Den of Thieves

by Julia Golding

  Den of

  Thieves

  JULIA GOLDING

  CAT IN PARIS

  First published 2007

  This edition published 2008

  by Egmont UK Ltd

  239 Kensington High Street, London W8 6SA

  Text copyright © 2007 Julia Golding

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  ISBN 978 1 4052 4184 7

  eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1089 3

  3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Books (Cox and Wyman)

  www.egmont.co.uk

  www.juliagolding.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

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  THE CRITICS

  ‘Not tonight, Josephine: I’m too busy reading Cat Royal’ – NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

  ‘Publish her and be damned – it’s revolutionary hogwash!’ – THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON

  ‘It is the Right of every man to read her books’ – TOM PAINE

  ‘Cat Royal? She provides the oxygen of wit for the brain’ – ANTOINE LAURENT LAVOISIER, SCIENTIST

  ‘I was very disappointed: there’s not a moment of Germanic obscurity or sublimity in it. I understood every word’ – IMMANUEL KANT, PHILOSOPHER

  ‘Cat Royal’s life is like a fairytale, full of light and darkness’ – THE BROTHERS GRIMM

  ‘Who? I have no time for such frivolities while there is a wagon of aristocrats to behead’ – MAXIMILIEN ROBESPIERRE

  ‘Her wit has a cutting edge’ – DR GUILLOTINE

  ‘Like me, she sounds mad, bad and dangerous to know – just my type’ – LORD BYRON

  ‘She takes the dead corpse of history and breathes new life into it’ – MARY SHELLEY

  ‘Not a moment of drowsy numbness when reading her – she’s all dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!’ – JOHN KEATS

  ‘What! She’s not still writing, is she? I thought I asked someone to arrest her!’ – RT HON WILLIAM PITT, THE PRIME MINISTER

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Considering the high tide of feelings running against our French neighbours at present, I should warn my reader that you will find no such prejudices in these pages. I, Cat Royal, late of Drury Lane Theatre, am a declared friend of the revolution (most of the time). If you only like to dine with absolute monarchs on good old English roast beef, suet pudding and beer, perhaps you should look elsewhere for satisfaction. In these pages you’ll eat with the people on a meal of highly-spiced French adventure, washed down with a sparkling draught of dance.

  Will you take a seat at my table, mes amis?

  Cat Royal

  LIST OF PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  PROLOGUE

  Moving on

  Act I

  SCENE 1 The Promise

  SCENE 2 The Crown Jewels

  SCENE 3 Exeunt Omnes

  SCENE 4 Mr Tweadle

  Act II

  SCENE 1 Correspondent

  SCENE 2 Notre Dame by Starlight

  SCENE 3 To the Lamp Post

  SCENE 4 The Thieves’ Court

  INTERLUDE

  A Country Dance

  Act III

  SCENE 1 Captain Sparkler

  SCENE 2 Palais Royal

  SCENE 3 The Bishop of the Notre Dame Thieves

  INTERLUDE

  Set to solemn music by Handel

  Act IV

  SCENE 1 English Spy

  SCENE 2 Conciergerie Prison

  SCENE 3 La Fille Mal Gardée

  INTERLUDE

  A Ballet-Pastoral

  Act V

  SCENE 1 Slow Boat

  SCENE 2 A Promise Kept

  EPILOGUE

  Phoenix

  GLOSSARY

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  LONDON

  MISS CATHERINE ‘CAT’ ROYAL – ward of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, your guide

  MR PEDRO AMAKYE (FORMERLY MR PEDRO HAWKINS) – ex-slave, talented violinist

  LORD FRANCIS (FRANK) – sartorially challenged heir to a dukedom

  LADY ELIZABETH (LIZZIE) – his sister, in love with a rebel lord

  THE DUKE OF AVON – peer of the realm

  THE DUCHESS OF AVON – formerly the singer known as The Bristol Nightingale

  MR JOSEPH – loyal footman to Lord Francis

  MR RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN – man of many talents, theatre owner

  MRS REID – wardrobe mistress

  MADAME BEAUFORT – mistress of the ballet troupe bound for her native land

  MR TWEADLE – devious bookseller

  MR NOKES – his assistant with personal hygiene issues

  MR SYD FLETCHER – Covent Garden gang leader

  MR BILLY SHEPHERD – lowlife thug who unfortunately is on the up and up

  PARIS

  MR JONATHAN (JOHNNY) FITZROY (AKA CAPTAIN SPARKLER) – British peer turned American citizen, cartoonist

  M. JEAN-FRANÇOIS (J-F) THILAND – King of Thieves of the Palais Royal and a fine dancer to boot

  MARIE and ANNETTE – ladies of the King of Thieves’ Court

  M. IBRAHIM – the charming but perilous Bishop of the Notre Dame Thieves

  M. SCARFACE LUC – right-hand man to the Bishop, who has a powerful squeeze

  M. MARIA-AUGUSTE VESTRIS – principal dancer at the Opera, popular idol of the people

  M. RENARD THILAND – retired thief lord, concierge and grandfather to J-F

  M. JEAN-SYLVAIN BAILLY – Mayor of Paris, astronomer

  Ballerinas, sans-culottes, national guardsmen, French royal family, etc., etc.

