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17 May 1868, Hotel Auberge, 17 May 1868
Armed with her role of Marguerite the Spy, femme fatale and deadly assassin, Marie ascended in the lift, barely acknowledging the operator. She had a goal, a mission. The warnings she’d received about Cobb swirled in the back of her mind, but her role gave her confidence she could handle him. Men fell at her feet at the theatre, after all, and gave her whatever she wanted. Why should this one be different?
She knocked, and Cobb opened the door. Every part of her body that his gaze fell on felt like something horrible and grasping raked over it. It required all her willpower and Marguerite’s confidence to not shudder.
“You look lovely,” he said and stepped aside. His hotel suite had a parlor, where a pull-in table held silver-domed dishes.”
Si
