by Anna Castle
“What should I have done? Let him walk in on Zeke and Sandy?”
“She did what she had to do. Pulling me out of the fire again.” Sebastian smiled his Adonis smile at Angelina. “Don’t think I’m not grateful.”
“Say the word,” Captain Sandy said, his face grim, “and Mr. Benton will no longer find himself capable of pressing his attentions on a lady.”
“Thank you for the thought,” Angelina said, “but burglary is one thing; assaulting a gentleman is quite another.”
“Well, we’re making good money,” Peg said. “We’ve a decent wardrobe at last. I can hold up me head below stairs. It was something tragical, creeping down every night to wash the same three blouses and iron your only tea gown yet again. A couple more good hauls and we’ll be set for the rest of the Season.”
Peg had used some of her share to treat herself to a box at the Alhambra, where she could sit in a thick veil and criticize the costumes without the risk of being recognized. She was nearly as well known in music hall circles as Lina Lovington.
Zeke, their master strategist, had turned up today in a garish yellow-checked waistcoat and an oversized topcoat with a velvet collar. When they’d chaffed him, he’d said, “Wot? A man o’ means ’as got to look ’is best, ain’t ’e?”
Sandy had donated his share of the Oxwich booty to the Army and Navy Pensioners’ Employment Fund. He used a mort of the earnings from the other jobs to buy a new greatcoat, which he layered over his two old ones like a true London cabbie. He put the rest into the three percent consols, proving beyond all doubt that he could never have embezzled his company’s mess accounts. The man had no taste for luxury.
“We’ve made all the papers,” Zeke said. “They’re cryin’ us on every corner.” He hopped to his feet to act the part of a newsboy. “Bookkeeper Burglars! Read all about ’em!”
“Pity we can’t make use of it,” Sebastian said. “Publicity like that can’t be bought.” He had already donned his white tie and tails for the theater, but he had deep shadows under his eyes and a haunted look. They’d done nothing to improve his situation yet.
Which was supposed to be their goal. Money was nice — new dresses were nicer — but Angelina had no intention of making a career of burglary. She wanted to erase those shadows from her little angel’s eyes and get on with things. “What do the police think about our taking account books? Silver is one thing; everyone steals silver. But I’m worried about those books.”
“Police are baffled!” Zeke cried in his newsboy voice.
Peg sniffed. “If you can call that news.”
Sandy chuckled at their foolery but answered soberly. “They seem to think the books are being stolen to identify items of particular value. Recent purchases of art and the like. They’re warning the victims to be doubly careful about security measures in case of a return visit.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Angelina asked. “If they haven’t connected the victims to Teaberry’s front-sheeters, they won’t be waiting for us at the next stop. That’s my worst nightmare. I do wish we could skip Lord Nettlefield’s house, at least. The man terrifies me.”
“But he’s the most important man on the board,” Viola said. “His books are the most likely to give us something to use against Teaberry.”
“And now the family’s going to the country at last,” Sandy said. “We can’t miss this chance. They might not leave London again until the end of the Season.”
They planned to strike Durham House in Mayfair tomorrow night. The family’s absence had been reported in the society pages, which Viola had been reading with a sharper eye than usual. Then Zeke found a chum who had a mate who had a cousin who delivered newspapers in Mayfair and offered the boy a half crown to take a half holiday. He’d befriended the boots at Durham House by offering him sweets and learned that the house would be empty but for one footman, one housemaid, the under-cook, and the secretary. All the servants slept in the basement or on the fourth floor.
He’d further learned that the skeleton staff took full advantage of the lack of supervision. The footman stopped for a long drink at the corner pub on his way back from posting the last of the day’s letters. The under-cook slipped out at about the same time for a glass of gin with her friend in a neighbor’s kitchen. Zeke planned to sneak into the house during that lax interval and hide until everyone went to bed. Then he would unlock the library window for Sandy and Angelina.
The job had to be done unless they abandoned the whole scheme and sailed west. They’d be giving up so much though: Sebastian’s career, Sandy’s new life, Peg’s dreams of the London theater. Professor James Moriarty. Too much.
