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The gallery in Beaumont-sur-Mer had once been a customs house; now it was all white walls, discreet lighting, and the kind of hush that is expected, though no one can quite articulate why.
Champagne moved in silent circuits on silver trays. The private collection on display - miniatures, mostly eighteenth and early nineteenth century - had been arranged around the gallery in glass vitrines. Each tiny face stared out at a largely-disinterested crowd.
People here had come to be seen rather than to see.
Penny was already holding court.
“…of course the title is only, like, symbolic now,” she was saying to a sunburned man in a linen suit who looked like he owned at least one yacht and several dreadful opinions. “The estate is a nightmare. You can't imagine the upkeep. The west wing alone - my dear, the plasterwork.”
“You’re a countess?” the man asked, visibly thrilled.
“Technically,” Penny said with a dismissive little wave of her champagne flute. “My grandmother was a de Villiers. Minor branch. We lost most of the vineyards during the reforms. Tragic. The olives survived, though. They always do.”
Josephine, who had been pretending not to listen, murmured to Thomas, “If she invents a crumbling château, I am leaving.”
Thomas smiled into his drink. “You’re the one who taught her about land registries.”
“Yes, but I taught her to avoid specificity. She’s about to describe a fountain.”
Sure enough -
“The fountain is original,” Penny was saying solemnly. “Dolphins. Very pagan. We keep meaning to restore it.”
The man leaned closer. “I adore heritage. I think it's so important that the right people, with the right lineage, have...influence.”
Penny’s smile deepened, calculated and luminous, as she took his arm, “Oh, I couldn’t agree more.”
Josephine turned away before she could be implicated and moved toward a near-deserted side room.
The miniatures were exquisite. Delicate ivory and vellum, strokes so fine they seemed breathed on rather than painted. Lovers, officers, daughters in lace caps, men with impossible cravats and hopeful eyes. Each portrait no larger than a palm, each one a life condensed to something intimate and precise.
Josephine leaned in, hands clasped loosely behind her back like a penitent.
“They’ve lit them incorrectly,” she murmured.
Thomas followed. “Incorrectly how?”
“They’ve flattened them,” she said, wounded. “The glaze is supposed to catch at an angle. You’re meant to move. To discover the face. Look at this - ” She gestured subtly. “You can see the underdrawing if you stand here. It’s indecent.”
Thomas peered dutifully. “It’s…small.”
Josephine gave him a look of vast disappointment.
“It is a Nicholas Hilliard studio piece,” she said, scandalised. “Or at least attributed. And they have placed it between two aggressively mediocre French sentimentalists. It’s like seating a queen between footmen.”
“No one else seems upset,” Thomas observed gently.
“That,” Josephine said, voice lowering, “is the tragedy.”
She moved to the next case, eyes bright now, entirely unguarded in her affection.
“They are criminally underappreciated,” she said. “Look at the restraint. The intimacy. You had to sit for hours for this. You had to hold still and allow someone to look at you closely enough to render you at this scale. It is an act of trust.”
Thomas watched her rather than the paintings.
“You talk about them like they’re… people.”
“They are,” she said at once. “They survived. They were carried in lockets. Hidden in drawers. Smuggled across borders. And now they’re displayed like curiosities for men who cannot tell the difference between gouache and oil.”
Thomas laughed softly. He knew her well enough now to know that she was beginning to feel entitled to something. “You didn't come here to steal.”
“I did not,” Josephine agreed primly. “I am here to admire.”
“And to judge.”
“Obviously.”
Then she saw it.
It was set slightly apart from the others, in a narrow gilt frame that had been recently restored. The plaque beneath it was discreet: Artist Unknown, circle of Frédéric Millet c. 1820.
The woman in the portrait had dark hair drawn back severely from her face. Warm eyes. A mouth that did not quite smile. There was intelligence there. Control. Something watchful and unsentimental.
Josephine went very still.
Thomas noticed.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Josephine did not respond.
“She looks familiar,” he ventured.
“She does not,” Josephine said too quickly.
Thomas leaned closer to the glass. “Severe expression. Warm eyes. That thing she’s doing with her mouth -”
“Thomas.”
“ - like she’s already decided she disapproves but is willing to be persuaded - ”
Josephine narrowed her eyes at him.
“It is the brushwork,” she said coolly. “The restraint. The...composure.”
Thomas glanced sideways at her. “You know it would be simpler to just talk to Brigitte.”
