I sighed ruefully at the memory. He had the most beautiful amber skin. And such a tight little ass.

He chuckled as if reading my mind. “All right, Louey, I shall attempt to marshal my thoughts—as long as you do the same.” Stirring his chocolat, he sat back with a smirk. “So . . . you wish to rob an aristocrat, and you have, of course, come to the master for guidance.”

I scoffed but bit my tongue. As the third cousin twice removed of a baron, Bas held the peculiar position of being part of the aristocracy, while also not being part of it. His relative’s wealth allowed him to dress in the finest fashions and attend the fanciest parties, yet the aristocrats couldn’t bother to remember his name. A useful slight, as he often attended said parties to relieve them of their valuables.

“A wise decision,” he continued, “as twits such as Tremblay utilize layers upon layers of security: gates and locks and guards and dogs, just to name a few. Probably more after what happened to his daughter. The witches stole her during the dead of night, didn’t they? He’ll have increased his protections.”

Filippa was becoming a real pain in my ass.

Scowling, I glanced toward the patisserie’s window. All manner of pastries perched there on glorious display: iced cakes and sugar loaves and chocolat tartlets, as well as macarons and fruit danishes of every color. Raspberry eclairs and an apple tarte tatin completed the display.

Out of all this decadence, however, the enormous sticky buns—with their cinnamon and sweet cream—made my mouth truly water.

As if on cue, Coco threw herself into the empty seat beside us. She thrust a plate of sticky buns toward me. “Here.”

I could’ve kissed her. “You’re a goddess. You know that, right?”

“Obviously. Just don’t expect me to hold your hair back when you’re puking later—oh, and you owe me a silver couronne.”

“Like hell. That’s my money too—”

“Yes, but you can weasel a sticky bun out of Pan anytime. The couronne is a service fee.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the short, plump man behind the counter: Johannes Pan, pastry extraordinaire and halfwit. More important, however, he was the close personal friend and confidant of Mademoiselle Lucida Bretton.

I was Mademoiselle Lucida Bretton. With a blond wig.

Sometimes I didn’t want to wear the suit—and I’d quickly discovered Pan had a soft spot for the gentler sex. Most days I only had to bat my lashes. Others I had to get slightly more . . . creative. I shot Bas a covert look. Little did he know, he’d committed all sorts of heinous acts to poor Mademoiselle Bretton over the past two years.

Pan couldn’t handle a woman’s tears.

“I’m dressed as a man today.” I tucked into the first bun, shoving half of it into my mouth without decorum. “’esides, ’e prffers”—I swallowed hard, eyes watering—“blondes.”

Heat radiated from Bas’s dark gaze as he watched me. “Then the gentleman has poor taste.”

“Ick.” Coco gagged, rolling her eyes. “Give it a rest, will you? Pining doesn’t suit you.”

“That suit doesn’t suit you—”

Leaving them to bicker, I returned my attention to the buns. Though Coco had procured enough to feed five people, I accepted the challenge. Three buns in, however, the two had turned even my appetite. I pushed my plate away roughly.

“We don’t have the luxury of time, Bas,” I interrupted, just as Coco looked likely to leap across the table at him. “The ring will be gone by morning, so it has to be tonight. Will you help us or not?”

He frowned at my tone. “Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. You don’t need an invisibility ring for safety. You know I can protect you.”

Pfft. Empty promises. Perhaps that was why I’d stopped loving him.

Bas was many things—charming, cunning, ruthless—but he wasn’t a protector. No, he was far too worried about more important things, like saving his own skin at the first sign of trouble. I didn’t hold it against him. He was a man, after all, and his kissing had more than made up for it.

Coco glared at him. “As we’ve told you—several times—it grants the user more than invisibility.”

“Ah, mon amie, I must confess I wasn’t listening.”

When he grinned, blowing her a kiss across the table, her hands curled into fists. “Bordel! I swear, one of these days I’m going to—”

I intervened before she could slash open a vein. “It renders the user immune to enchantment. Sort of like the Chasseurs’ Balisardas.” My gaze flicked to Bas. “Surely you understand how useful that might prove to me.”

His grin vanished. Slowly, he reached up to touch my cravat, fingers tracing where it hid my scar. Chills erupted down my spine. “But she hasn’t found you. You’re still safe.”

“For now.”

He stared at me for a long moment, hand still raised to my throat. Finally, he sighed. “And you’re willing to do whatever it takes to procure this ring?”

“Yes.”

“Even . . . magic?”

I swallowed hard, threading my fingers through his, and nodded. He dropped our clasped hands to the table. “Very well, then. I shall help you.” He glanced out the window, and I followed his gaze. More and more people had gathered for the prince’s parade. Though most laughed and chatted with palpable excitement, unease festered just beneath the surface—in the tightness of their mouths and the sharp, quick movements of their eyes. “Tonight,” he continued, “the king has scheduled a ball to welcome his son home from Amandine. The entire aristocracy has been invited—including Monsieur Tremblay.”

“Convenient,” Coco murmured.

We all tensed simultaneously at a commotion up the street, eyes locking on the men who emerged through the crowd. Clad in coats of royal blue, they marched in rows of three—each thump, thump, thump of their boots perfectly synchronized—with silver daggers held over their hearts. Constables flanked them on either side, shouting and marshaling pedestrians to sidewalks.

Chasseurs.

Sworn to the Church as huntsmen, Chasseurs protected the kingdom of Belterra from the occult—namely, the Dames Blanches, or the deadly witches who haunted Belterra’s small-minded prejudices. Muted anger pounded through my veins as I watched the Chasseurs march closer. As if we were the interlopers. As if this land hadn’t once belonged to us.

Not your fight. Lifting my chin, I mentally shook myself. The ancient feud between the Church and witches didn’t affect me anymore—not since I’d left the world of witchcraft behind.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Lou.” Coco’s eyes followed the Chasseurs as they lined the street, preventing anyone from approaching the royal family. The parade would soon start. “We should reconvene in the theater. A crowd this size is dangerous. It’s bound to attract trouble.”

“I’m disguised.” Struggling to speak around the sticky bun in my mouth, I swallowed thickly. “No one will recognize me.”

“Andre and Grue did.”

“Only because of my voice—”

“I won’t be reconvening anywhere until after the parade.” Dropping my hand, Bas stood and patted his waistcoat with a salacious grin. “A crowd this size is a glorious cesspool of money, and I plan on drowning in it. If you’ll excuse me.”