Viola’s maid came in with a tray of drinks and plates of almond biscuits. Nobody wanted tea. Sebastian drank a whiskey straight off and poured himself another.
Angelina watched him with a worried frown. “What’s wrong, dearest? Isn’t the show going well?”
“The show is fizzing. Tip-top. I’ve never been better. Ask the critics.” Sebastian laughed bitterly. “They say trouble in life develops an actor’s range. I’d always thought it was just one of those stupid things people say, trying to explain the unexplainable. Who’d have thought it’d turn out to be true?”
“Then what is it? You look as if you hadn’t slept for a week.”
“Has it been that long?”
“Cough it up, ducky,” Peg said.
He sighed deeply and ran both hands through his hair, ruining an hour of expensive barbering. “We can’t stop, and we can’t run, Lina. Teaberry is pressuring me again. He wants me to steal paper with the Foreign Office letterhead from Hugh’s father. If I don’t, he says he’ll give my first letter to a pal of his who’s about to be named chairman of the Board of Trade. Everything will go up in flames. Sir Joseph will be ruined. Hugh will be exposed, and me with him. It will all come out and I’ll be thrown in prison.”
“Oh, my darling boy!” Angelina cried.
“He thinks he owns you,” Viola said.
“He does.” Sebastian stared bleakly at his twin.
“Something should happen to that man,” Peg said darkly. “A dark alley in Limehouse, a couple of young toughs . . .”
Zeke nodded. “I know just the lads.”
“No violence!” Angelina heaved a sigh. “We’ll simply have to find those blasted letters.”
“Maybe Lord Nettlefield’s books will have the key,” Sandy said. “They could unlock all the others.”
“Even if they are the key,” Viola said, “I’m not sure I could turn it.” Her bleak expression mirrored Sebastian’s. “I thought I could do this, honestly I did. Badger always says I have a wonderful head for business and I’ve read every issue of The Economist since he took me up. But these —” She waved her plump hand at the green-backed ledgers piled at the foot of her couch. “They’re nothing but numbers. Red ink, green ink, black ink. It’s like looking at the Egyptian hieroglyphics in the British Museum. They obviously mean something and it seems so tantalizingly like something you ought to be able to figure out if you could just stare at them long enough, but I’ve stared and stared until my eyes get spots and I still haven’t found anything to help us. I’m at my wits’ end!”
“Poor Viola,” Sebastian said. “Maybe we should look for an accountant. There must be corrupt ones somewhere. Perhaps a banker fallen on hard times?”
Peg rolled her eyes. “Let’s put an advertisement in The Times, shall we? ‘Wanted: crooked bookkeeper. Mustn’t be too fussy about sources.’”
Angelina grinned. “Not an accountant.” At last, a silver lining. “How about a mathematician? A tall, dark, handsome one whose neck is in it just as much as ours?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Peg, Zeke, and Sebastian shared a four-wheeler to the West End theater district. Sebastian was going to work. Peg and Zeke were going to spend another rollicking evening of music hall at the Alhambra. Zeke liked to sit with the gods in the upper gallery, buying beer and peanuts for his pals.
They must be wondering where he got the coin. Rumors were already spreading about the mysterious veiled woman in Box F. How long could Peg resist the urge to reveal herself to her old mates backstage?
Angelina ticked through her list of worries over and again. How long would it take the police to notice the link among the burgled households and start setting a watch? How long before some bright-eyed cove identified Sandy’s cab, idling once again after midnight near Cheshire House, or spotted a dandy with extra-wide hips climbing in the dining room window? How long before Lady Lucy got tipsy on the champagne she hadn’t learned to hold and spilled everything she knew about the infamous Mrs. Gould?
Two weeks at the outside, one to be safe. One week to find Sebastian’s letters or something hot enough to blackmail Oscar Teaberry into giving them back. After that, she would brook no further arguments. She would gather up the clan and scarper, leaving everything they cared about behind.