Josephine’s head turned slowly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve been circling this for months,” he said mildly. “You could simply tell her you’re -”
Josephine’s gaze sharpened into something lethal and elegant.
“Finish that sentence,” she invited softly.
Thomas reconsidered his life choices.
“Admiring her professional integrity,” he amended.
Josephine returned her attention to the miniature.
“I am admiring the artist’s understanding of line,” she said. “Nothing more.”
“Of course.”
A ripple of movement passed through the room behind them.
Josephine felt it before she saw it - the subtle shift in posture, the way conversations dipped. She turned.
Brigitte stood near the entrance, suit immaculate, dark blue, cut to precision. Her hair was pulled back, expression composed. Two uniformed officers flanked her, and she was speaking quietly to the gallery’s director, who looked faintly ill.
Josephine’s interest sharpened.
Brigitte caught her eye across the room.
There was no obvious reaction in front of her officers. Only the faintest tightening at the corner of her mouth.
A moment later, she approached.
“Bonsoir,” Brigitte said, tone neutral, professional.
“Commissaire,” Josephine replied, equally smooth. “You are a patron of the arts this evening?”
“Alas, non.” Brigitte’s gaze flicked briefly to the vitrines. “There is a security concern. We have reason to believe someone intends to remove an item from the collection this evening.”
Josephine placed a hand over her heart, “I am wounded.”
“You will survive. It is not you,” Brigitte added, dry as dust, eyes resting on Josephine for half a second longer than necessary. “This time.”
Before Josephine could respond, a crash sounded from the adjoining room - glass shattering, a shout, the sharp bark of a security guard.
Everything dissolved at once.
Guests gasped. Someone screamed. One of Brigitte’s officers swore under his breath and sprinted toward the noise. The other followed. Security flooded past them.
Brigitte’s jaw tightened.
“Stay here,” she ordered, already turning.
Thomas leaned close to Josephine. “I can cut the security feed,” he murmured.
Josephine did not hesitate.
“For how long?”
“Thirty seconds. Maybe forty before someone notices.”
“That’s plenty.”
Thomas slipped his phone from his pocket, thumbs moving swiftly.
Josephine stepped back to the vitrine with the miniatures. The room was empty, attention pulled toward the chaos down the corridor. The woman in the portrait seemed to look back at her, unimpressed.
“You deserve better,” Josephine murmured.
Thomas exhaled, “Feed’s down.”
Josephine moved with swift, economical grace. It was always best to be prepared. A slender tool slid from her sleeve; the vitrine lock gave with a soft, compliant click. She lifted the miniature - then, after a fractional pause, the two flanking it as well.
“Josephine,” Thomas warned softly.
“I cannot separate them,” she whispered, already in the process of settling them into the lining of her clutch. “They’re a set.”
“Of course they are.”
Footsteps thundered somewhere behind them.
Then -
“Josephine.”
Brigitte’s voice. Low. Controlled. Directly behind her.
Josephine turned, one miniature still in hand.
For one suspended second, they simply looked at each other.
Brigitte’s gaze dropped to Josephine’s fingers. Then lifted again.
“You are testing my patience,” she said quietly.
“You said it was not me,” Josephine replied.
“I was optimistic.”
Another crash echoed from the corridor. Shouted orders. And - closer now - the sound of boots returning.
Brigitte stepped forward, taking Josephine firmly by the wrist.
“Give me that.”
Josephine did not.
Two shadows lengthened across the doorway.
Brigitte swore softly in French, then shoved the miniatures into Josephine’s clutch, closing it with decisive fingers.
“Go,” she hissed.
She pulled Josephine toward the side exit just as two officers entered behind her.
Thomas was already moving in the opposite direction, back towards Penny.
As Josephine and Brigitte slipped through the narrow service door, footsteps pounding in pursuit, the alarm finally beginning to scream, Brigitte wished - briefly, pointlessly - that she were more surprised.
Josephine Chesterfield, here as herself, stealing miniature portraits in the middle of an active police operation, while alarms shrieked and officers ran toward an entirely separate thief.
Of course.
No one had seen them at the empty case. That was the small mercy. The gallery staff were shouting about the smashed vitrine in the east room; guests were being herded like expensive sheep toward the main hall. But the case Josephine had opened sat only a metre away from where Brigitte had first spoken to her in view of her officers.
Too close. Much too obvious.
