by Eva Devon
It must be quite late. Clara looked tired, and Elliot's rear was getting rather weary of his chair. Or vice versa.
The first drawing was now changed and updated. Elliott held it by two corners and tilted his head, gazing at it critically. Not critical of Clara's talent, for that could not be denied. Her alter ego, Mr. Underkind, was not a famous political cartoonist for nothing.
Elliott just didn't feel as though he'd managed to convey his target's delicate features. “Her face is perhaps a bit thinner.”
Clara raised a brow. “If her face is any thinner than this, then I fear for her health. She already looks as though she would arm-wrestle Kurt for a biscuit.”
Elliott turned to her in alarm. “She's ill, do you think? Did I chase her through the cold when she is ailing? Did I lay out a sick woman in the snow?”
Clara drew back from his forcefulness. “I don't know, did you?”
Elliott looked at the drawing again, worry creasing his brow. “She certainly fought well. If she was ill, I should hate to face her when she's feeling better.”
He tore his gaze from those haunting eyes and examined the rest of the drawing. “Yes, that's the necklace exactly. I saw it very clearly when I had her pinned.”
“And what necklace is that?”
Elliott and Clara looked up to see Sir Simon Raines leaning in the doorway.
He grinned at them, a flash of white in a somewhat somber face. “What have you been up to Elliott? Did you steal something new?” He dropped his pose and strolled into the room, seeming like a man at loose ends.
Clara smiled at Simon. “If you're looking for Agatha, I believe she's in the kitchens, testing out Kurt's recipes for Christmas dinner.”
Simon's face lit up as it always did in anticipation of seeing his darling Agatha. Elliott shook his head. The man was besotted.
Simon was just turning to go when his gaze fell upon the drawing and he halted. He frowned slightly and tilted his head sideways to see the portrait straight on. “That's odd…”
Elliott and Clara looked at each other. “Do you know her?” Elliott asked.
Simon shook his head slowly, still gazing at the drawing. “No. Not the girl, not really, although there is something familiar about her. But that necklace…”
Simon and his wife, Agatha, ran the neighboring spy academy. He'd once been the spymaster himself, so Elliot had no qualms about filling him in.
Clara stood and handed the drawing to Simon. Simon held it closer to the light and looked at it for a long moment. Then his blue gaze shot to meet Elliott's curious one. “You saw this very pendant, correct? And Clara drew it?”
“I did my best,” Clara said.
Elliott nodded. “It's the very one, I'm sure of it. Of gold and amethyst. Why?”
Simon had the strangest look on his face. “If this is correct, if this is an accurate representation... I do believe this is the first thing I ever stole on a mission for the Liars. I never knew what became of it. I assumed it was sold on to fund the club.”
He looked up with a bemused expression on his lean features. “I couldn't have been more then nineteen. In fact, it was the job where I met Jackham. We ran into each other in the dark, coming at the strongbox on the same night.”
He looked back at the drawing, his expression gone sad. “He was my friend, you know. Before. We started the gaming hell together, as a cover for the Club. I...owed him.”
Clary peered down at the drawing. “What could this girl have to do with Jackham?”
Elliott looked back and forth at the two of them. He knew who Jackham was, of course. Every Liar did. Jackham the Jackal, Jackham the Traitor, Jackham the man who had sold the secrets, identities and very lives of the Liars to the highest bidder. Good men had died. “He wasn't...trained, by any chance, was he?”
Simon looked up vaguely. He was clearly still lost in the past. “What? Trained? No, not in the way that a Liar would be trained. He might have picked up the odd trick, I suppose. He taught a few fellows in the club, the finer points of the Nuremberg strongbox, that sort of thing. In his day, he was a better thief than I ever was but it was his job to run the house in front. He knew it was a gaming hell and cover, but he thought it was a ring of criminals, not Crown spies. We kept him out of Liar business. I suppose I never really trusted him, not entirely. He was a secretive fellow. If I had listened to my instincts, I could have saved many lives.”
Clara bristled. “Your instincts were correct. You did your best to keep him from Liar operations. What Jackham did, he did on his own. No one held a gun to his head and made him sell your lives to the Chimera. You have nothing to feel guilty about!”
Simon's lips twisted in a half smile. “Yes, milady. Very well, milady. Absolutely, milady.”
Elliott smiled along with them at Simon's half-hearted joke, but the thick gravity that had fallen upon the room remained. He didn't want it to be true. He didn't want his lovely red-haired thief to have anything to do with the Jackal. But he had to ask.
“You said there was something familiar about the young lady?”
Simon looked up and nodded. “Yes, she looks a little bit like Dorothea...I don't recall her last name. Perhaps I never knew it. She was a woman Jackham was mad for when I first knew him. I never met her but he carried her miniature everywhere. 'My Dottie,' he called her.”
Simon looked back down the drawing in his hands. “As I recall she looked a bit like this, but not as thin. And of course, she would be much older now.”
“I saw this woman today.” Elliott felt sick. “This is the thief that I believe is the Vixen.”
Shock washed over Simon's features. “Oh hell. That bastard. So many damn secrets. He had a daughter all along!”