  Julia Golding

  Julia Golding read English at Cambridge then joined the Foreign Office and served in Poland. Her work as a diplomat took her from the high point of town twinning in the Tatra Mountains to the low of inspecting the bottom of a Silesian coal mine.

  On leaving Poland, she exchanged diplomacy for academia and took a doctorate in the literature of the English Romantic period at Oxford. She then joined Oxfam as a lobbyist on conflict issues, campaigning at the UN and with governments to lessen the impact of conflict on civilians living in war zones.

  Married with three children, Julia now lives in Oxford. DEN OF THIEVES is the third book in the brilliant Cat Royal series. The first Cat Royal book, THE DIAMOND OF DRURY LANE, was the winner of the Waterstones’ Children’s Book Prize 2006 and the Nestlé Children’s Book Prize.

  ALSO BY JULIA GOLDING

  The Diamond of Drury Lane

  Cat among the Pigeons

  Cat O’Nine Tails

  Black Heart of Jamaica

  For Carole, my mother and best of friends – who walked with me as we followed Cat’s footsteps in Paris.

  London and Paris, 1791

  Curtain rises.

  MOVING ON

  In the theatre, there comes a moment when we bid goodbye to a play. The scripts are put back on the shelf, the scenery dismantled, the actors move on to new roles. Yest
erday, my life at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, came to the end of its run.

  What can I say to you, Reader? For me, everything is over.

  I admit that I’m scared. I don’t know what I shall do. I wasn’t prepared for such a sudden termination to the life I thought I was going to lead. And so strange to think that the curtain was brought down with such a simple question.

  Mr Sheridan caught me in the corridor backstage as I carried the actresses’ wigs out of the powder room. ‘Cat, come here. Tell me what you think.’

  From the stage came the sounds of the orchestra tuning up. My friend Pedro would already be in his place, sitting with the other violinists. Counting the audience we were expecting a full house. Backstage was abuzz with excitement as the moment of performance approached. I really didn’t have time to linger but my patron, Mr Sheridan, could not be denied. He hauled me into his office, snatched the tray, and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor.

  ‘Watch it, sir! I’ll get skinned if anything happens to those!’ I protested as I tried to prevent many guineas’ worth of powdered curls tumbling on to the hearth.

  ‘No, no, forget about those,’ he said, heedless in his enthusiasm. ‘I want you to be one of the first to see the plans,’ and he hooked me by the elbow and propelled me to the desk.

  ‘Fifteen minutes!’ called the stage manager outside. Three actors rushed by, not yet in costume. They’d obviously lingered too long in the Players’ Tavern.

  On the scuffed leather surface of the desk lay a sheaf of crackling white parchment scored with lines and tiny numbers.

  ‘So?’ Mr Sheridan asked, rubbing his hands eagerly, looking across at me, his brown eyes sparkling.

  He evidently wanted my opinion – a fact that I would have found flattering if I hadn’t been in such a rush to deliver the wigs; the actresses would not thank me if I made them late for their first entrance. I had better get this over with. I turned my mind to the papers in front of me. It was clearly a design for a grand building of some sort – a palace perhaps. Maybe Mr Sheridan’s extravagant friend the Prince of Wales had yet another construction project in his sights?

  ‘Er . . . what is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Drury Lane, of course.’ My patron’s flushed face beamed happily. Was he drunk already?

  I took a closer look. I could now see the vast stage and auditorium, but this wasn’t my theatre. None of my familiar landmarks were here; he must be joking. ‘No, it’s not, sir. Where’s the Sparrow’s Nest? Where’s the scenery store?’

  ‘You don’t understand, Cat. Not this worn-out pile of bricks and cracked plaster,’ he waved dismissively at the ceiling. ‘These are the plans for the new Theatre Royal – one fit for our modern age that will rise from the ashes of the old.’

  Mr Sheridan had often talked about sprucing up the theatre when he had the money – he never did, so I had always let these ramblings wash over me.

  ‘Very nice, sir,’ I said non-committally, wondering if I could get on my way. In fact, I thought the plans looked terrible – they represented a vast, soulless place where actors would seem like objects viewed the wrong way down a telescope, if I had understood the drawings correctly. It would kill the theatre – and probably quite a few of our leading actors as they tried to make themselves heard in that space. It was a good job that it would never be built.

  ‘Ten minutes!’ called the stage manager. ‘Light the stage candles.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it, Cat,’ said Mr Sheridan, caressing the papers, ‘because this evening I’m going to announce to the cast that the last performance within these walls will be on 4th June. When we close, the demolition crew will move in to knock the old place down.’

  ‘What!’ I felt as if he had just tipped a kettle of scalding water on me.