And Thomas had not restored the camera feed.
Brigitte knew this because her earpiece crackled with confused reports - “Camera three down - no, still down - who authorised - ?” - followed by the increasingly sharp tone of a lieutenant who did not enjoy being surprised.
Security had already sealed the primary exits.
Which meant that if Josephine was found with three nineteenth-century miniatures in her bag, Brigitte would be forced to arrest her.
That was not going to happen.
She caught Josephine’s wrist and pulled her hard toward the service staircase.
“You have the habit of attracting attention,” Brigitte muttered under her breath.
Josephine, even as she ran, smiled at her. “I’m flattered.”
“This is not a compliment.”
They took the stairs two at a time. Below them, Brigitte could hear her officers corralling guests in the main rooms. Penny’s voice was rising in indignant protest about invasive searches, Thomas’s calm baritone attempting reason.
Good. Contained.
Brigitte pushed Josephine into a narrow back corridor lined with framed exhibition posters and emergency lighting. The air smelled faintly of dust and old plaster.
“Stop,” Brigitte snapped, turning on her.
Josephine stopped. Obliging. Bright-eyed. Infuriatingly serene.
“You cannot be seen anywhere near that room,” Brigitte said, low and urgent. “Do you understand me? Guests will be searched. Bags will be checked. I cannot have you in that line.”
“Don't you have authority here?”
“How would you like me to explain the stolen art in your bag?” Brigitte shot back.
Josephine tilted her head. “Creative storytelling?”
“I have authority,” Brigitte said tightly, “but not magical powers, Josephine.”
There it was - the exasperation. Not fury. Not really.
Josephine saw it and softened, just slightly.
“Do you have an exit?” Brigitte demanded.
“It wasn’t my intention to need one.”
“Ah, bon? Well, it would be good to have one now!”
They both heard it then, heads turning theatrically in the direction of the sound - the heavy tread of boots on the stairwell below. Someone had realised the side corridor was a possibility.
Brigitte swore and grabbed Josephine’s hand again.
“This way.”
They ran.
It was absurd. The Commissaire of Beaumont-sur-Mer sprinting through her own crime scene with an international con artist turned thief for the evening, miniature portraits tucked into the lining of that thief’s clutch.
Brigitte’s instincts had made the decision before her brain caught up. Get Josephine away. Remove her from the radius of suspicion.
Protect her.
They burst through a metal door and out onto a rooftop terrace overlooking an interior courtyard. The night air was warm, the sea breeze faint but present. Below, guests were being released in small groups after cursory searches, irritation bubbling.
It was a dead-end.
“Wonderful,” Josephine said lightly, turning a slow circle before stopping to face Brigitte as footsteps echoed behind the door. “Now we’ll both be caught.”
“Tais-toi!” Brigitte hissed.
Her eyes scanned upward.
There. A narrow stone ledge running beneath a balcony on a mezzanine above. Ridiculous. The kind of manoeuvre she would reprimand someone else for attempting.
She made the calculation anyway.
She stepped close, hands already at Josephine’s waist.
“What are you doing?”
“I am prioritising your continued freedom,” she said through clenched teeth. “Up. Vite, vite.”
Josephine’s brows lifted in appreciation. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Up!”
Brigitte boosted her.
Josephine was far more agile than she had any right to be in silk and heels. She caught the ledge, arms straining only briefly before she swung herself upward. Her shoes found purchase against the stone lip, and she cleared the balcony rail neatly, skirt whispering against the ironwork as she lifted it elegantly out of the way.
The moment she landed, she quickly unhooked her bag from her shoulder, and tucked it into the corner of the balcony where it would not be trampled. Then she leant back over the railing.
“Your turn.”
Brigitte followed less elegantly.
She took the wall at a run, climbing as best she could. The holster at her hip caught briefly on the balustrade; she suppressed a curse under her breath as she wrenched it free. Her breath came sharper now, louder than she liked.
The badge in her pocket felt like a brand. The firearm at her side, a liability. This was truly absurd.
“Your stamina is admirable,” Josephine grinned from above, reaching down.
Brigitte shot her a look that promised retribution later.
Then her foot slid on the stone.
Her grip faltered as her weight pulled sharply backwards.
Josephine reacted instantly. She leaned down, catching Brigitte beneath the shoulder first, then, more securely, by the strap of the holster at her waist.
With a firm, decisive yank, she hauled her up the last few inches. Brigitte cleared the railing but her momentum carried them both backward.
