The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue

by Mackenzi Lee

  “Well, if he won’t tell you,” I say, “do you think he’d tell me?”

  Felicity actually laughs aloud at that pronouncement, which is rather hard not take personally. “Why would he tell you?”

  “Because we could help him,” I say. “The island is sinking—if he doesn’t get her out soon, she’ll be gone forever, whether or not someone uses the panacea. If we can convince him of that, perhaps he’ll tell us the cipher and then you can fetch it.” It’s a great fight to keep my voice steady when all I’m spouting is rubbish—if we get the box open and get to that alchemical cure-all, there is only one thing I am going to do with it, but I can’t imagine Dante would be too keen if he knew our idea.

  Or rather, my idea. Both Felicity and Percy are giving me a look that clearly conveys it is I alone taking a machete to this jungle.

  Dante, in contrast, lights like a struck flint. “We—do you think—would he? What about Helena?”

  “You needn’t tell her,” I say. “She can’t hand it over if she doesn’t know you’ve got it.”

  Dante taps the tips of his fingers together. He’s practically bouncing in his chair. “We’d have to get you into the prison. They won’t let him have visitors. But—but he’s here, in Barcelona. They’ve all their political prisoners in one hold. Would you—could you do that? For me?”

  “So we get the cipher and then we leave here,” Felicity interrupts. “At once. This is getting dangerous.”

  “Yes,” Percy says, and I nod. If there’s an alchemical treatment in Venice—or better still, an honest-to-God cure that can rid him of this forever and knock Holland permanently off the docket—I want to be out of here and on the road as quick as possible.

  From the street outside, there’s the clatter of a carriage pulling up to the walk. Felicity twitches the drapes open and peers out. “Helena,” she says.

  Dante scrambles, his foot catching a pewter cross hanging from one of the drawers and wrenching it out of place. “You mustn’t tell her what I’ve said, or that we’re—that we’re going to see—see my father. She’d murder me.” I’m not sure if that’s literal murder or figurative; he looks terrified enough that it could be either.

  The front door opens, and a moment later the study follows. Helena appears, a silhouette blacker than the hallway darkness, like ink poured into oil. There is just enough light on her face to see that the first thing her eyes go to is the Baseggio Box on the desk before she looks at each of us in turn. “You’re all here,” she says.

  None of us seems keen to offer an explanation, so Percy steps up. “I was feeling ill,” he says, and I expect he’ll launch into a good lie as to why this mysterious affliction required the entirety of our party except for Helena to accompany him home, but that’s all he says. That straight-edged silence settles back into place.

  “Did you enjoy the opera?” Felicity pipes up.

  “Operas tire me,” Helena replies. She looks to the box again, then says, “Dante, may I have a word before bed?”

  Which is our cue to depart. Dante gives me a pleading look as we shuffle by him, and I return a raised eyebrow that I hope is a vehement reminder not to spill our plot to Helena. As dedicated as he might be to seeing his mother’s heart stay out of the hands of the Bourbons, he’s already proved he’s not the sort to hold up well under pressure.

  Percy goes straight into our bedroom, but Felicity calls me back before I can follow. She glances down the stairs to be certain Helena and Dante are still in the study, then says, “Tell me what you’re plotting.”

  “Me? I never plot.”

  “All you’ve been doing since we arrived is plot! Why did you offer to get the cipher from Mateu Robles? That was uncharacteristically benevolent.”

  “How dare you. I’m the most benevolent person I know.”

  “Monty.”

  “The benevolentest.”

  “Don’t play thick—you don’t fool me.”

  Now it’s my turn to check for the Robles siblings approaching before I speak. “If we can get that box open and get the key, we can go to Venice and use the panacea for Percy so he can be cured of his falling sickness and then he won’t have to go into an asylum.”

  “There are far better solutions for avoiding institutionalization than this. And solutions no one had to die for. And incidentally, none of them have to do with you.” She pokes me in the chest. “In fact, none of this has to do with you, it’s to do with Percy. Perhaps he doesn’t want this.”