  ‘I know that is very soon, but I didn’t want to make a premature announcement. I couldn’t get a builder for the job until I’d put the money on the table. Apparently, my reputation for not being prompt about settling my account had preceded me.’ He chuckled and smoothed his white silk cravat fixed in place with a diamond-headed pin.

  This was serious.

  ‘What, Cat? You don’t look pleased.’

  ‘How long will the theatre be closed?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – a couple of seasons perhaps. We’re not talking about a refit here – this is a complete rebuild.’

  ‘A couple of seasons! But that’s years!’

  He darted a look at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘I know it’s going to mean a lot of changes for everyone. We’ll have to camp out at the King’s Theatre for a while, but I’m sure the company will all pull together when they understand what we stand to gain.’

  ‘I see.’ I said no more. My home was about to be destroyed: the Sparrow’s Nest, my foothold in the world for as long as I could remember was to be turned into rubble; the playground backstage that I’d shared with Pedro was about to be reduced to dust. Where would we go? At least Pedro had his master, the musical director – as an apprentice, he would be looked after. But I, as an orphan under the protection of the theatre, I’d been allowed a corner no one else wanted. In a new theatre, where no one knew me, would I be so fortunate again?

  Mr Sheridan must have been following some of my thoughts from the expressions on my face.

  ‘When this is all over, Cat, I think you’ll recognize it was for the best. You can’t bed down in the costume store any more like some stray kitten. You’re a young lady now. You need to find proper lodgings for yourself – start to make your own way.’

  With what? I wondered. I worked in exchange for bed and board. I’d never had any money to call my own.

  ‘I have every confidence that you’ll fall on your feet as normal. You’re not called Cat for nothing,’ he continued cheerfully, ruffling my ginger hair and dislodging my cap.

  I knew that for my own good I had to be practical. I couldn’t indulge myself and let out the wail of grief that welled up inside me. ‘Can I move with the company?’ I asked. ‘Will you start paying me wages?’

  Mr Sheridan began tidying away the plans. ‘We’ll see. Money’s a bit tight at the moment, what with the cost of the new building and the removal. Have a word with Mrs Reid – she might be able to squeeze something out of the wardrobe budget for you. Though I must admit I rather thought that you were going to make your fortune by your pen. I understood that the Duke of Avon was helping you find a publisher.’

  He’d hit upon a sore spot.

  ‘His grace has tried, but the booksellers find my stuff too shocking. They’ve told me to write about love and female duty – not boxing and battles.’

  Mr Sheridan laughed. ‘Don’t you listen to them, Cat. You have to put up with your fair share of rejection as a writer if you want to succeed. Keep trying – you’ll find your audience one day.’

  ‘Yes, when I’m six feet under and women are equals to men – that means never,’ I muttered sullenly.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Mr Sheridan, toying with the watch chain that looped across his broad expanse of waistcoat. ‘It may happen sooner than you think. Events in France are transforming things that, when I was your age, were thought to be untouchable. Maybe your sex will be the next to share in the benefits of the wind of change that is sweeping across Europe.’

  Mr Sheridan was talking politics now. The theatre was only really a hobby to him: his real career lay in parliament so it didn’t take much to jog him on to this track. I’d be getting a full-blown speech about progress and revolution if I didn’t watch out.

  ‘We’ll see, sir,’ I said humbly, bobbing a curtsey. ‘May I go now?’

  ‘Yes, yes, off you go, child. And don’t worry: we’ll make sure you are all right one way or another,’ he said, leafing through the plans once more.

  I picked up the tray of wigs and retreated from the office, full of doom. I knew my patron better than to trust to his vague promises. Many a shopkeeper had spent hours besieging him for pay
ment only to be fobbed off with hints of money in the future.

  ‘Cat, where’s my wig?’ screeched Miss Stageldoir as I pushed my way into the bustling dressing room. Half-clothed dancers clustered around the mirrors, elbowing each other out of the way to plaster their faces with make-up, gossiping to each other in quick-fire French.

  Well, if I was going to persuade everyone I was an indispensable part of the backstage crew, I could afford to make no enemies by rudeness – even Miss Stageldoir, a middling order actress of indifferent talent.

  ‘Sorry, miss. I was delayed by Mr Sheridan,’ I replied meekly, battling through the ballerinas to reach her.

  Miss Stageldoir curled her pretty lips sceptically. She had a patch on her cheek like a squashed fly, hiding a pox mark that spoiled her alabaster skin (this too came out of a bottle – she was really as red-faced as a laundry woman when seen in daylight). ‘Put it on me then, girl.’

  I lifted the wig from the tray, trying to blow off some of the soot before she noticed, and lowered it on to her head like the Archbishop of Canterbury crowning the king. She stared at her reflection.

  ‘What have you done, you slattern!’ She wheeled round and slapped my face hard. ‘You’ve ruined it!’

  Mrs Reid bustled forward to break up the commotion. ‘What’s the matter, Miss Stageldoir?’ she said soothingly. I rubbed my cheek, boiling with resentment, but bit my tongue.