They hit the stone floor together. Brigitte landed awkwardly atop Josephine, her weight driving the air from Josephine’s lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. Josephine’s back struck the cool flagstones, head tucking forward towards Brigitte's shoulder to avoid slamming it against the balcony floor.
The sound of a door clattering open below froze them both.
Josephine did not hesitate.
Her hands closed tightly around Brigitte’s back and shoulder, pulling her down closer, flatter against her, as footsteps burst onto the terrace beneath them.
They went completely still.
They didn’t have time to disentangle from the tumble. They were simply…stuck. Brigitte lay half-sprawled over Josephine, braced on one elbow, their legs caught together. Josephine’s skirt had ridden up in the scramble, silk bunched and twisted beneath their hips, leaving the length of her thigh bare against the night air.
The balcony floor was narrow, the stone below the railing barely deep enough to conceal them from below. The wrought-iron railing itself cut shadows across their bodies in the lantern light.
Brigitte had braced her fall with one arm, the other rested awkwardly at Josephine's hip. Her knee was wedged between Josephine’s thighs, her hip pressed firmly against Josephine’s side.
Brigitte’s first thought was immediate and instinctive: she searched Josephine’s face. Her eyes scanned quickly, checking for pain, injury, impact.
Josephine met the look and shook her head once. She slid a hand slowly up Brigitte’s back in silent reassurance.
I’m fine.
Brigitte held her gaze a moment longer in the dim light, making certain.
Below, the security guards spilled onto the terrace, voices sharp and irritated.
“Tu as vu quelque chose?”
“Rien. Merde.”
Boots scraped stone. A radio crackled.
Above, their bodies were aligned almost perfectly along the length of the narrow balcony floor. Josephine could feel the steady rise and fall of Brigitte’s chest against her own, the firm line of her torso, the warmth of her breath against the hollow of her throat.
Too close.
Much too close.
Josephine’s fingers had slipped beneath the edge of Brigitte’s jacket during the fall. When she shifted her grip slightly, her fingertips brushed bare skin where Brigitte’s shirt had ridden up from the climb.
The reaction was immediate.
A tremor ran through Brigitte.
Josephine felt it travel through her body like a current.
She watched Brigitte’s eyes flutter closed.
Interesting.
Josephine had assumed, after the unfortunate incident involving the wardrobe, that she had been the only one affected by these...moments of proximity.
She had spent several months quietly convinced that this was her weakness alone; that only she lay awake imagining warm breath in cramped darkness.
Perhaps not?
Josephine’s curiosity was immediate.
Scientific, almost.
She tested the theory.
Very slowly - carefully enough that the movement might be mistaken for settling - she arched her hips slightly against Brigitte’s thigh.
The result was magnificent.
Brigitte’s eyes flew open.
Her lips parted on a silent, startled breath she managed not to release. For a moment she simply stared down at Josephine, wide-eyed, the professional composure she wore so carefully cracking in the quiet.
Then her forehead dropped to the curve of Josephine’s neck...
And she pressed back. The line of her thigh flexed up against Josephine. The shift was minute. Not much.
But unmistakable.
It felt like lightning.
It sent a flash of heat through Josephine so intense she had to bite down on the inside of her lip to keep from reacting aloud.
Brigitte’s fingers tightened at Josephine’s hip where they had been braced against the stone. Not restraining.
Encouraging.
Josephine felt something sharp and bright unfurl in her chest, reckless and delighted all at once.
She obeyed.
She shifted again, a small deliberate grind of her hips against Brigitte’s thigh.
The effect was instant. Brigitte’s breath stuttered against her neck. Her fingers dug gently into Josephine’s hip, the pressure unmistakable now.
Again.
Josephine’s abdomen tightened sharply with want.
The movement between them was minimal - barely more than a subtle shift of weight - but in the stillness of the balcony it felt electric. Every point of contact blazed. Josephine could feel the firm press of Brigitte’s body along hers, the rise and fall of her breath, the soft weight of her breasts against her own.
Below them, one of the guards cursed again, footsteps moving across the terrace.
Neither woman dared make a sound, but the tension between them had become almost unbearable.
Josephine could feel Brigitte’s breath quicken against her skin.
Desire flared through Josephine, sudden, white-hot…and wholly ill-timed. She closed her eyes, helpless against it.
She rocked again.
The answering pressure was immediate.
