle them if necessary?”

A smile of a different sort touched his lips. More boyish, maybe even happier. “I could break through that mechanical door behind me with no more than a screwdriver, given enough time.”

“Then you’re the man I need.”

He fixed her with a heated stare. “I’m pleased you think so.” The husky timbre of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “I accept your proposal. When do we begin?”

“Tomorrow.” Vi snagged her half-eaten pastry. She tried not to let her gaze linger on the remaining chunk of juicy steak and side of truffade. She’d never had such a meal in her entire life. “I’ll return in the morning.”

“I’ll have your dinner packed up for you.”

Drat. He’d noticed. “Thank you.”

“I won’t be eating it, and I don’t like to see good food go to waste. Until tomorrow, then?”

She nodded, and he opened the door for her, stepping aside to let her pass. Their shoulders brushed as she walked by, just for an instant, but it was more than enough to send a flash of heat throughout her body. Violet strode down the hall, keeping her pace measured, refusing to look back at him.

This would be tricky, working with a man she didn’t trust who nonetheless intrigued and enticed her. And of course she found his blatant flirtations far preferable to the men who ogled her while pretending not to, or the artists who “only wished to sketch” her. Tagget’s directness was oddly refreshing. No matter. She would handle it. Violet Dayton was no quitter.