  “Why wouldn’t he want it? He’d be well. It’ll make his life . . .”

  Felicity quirks an eyebrow at me. “Make his life what? Worth living? Is that what you were going to say?”

  “Not exactly in those words.”

  “Asylum aside, I think he seems quite fine as he is.”

  “But he’s not—”

  “But he is. He’s been ill for two years and you didn’t know because life goes on. He’s found a way.”

  “But . . .” I’m floundering. But he’s going to Holland, but I don’t know how to help him if not for this, but perhaps he can handle it but I don’t think I can. “We should still speak to Mateu Robles. Even if we can’t . . . for Percy . . . I think . . . we could help. Someone.”

  “Yes, someone.”

  “So we’ll go see him tomorrow.”

  “And then we need to leave here—whether to Venice or back to Marseilles to find our company, we need to go. We’re getting in too deep.”

  She starts up the stairs, but I call after her, “So. You and Dante.”

  She pivots back to me, and I give her what I know from experience is my most annoying smile. I expect her to flush, but instead she performs one of her spectacular eye rolls. “There is no me and Dante. Particularly if you’re being grammatical about it.”

  “Do I sound like I’m interested in the grammar of the situation?”

  “Whatever the case, you’re wrong. There is only Dante, full stop. And me, full stop.”

  “So it wasn’t you who rubbed your foot up his leg in the box and got him to sneak away from the opera for a bit of a romp?”

  “I would have stopped it long before any romping began. I had a plan until you burst in.”

  “Plan? What plan?”

  “Well, they both knew more than they were letting on—that was apparent—and Dante seemed more likely to crack. And since my usual strategies weren’t working, and he clearly seemed rather sweet on me—”

  “Clearly, was he?”

  “Oh, please. Men are so easy to read.”

  “And here I thought you were a paragon of frail English womanhood. Turns out you’re a temptress.”

  She tugs at a loose thread on her cuff and lets out such a violent sigh that it raises the fine hairs trailing down around her ears. “I was rather bad at it.”

  “Seemed like you were doing fine to me.”

  “I think I chipped his tooth.”

  “Well, as with any fine art, practice is required. Rome wasn’t built in a day.” I hope that might make her laugh, but instead she frowns down at the floor. “Was it good, at least?”

  “It was . . . wet.”

  “Yes, it’s not the driest of activities.”

  “And uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ll be trying it again.”

  “Information by way of seduction? Or kissing in general?”

  “Both.”

  “Kissing gets better.”

  “I don’t think it’s for me. Even if it’s better someday.”

  “Perhaps not. But I think you’ve more in your favor than your skills as a jezebel.” I nudge my toe against hers until she consents to look up at me, then give her a smile—of the less-annoying variety this time. “Far, far better things.”

  19

  I hardly sleep that night in anticipation of our planned felony. I’m up beastly early, though we don’t leave until midafternoon, when Helena goes out to pay calls and we can slip away undetected.

  We walk for nearly an hour in the oppressi
ve heat, our clothes suctioned to us with sweat before we’ve left the yard. Dante leads the way, through the Barri Gòtic and down the tree-lined mall that saws the city in half. As the church bells announce the half hour, we reach a square, lined in market stalls selling produce wilting in the heat, grains to be scooped from barrels, and boxes of autumn-colored spices. Along one edge, sows with their stomachs split are hung from hooks by their feet. The butchers’ boys run beneath them with buckets to catch the innards, their fronts smeared with blood. Beggars kneel between the paths, their hands cupped before them and their faces pressed into the dust. The light is giddy and loud, and the air crowded with flies. Everything reeks of mud and fruit too long in the sun.

  Dante stops in the shade of a Roman tower abutting the square and points to two men strolling the stalls with swords dangling at their sides, their gazes far too predatory for them to be casual shoppers. “There. Thief-takers. They’ll be quick.” Dante wipes his sweating hands upon his breeches, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Father looks quite a lot like Helena. Dark haired and slim.”