It felt explosive.
Reckless.
Dangerous.
Brigitte’s hand tightened at her hip once more, fingers flexing. Her lips parted, and Josephine felt her wet them - a tiny, involuntary movement, so close to Josephine’s skin it was nearly a kiss.
The stone beneath Josephine’s back was cool; the night air brushed her bare thighs.
But she was burning.
Clang.
The door below slammed shut again.
The sound shattered the moment.
Both of them jerked slightly, startled enough that the spell broke instantly.
Brigitte pushed up at once, breaking the contact as if the stone itself had burned her. Josephine rose more slowly, dragging her skirt back into place with controlled, efficient movements before retrieving her bag with careful calm.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
They stood.
Brigitte adjusted her jacket automatically, smoothing it down with hands that were not quite steady. Her breathing was controlled again, face composed, but there was colour high in her cheeks she could not entirely disguise.
Her jaw was tight.
Josephine watched Brigitte in the dim light, her eyes bright; no longer merely amused, but alight with something triumphant and dangerously pleased.
“Well,” she said softly. “One-all.”
Brigitte turned her head slowly.
“For the wardrobe,” Josephine elaborated. “I will accept fault for misreading the floorplan and inconveniencing us if you admit that this -” she gestured delicately at the ledge, the drop, the general peril “ - was imprudent.”
Brigitte stared at her.
Josephine’s smile curved - arch, smug, delighted.
Something in Brigitte snapped.
She stepped forward abruptly, closing the space between them until Josephine’s back met the cool stone wall. Her hand braced beside Josephine’s shoulder; the other hovered at her waist as if uncertain whether to restrain or steady.
“You are unbelievable,” Brigitte growled softly.
Josephine’s breath caught.
For one suspended second, she was certain - utterly certain - that she was about to be kissed.
Brigitte’s face was very close. She could see the faint flush high on her cheekbones, the concentration in her eyes, the controlled frustration.
“You cannot keep doing this,” Brigitte murmured. “You cannot force me to choose between my job and - ”
The balcony door to their left flew open.
“All right, lovebirds.”
Penny stood framed in warm interior light, one hand on the handle, the other holding her phone triumphantly.
“I told you it was a good idea to put that AirTag in your bra.”
“I did not agree to that!” Josephine snapped.
“Ah, don't stress. Thomas tracked your phone. Do you want me here letting you in off this balcony or not?” Penny asked briskly.
She looked them up and down. Slowly. Knowing.
“I mean, don’t mind me. Carry on if you like. I think your officers are looking for you, though, Menswear Barbie.”
Brigitte did in fact know this - her earpiece had been alive with questions about her whereabouts. She stepped back at once, composure snapping into place like armour. She straightened her jacket, tugged it smooth, rolled her shoulders.
“You all need to leave,” she said crisply. “Now. Give me your bag.”
Josephine handed it over without protest.
Brigitte opened her jacket and slid the bag into the inner pocket with careful precision. The movement was practised, decisive. The miniatures disappeared into the crisp lines of her clothing, tucked securely against her ribs.
Josephine reached out and smoothed one of Brigitte’s lapels.
Brigitte narrowed her eyes at her.
Her ears were pink.
“I will see you at the villa later,” Josephine said softly.
Brigitte held her gaze for a fraction too long. Then she turned and disappeared through the door, back into the interior chaos of the building, issuing orders as soon as she encountered a member of security in the corridor.
When she was gone, Penny leaned against the railing and looked at Josephine.
“She’s furious with you.”
Josephine adjusted her cuffs, and smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt, serene once more.
“Mmm,” she said. “Mixed signals, I think.”
She was smiling.
It was well past midnight when the villa finally fell quiet.
Upstairs, now free of her Countess styling and in a pair of pyjamas that Josephine had once described as 'aggressively disgusting', Penny had been relentlessly irritating before eventually surrendering to sleep.
“I just think,” Penny had said with wicked satisfaction from Josephine's bedroom doorway, arms folded, watching Josephine as she unpinned her hair, “that you would both be much better adjusted if you’d just let her - ”
“Penny.”
“ - finish what she very clearly started.”
“Penny.”
“Jo.”
Thomas, already halfway through their bedroom door along the hallway, had murmured, “Goodnight,” with the air of a man who preferred not to be present for the outcome.
Penny had leaned in closer before retreating after him, “You nearly got arrested together. It’s basically foreplay at this point.”