Enough! She would worry some more tomorrow. Tonight she was on her way to the opera to meet Lucy and Reginald and others in their set. She’d dressed as unassumingly as she could given the occasion, in her oldest dark gray gown, hoping to fade into the background tonight. This would be Lucy’s first outing since her stepfather’s death, and Angelina was determined to push Reginald toward the girl if she had to use actual physical force.
If she ever actually arrived at the theater. Traffic on Baker Street had ground to halt. Sandy, able to see farther from his perch atop the cab, reported that two omnibuses had crashed into each other up ahead.
Angelina tapped a satin-slippered foot impatiently. She parted the curtain to gaze into the quiet streets leading away from the crowded thoroughfare and saw Professor Moriarty striding along a few yards ahead. She recognized him even before he showed his profile, turning onto one of those quiet streets. She knew his coat and the set of his shoulders.
“That’s the professor!” She tapped on the trap. “He just turned left onto the next street. Let’s follow him!”
“That’s a cul-de-sac, Lina. Are you sure —”
“Yes, yes! Let’s stop him! It’s a stroke of luck. I’ve been hoping for a private chat.” She’d wanted to send him another note to arrange another rendezvous, but her time had not been her own. Lady Carling had taken full advantage of her status as a freshly bereaved widow and dropped all her duties into Angelina’s lap. She’d even had to order meals in addition to answering all the cards and letters of condolence. Being invited to stay at Cheshire House had seemed like such a coup at the start — the savings, the entrée to the uppermost circles — but it had turned into another obstacle.
Sandy clucked at his horse and nudged the cab in front of him to move forward enough to make the turn. Angelina peered out of the window. The short street seemed to have nothing of interest save one well-swept stoop with a red lantern already lit against the gathering twilight. “Where is he going?”
“Ah,” Sandy said. Angelina could almost hear him smoothing his moustache. She had guessed the answer as soon as she’d posed the question but let him stumble on. “It’s a house of — er. A well-run establishment, I hear. Not that I — I mean, I have on occa — well, a man has his needs, Lina, and this —”
Angelina burst into laughter. “I am a widow, Sandy. I do actually understand.” Moriarty approached the stoop. “Oh, don’t let him go in! Stop, stop, stop!”
Sandy pulled his cab neatly to a halt at the curb in front of the brothel. Angelina leaned out the window and cried, “Professor Moriarty! What a delightful surprise!”
He had lifted one foot to mount the step. Now he whirled on the other, nearly losing his balance. Recovering quickly, he raised his hat and bowed toward the cab. “Mrs. Gould?” His tone was incredulous, as if he’d dreamed of her and she’d appeared out of a drifting fog.
No, wait, that was her fantasy. Angelina felt a stab of envy for the woman inside that house. That talk of a man’s needs had awakened her own lightly sleeping lusts. She held her hand out the window, forcing him to walk toward her and take it. “I do hope I haven’t caught you at an awkward moment, Professor.”
“No, no. Not at all.” He let go of her hand and scratched his cheek. He glanced at the house and then turned his back squarely to it. “I was just — it’s the home of a — I have a —” He pressed his lips together and frowned. The tan he got doing whatever it was he did to maintain his physique hid his blush, but she’d embarrassed him, most unfairly.
Pressing his arm with her gloved hand, she said, “I know what kind of a house it is. I don’t judge you.” She gestured at the angled door of the cab. “Won’t you ride with me for a few moments, if your appointment can be delayed? I have been wanting to speak with you again. Meeting like this is the purest good luck.”
Moriarty hesitated, but only for a moment. He tilted his head as if to say to himself, Why not? and climbed into the cab beside her.
Angelina spoke to the trap in the roof. “Would you drive us around for a few minutes, please, Cabman?” Sandy clucked at his horse and they started to move. He left the trap ajar, playing the chaperone. Or the bodyguard?
Angelina and Moriarty sat side by side in silence for a long moment. She studied his face as they returned to the thoroughfare, going in the opposite direction from the omnibus jam. The lamplighter and his boy had been working their way toward them, so now they drove through shifting frames of yellow light.