  “You told me,” I reply.

  “And he’s only three fingers on his left hand.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you . . . still certain you want to do this?”

  “Of course.” It’s strange to be reassuring him when it’s me doing the deed, but in that moment, I am feeling damn heroic. “What’s the worst that could happen? They’re not going to cut off my hands for theft, are they?”

  “No,” Dante says, with just a bit too much of a pause. A tremor of nerves cracks through that damned heroism.

  “We’ll give you an hour,” Felicity says. “Then we’ll come.”

  “And you’re certain they’ll let me out without my standing before a court?”

  “The jailers aren’t compensated,” Dante replies. “They’ll—they’ll take a bribe.” He reaches into his pocket—the same artificial gesture he’s been repeating every few seconds, as if to check that his money hasn’t disintegrated.

  “And you’re certain they’ll take me to the same place as your father?” I ask.

  “It’s hard to . . . yes?” Dante twists his hands before him. “They’ll take you close by and it’s—it’s the nearest to here.”

  “And if he isn’t there, you’ll know soon enough,” Felicity interrupts. “Now, if you don’t move quick, those men are going to be occupied by an actual crime. Get along, Monty.”

  Stoic Felicity is nearly as irritating as anxious Dante. I look to Percy, hoping he’ll offer a comfortable middle ground of confident concern, but his face is unreadable as he watches the thief-takers prowl the square. One of them stops to nudge the tin cup of a beggar with his toe.

  “Well. I’ll see you all on the other side.” I tug on the edges of my coat, then start toward the nearest market stall.

  “Wait.” Percy’s hand closes around my wrist, and when I turn back, his face is very serious. Felicity makes a rather obnoxious show of looking away from us. “Please be careful.”

  “I’m always careful, my darling.”

  “No, Monty, I mean it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  Percy leans in suddenly, and I think he’s going to tell me something in confidence, but instead he touches his lips to my cheek, so light and fast I doubt it happened as soon as he steps back.

  “Go on,” Felicity hisses at me. “They’re moving.”

  Percy nods me forward, his hand falling from around my wrist, and as much as I’d rather cling to him and demand he kiss my cheek again so I can turn my head and he’ll meet my mouth instead, I trot over to the stall at the end of the row. The lad manning it looks a few years younger than me, with spots and a bit of puppy fat clinging to his cheeks. He seems thoroughly occupied with throwing rocks at the pigeons picking at the dirt, but he glances up when I approach. I give him a smile.

  And then begin loading my pockets with potatoes.

  It is a bizarre sort of inverse thievery, as the primary goal of a thief is to avoid detection and I’m putting rather a lot of effort into the opposite. But that mutton-headed shop boy’s entire being is held in rapture by those damnable pigeons—he hasn’t so much as looked up by the time my pockets are heavy with fingerlings, each the size of my thumb and all a livid purple. I let a few fall to the ground for maximum effect, but even that doesn’t commandeer his attention.

  I’m getting short on room for more—going to have to start dropping them down my trousers soon—so I make a dramatic decision and kick over the entire crate. It upends with a crash, and finally, finally, the daftie looks up. I grab a last handful of potatoes for good measure and bolt.

  “Stop him! Thief!” I hear him shout as I sprint away, directly to where the two thief-takers are standing. I pretend to spot then, try to spin around and get away, but one of them hooks me around the neck and jerks me back. The collar of my shirt nearly tears off in his hands.

  The shop boy catches us up, his face bright red and his hands in fists. “He stole my potatoes!”

  The thief-taker that hasn’t got his arm around my neck grabs the hem of my coat and turns the pockets inside out with two good shakes. The potatoes fall to the ground in a gentle violet rain.

  The swain yanks at my collar again, nearly lifting me off my feet. “What have you to say for yourself, prig?”

  I fold my hands in dramatic penance and adopt my best waifish eyes. “Sorry, sir, I couldn’t help it. It’s just, they’re such a pretty color.”