Josephine had sat at her dressing table and sipped her wine serenely. “Go to bed.”
“Mm,” Penny had said. “I just think suppressed desire is terrible for cardiovascular health.”
“Goodnight, Penny.”
Now, Josephine was downstairs. The salon was dim, lamplight low and golden against the pale walls. The sea beyond the terrace doors was an expanse of black silk. Josephine sat along the length of the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, a glass of red wine balanced in her hand and a book open but unappreciated in her lap.
She had not absorbed any of the plot.
She was waiting.
The front door opened softly.
Measured footsteps crossed the marble. A pause at the threshold.
Brigitte stood there, jacket unbuttoned, the exhaustion unmistakable in the set of her shoulders. Her hair had loosened slightly at the nape and temples; there was a faint crease between her brows that had not been there earlier.
“Are you all right?” Josephine asked gently.
Brigitte cast her a long, weary look.
She did not answer.
Instead, she crossed the room and placed Josephine’s bag carefully on the low table in front of her. She raised one eyebrow in pointed emphasis before turning toward the sideboard.
Josephine smiled, marking her place and setting her book aside. She had not been certain that the bag would reappear. She had prepared herself, in some distant, rational part of her mind, for the possibility that the miniatures would be gone - confiscated, returned, absorbed into evidence. Gratitude flared, bright and immediate.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “...Are you still angry?”
Brigitte poured herself a generous glass of wine. The sound of liquid against crystal felt disproportionately loud in the quiet room. She crossed back towards the sofa slowly, and sat beside Josephine, close but not touching. She took a slow sip of wine, then ran her tongue over her teeth as if testing for patience.
“It is exceptionally fortunate,” she said at last, “for both of us, that two-thirds of that collection was already stolen property.”
Josephine turned toward her fully.
“Oh?”
“My officers initiated a full inventory after the disturbance,” Brigitte continued. “I could not stop it. It was obviously the correct procedure following an attempted theft.” Her mouth twitched faintly. “Apparently, Monsieur le Collectionneur was reluctant to have his treasures examined too closely.”
“How tragic for him.”
“Indeed. Within the hour it became clear that several works had been reported missing across Europe over the last decade.” Brigitte took another sip. “He has been…creative.”
Josephine’s eyes gleamed. “I thought as much.”
“I have spent what should have been a quiet evening,” Brigitte went on, “listening to a very boring man lie to me. Inelegantly. With sweat.”
Josephine made a sympathetic noise.
“He wished to avoid scandal. I wished to avoid paperwork.” She tilted her glass slightly. “We reached a compromise.”
Josephine smiled, “How civilised.”
“I do not probe too closely into the provenance of his remaining collection,” Brigitte continued evenly, “and he does not miss the contents of a case that was mysteriously emptied during the chaos.”
Josephine inclined her head. “You are very persuasive.” She glanced at the bag, “I thought you might return them.”
Brigitte took another sip.
“My officers have questions,” she said. “Reasonable ones. About the security camera feed. About the presence of a second thief. About the conveniently unsecured side exit. About my whereabouts at a critical moment.”
Her gaze shifted to Josephine.
Josephine winced, delicately.
“I have walked a line so fine this evening,” Brigitte said, voice low, “it could have been painted by one of your artists.”
“It was never my intention to make your life difficult.”
Brigitte laughed - brief, incredulous.
“Ah bon? This is new.”
Josephine’s expression remained composed. “Truly. I was suspicious of the collection from the start. Poorly exhibited to appear less valuable than it was. Several pieces displayed were absent from the printed catalogue. The lighting was wrong in a way that suggested deliberate misdirection.” She lifted one shoulder. “It had all the hallmarks of acquisition achieved through…enthusiasm.”
“And your solution was to commit an additional crime?”
“I prefer to think of it as curatorial intervention.”
Brigitte turned to look at her fully now.
“Josephine,” she said, exasperation threaded with something warmer, “I do not like you committing crimes in such close proximity to my officers. Particularly when they are inclined to use their handcuffs.”
Josephine’s smile was slow, elegant.
“I did notice they were exceptionally motivated.”
Brigitte shook her head.
The evening could have ended very differently. The thought sat between them, unspoken for a moment.
“You could have been arrested,” Brigitte said quietly.
Josephine met her gaze without flinching. “But I was not.”
“Non, ma catastrophe,” Brigitte replied softly. “You were not.”