The professor seemed a little wary, which was only to be expected after their odd near-encounter at the Royal Society reception. He’d looked so handsome in his evening dress. His collars were a decade out of date, but the old suit still fit him to perfection, and the tailcoat made him seem even taller.
She noticed him the moment he’d appeared in the arched doorway, sweeping the room with that intense gaze. She doubted he realized what effect that intensity had on people. Some found it daunting, off-putting; others took it as a challenge. He’d spotted her and stopped in his tracks. He’d smiled a little and then relaxed his whole posture, from head to toe. He’d been hunting, and he’d found what he sought. Her.
He’d been content to stand at the back and watch her in the mirror. He wasn’t the type to push himself to the front. She’d scarcely known what she’d said to anyone after that. Her attention was fixed on him, a sort of bodily awareness sustained by occasional glimpses. When she’d caught his eyes in the mirror, she couldn’t resist shooting him that wink. She wanted him to know that she knew she was playing a role on a stage. She wanted him to know that he alone in all that glittering crowd knew the real Angelina.
And if that were true, he knew more than she did.
“You look well,” she said.
“Thank you.” Nothing more. Not even a routine compliment on her gown.
She smiled, with more effort this time. Why did he have to be so devilishly hard to read? It was like trying to peer through thick shutters clamped across a dark house. She wanted to fling them open with a bang. She hated this cool control; it foxed her, like trying to sing opera to a crowd expecting “Slap, Bang, Here We Are Again.” Or the other way around, which would be worse.
She tried picking up where they’d left off in Russell Square. “Have you heard any further news about Lord Carling’s murder from your friend Sherlock Holmes?”
“He’s hardly a friend.”
She clucked her tongue. “I used the term ironically.”
“Ah, yes, you do seem to have a gift for it. But then you have so many gifts.” This time, his gaze traveled down her figure with insulting slowness, taking in her artfully placed curls, diamond earrings, and tulle-framed décolletage. She felt like a horse at a Smithfield fair.
She should have left him to his whore. She’d stopped on impulse, mainly because she wanted to flirt, but also because they really did need help with those blasted account books.
She tried another approach. “I’ve been worried about you, Professor. I’m terrified you’ll be blamed for these terrible crimes. Nobody tells us anything,
not even about our burglary. Lucy and I are absolutely on tenterhooks.”
“Ah, yes, your dear friend Lady Lucy. The one you were helping toward an engagement with Reginald Benton, her beau ideal. That plan seems to have been abandoned. Does she know yet? Or are you waiting to make a general announcement?”
Angelina sank back against the padded leather seat. So that was it. He’d heard about the Hainstone dinner party. Those five hideous minutes had engulfed her life like one of the flash floods she’d learned to fear in the West.
“I don’t care two figs about Reginald Benton.” She let the sadness color her words, turning her face toward the little window at her side. “You won’t believe me, of course. No one does.”
She felt him turn his face toward her. He lowered his voice to a soft rumble that thrummed into the base of her spine. “I know you’re involved in these events somehow, Mrs. Gould. You have some kind of history with Oscar Teaberry and his companies. I urge you to confide in me. I’ll help you if I can.”
She wanted to tell him so badly, to lay the whole tangled, dangerous family mess on his broad shoulders. She wavered, not quite trusting him enough, not when he was in this harsh mood. He would help her if he could. And if he couldn’t?
Sherlock Holmes, who might or might not be an agent of Scotland Yard, suspected him of murder. Her intuition told her this man was one of the most honorable she’d ever met, but then she had a weakness for bald heads and soft brown eyes. She longed to trust him. But what would he do if his own back were pressed against the wall?
She’d let the silence drag out too long. She didn’t know what to say and couldn’t bear the shilly-shallying for one more minute. She flung her arms around his neck, knocking off his hat, and kissed him for all she was worth.
In half a second, he was kissing her too, his strong arms pulling her tight, drawing her in like a man drinking the first life-restoring draught after a week in the desert. She let herself be drawn, giving herself up to her own frustrated desires. Time vanished.