  “My master will have him locked up!” the shop boy shrieks. “If you don’t take him, I’ll fetch my master. He’s tossed cutpurses in prison himself before—he’ll do it again, he knows the bailiff!”

  “Oh, no, please, sir, not the bailiff!” I cry in a mocking tone. Anything to rile them—I’m rather concerned they’re going to let me go with nothing but a wrist slap, and then what will have been the point of this? “Your master must be a very important man to know the bailiff.”

  “Keep quiet,” the second gent growls at me. He’s still collecting potatoes from the pavement.

  “He’s taunting me!” the shop boy cries. He’s nearly stamping his feet in rage.

  “Come to that conclusion all by your lonesome, did you?” I say with a wide smile. The boy throws one of the potatoes at me. It sails straight over my head and knocks the thief-taker holding me in the ear. His grip loosens, and I start to wriggle away, like I might be trying to escape, but his fellow snags me before I can get far, sacrificing his armful of potatoes to grab me by the front of my coat. I give him a wink. “Easy, darling, we’ve only just met.”

  He cracks me before I even realize he’s raised his hand, a backhand that catches me under the jaw so hard I nearly lose my footing. My own hand flies up and clamps over the spot, same as where Percy put his lips to my skin just minutes ago.

  “Pervert,” he mutters.

  A familiar tremor rumbles through me beneath the surface, like a ripple resonating from my heart as it starts to climb. All at once, this feels real, in a way it didn’t before—it’s not playacting, it’s real prison and real constables and very real pain spiraling into panic inside me. I’m suddenly desperate for this man’s hands to be off me, but I’m too afraid to move in case he thinks I’m trying to run and cracks me again. My muscles tremble for wanting it, wanting to pull away, be out of his reach. When I try to take a breath, it sticks in my chest like a knife.

  Don’t fall apart, I scold myself desperately, even as I can feel myself caving. Not here, not now, do not fall apart. Don’t you dare.

  I raise my head, and across the street I can see Percy, Dante, and Felicity. Dante’s got both hands over his eyes, and Percy’s standing a bit ahead of them, looking like he might sprint to my rescue if Felicity didn’t have a hold of his arm. Our eyes meet, but then the gent drags me around, yanking my arms behind my back and clapping a set of manacles around them. The shop boy gives me a smug smile, his triumph bolstered by the st
unned silence I’ve collapsed into. When I’m dragged away, he spits at the back of my head.

  Hold yourself together, I tell myself, over and over in time to our footsteps down the street. Hold yourself together and don’t fall apart. And do. Not. Panic.

  And do. Not. Think about Father.

  The march to the prison blurs. I’m shaking and sick—shakier with every step and every second longer this officer has a hold on me—and crawling with the shame of being bowled over by something as small as a knock across the cheek. My breathing is short and sharp, and I can’t seem to get enough of it. My lungs feel as though they’re popping against my heart.

  The next thing I know, I’m standing in the foul-smelling courtyard of the prison, the clerk taking down my name, which it takes me three tries to stammer out, and informing me I’ll be held until the next meeting of the general council, where I’ll stand for sentencing. I’m freed from the manacles, at least, though it’s the thief-taker who cracked me that removes them, and it’s hard to let him touch me. He must sense the way my muscles all coil up when he draws near, because he raises his hand again, prelude to another slap, and I flinch so enormously I stumble backward and slam into the wall. As the jailer leads me away, I hear the thief-taker laugh.

  A single room houses all the male prisoners. It’s cramped and crowded and reeking of gents who’ve been unwashed for far too long. There are at least twenty of them, all looking like skeletons dug up from soft clay. Most are curled up on heaps of matted straw. A small knot are cross-legged in the center around a set of dice that look like they were carved by fingernails and teeth. The walls are damp wood, sweating from the heat—it’s so hot it’s hard to breathe. Everything smells of piss and rot—one man is standing in the corner, top-heavy and weaving as he relieves himself against the wall.