She set her glass down with controlled deliberation.
“I should not be rewarding your reckless behaviour,” she said. “But returning those miniatures was…unreasonably low on my list of options for managing tonight’s disaster.”
Josephine studied her carefully.
“You wanted me to have them.”
Brigitte did not answer that. Instead, she took another sip of wine and gestured toward the bag. “Vas-y. Show me your spoils. I think I deserve to see what I scaled a building for you to keep.”
Josephine hesitated.
Uncharacteristically.
For the first time that evening, she felt something close to embarrassment.
She withdrew the miniatures one by one, laying them out on the low table with meticulous care. The lacquered frames caught the lamplight. Lovers. A young officer. And finally...
The dark-haired woman.
Josephine set her down last.
“…Josephine.”
She did not look up.
Brigitte reached for the portrait, lifting it with care. “Celui-ci,” she murmured. “Why her?”
Josephine’s throat tightened. She could not look at her.
She looked at the table instead.
“Because…” she began, then stopped.
She had planned something witty. Something deflecting.
Instead -
She took a measured breath. She could still feel the recklessness of their behaviour on the balcony coursing through her. The almost-kiss. The way Brigitte’s hand had braced beside her shoulder. The growl in her voice.
The heat of Brigitte’s breath against her skin.
“Because,” she said decisively, finally looking up, “I wanted her. So intensely. Against my better judgement. Despite what is sensible.”
Brigitte’s eyes flicked up to her.
Josephine closed her own briefly, steadying herself.
“And I thought,” she continued, voice softer now but still precise, “if I could have her, in spite of the risk, perhaps I could also have…”
Understanding dawned slowly across Brigitte’s face.
Josephine saw it. She forced herself to hold the gaze.
“Thomas suggested a conversation with you would have been more prudent,” she added lightly.
Brigitte placed the miniature gently back on the table. “That would have been better for my blood pressure than fleeing an active crime scene.”
She lifted her hand and cupped Josephine’s cheek.
The gesture was gentle, fond.
“Do you really not see it?” Brigitte asked softly. “I have never refused you anything, Josephine. Even when it is best for everyone that I should. Do you think I could have found the strength to refuse you this?”
Josephine’s breath caught. “I am not always emotionally available,” she said lightly, but there was vulnerability beneath it.
“Stealing a woman from the nineteenth century is not a solution to that.”
Josephine considered this. “It has worked.”
Brigitte narrowed her eyes. “Do not test me.”
Josephine’s smile returned, bright and wicked.
That did it.
Brigitte leaned in and kissed her.
It was gentle. Deliberate. Not the collision Josephine had half-expected on the balcony, but something steadier. A decision.
When she pulled back, Josephine’s composure had shifted, her pupils wide. But the smile remained.
Brigitte leaned back slightly, studying her.
“I have had an absurd evening,” she said. “I lied for you tonight. Negotiated for you. Redirected suspicion for you. Allowed my officers to believe I was merely… distracted.” She shook her head faintly. “The reports I rewrote. The compromises I made. The questions I deflected. I have jumped through hoops that would impress a circus. All because I want you free. And apparently in possession of beautiful, questionably-sourced art.”
She exhaled.
“I must be mad.”
Josephine’s fingers traced lightly along the line of Brigitte’s jaw, her expression softened completely now.
“I never once doubted you would fix it,” she said quietly. “I trust you completely.”
Brigitte’s brows lifted.
“That is a dangerous confession.”
“Perhaps,” Josephine replied. “But you climbed a building for me,” she continued softly. “In your very expensive shoes.”
Brigitte huffed out a small, incredulous laugh.
“And I stole a painting of a woman who reminded me of you, in the vicinity of three police officers who were actively anticipating theft.”
Brigitte's hand came up to massage her own temple at that.
Josephine smiled, “Perhaps we are both suffering from something other than madness.”
“Oui?”
Josephine’s gaze held, steady and luminous. “Something messy. Something inconvenient.” Her thumb brushed the edge of Brigitte’s collar. “Something we could…explore further?”
Brigitte’s eyebrows rose suggestively.
A pause.
“In private.”
Brigitte smiled slowly. “Et peut-être,” she said, voice dipping, “not at height.”
Josephine’s lips quirked up, wicked.
“Or in a wardrobe,” Brigitte added dryly.
Josephine reached for her wine once more. “I am open to innovation,” she said, tipping the glass in a salute.