“Oh no.” Clara's soft voice reflected the horror that Elliott felt. A traitor's daughter, rifling through the strongboxes of London. Her training had come from her father no doubt, a man who'd known so much more than anyone had imagined. A young woman in possession of information that could only have come from the Liar's Club, on the loose.
Dalton, when they reported to him, lined up before his desk like mortified schoolchildren, said nothing for a very long moment. Then he pushed back his chair and stood. “It makes sense. Too much bloody sense. And we let her get away.” He looked narrowly at Elliot. “Twice. She knows you are onto her. She could be long gone. You said she was selling the jewelry.”
Elliott writhed a bit inside but fought not to show it. “I saw her come out of the pawnshop and she didn't look pleased. If she did sell it, I don't think she got what she wanted.”
“We have no other way of finding her.” Dalton looked them all. “We cannot allow her to remain at large while in possession of such sensitive information. We could lose years of work should the contents of that list make it to the remaining offenders. They could pack up their operations, clean house, and hide the evidence! We'll never catch them if they have warning of our intentions!”
“I think she needs money.” Elliott felt like a traitor for speaking, though not speaking would make him even more of a traitor, wouldn't it? “She's thin and threadbare. She tries hard to hide it, but I think she's on the edge. If she is about to run because of me, I don't think she'll get far on what she has.”
Dalton nodded shortly. “Then it's possible she'll go out one more time. One last haul from the list, and she'll be looking for a big one.”
Clara cleared her throat and raised her hand. “I know where I'd strike.”
Chapter 8
“I’d really like to look now.” Amie twitched beneath her sisters' attentions.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Ruby gripped her shoulders and pushed her back down onto her stool. “Emma has to practice if she's going to be able to do this to you in a broom closet.”
They would both be slipping into the house as maids early in the day tomorrow. The plan was to carry in a few dress and hat boxes, all containing Amie's costume, and then disappear into some little used room to wait for evening. Emma
would help Amie dress in the elaborate guise, then slip out once more as a lowly maid.
Amie hated sitting still, possibly even more than Ruby herself did. She also wasn't fond of others making decisions for her, not even her dearest sisters. But a few more tugs and pins made Emma step back with a sigh of satisfaction.
“The hair is definitely the hardest part. I think that's it. What do you think, Ruby?”
Ruby came to stand in front of Amie and gazed at her critically. Amie crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, but Ruby ignored her. “It's good. It actually looks like a costume.”
“They are always costumes,” Amie muttered. She was tired and cranky from sitting on a stool—in whalebone stays! And bustles!—whilst Emma and Ruby did maddening things to her hair. And she was hungry again. Now that they had plenty of food, it seemed she couldn't get enough of it. “Is it teatime yet?”
Ruby looked at her with an understanding smirk. “Yes, pet. And for being such a good doll and letting us dress you up, I'm going to give you one of my lemon seed cakes.”
It was childish to be so pleased with such a silly reward. Infantile, really. Amie slid a hopeful gaze toward Emma.
Emma shook her head. “Not a possibility, my dear. I baked them. I'm eating every crumb of my share.”
Resigned, Amie wriggled on her stool. Her bum was numb. “Can I look now?”
They nodded, and Amie stood, wobbling slightly on the old-fashioned high-heeled shoes. Fortunately, she had small feet for her height. Otherwise Mama's old shoes would never fit.
She turned toward the tall looking glass with only mild anticipation. Usually, no matter what she did, she still looked like herself. Good or bad, the original Amie always seemed to shine through.
Not this time. Another woman gazed back from the glass. Another woman from another time. The rich sapphire silk gown was nearly thirty years out of date, which Ruby declared just old enough to make it a costume rather than simply out-of-date. It was an open robe style, clasped at the waist over a disturbingly low-cut lace petticoat which was meant to be seen.
The hidden stays made Amie's waist drop low and small until it reached her hips, which then bounded out, supported by the false-rump padding that tied beneath the gown. Her hair was piled high and luxuriously curled and pinned within an inch of its life. Her eyes seemed dark and enigmatic behind her mask.
She looked exotic, nostalgic, and rich. All with nothing but Mama's ball gown, Mama's shoes, and a mask that Emma had concocted from glove leather and feather trim, sacrificing a few stolen pearls as well.
“You look like her,” Emma said quietly.
Amie lifted her chin. “Mama was beautiful. I am merely sufficient to escape notice.”
Ruby clicked her tongue. “Not in that gown, you're not. Your bosom looks like a dessert tray.”
Amie spared a glance at her bodice in the mirror, then looked away. “If I think about that too long I won't be able to go out in public like this.”
Emma smiled at her in the mirror, her eyes full of understanding. “If it helps, your arse looks like a hippopotamus.”
“I shall take that comment in the spirit in which it was intended,” Amie said darkly. “Will my hair do?”
“Well, we didn't want to waste money on a wig. I think if I powder that, it will look quite passable.”
“Because no one will be gazing at your hair when they can look at that bosom,” Ruby said helpfully. Then she yipped and clutched her side, even as Emma's elbow returned to its former position.
Amie took a long breath, feeling the tightness of the stays that reached from her armpits to her hipbones. She looked nothing like herself. He would never recognize her.
“So we are entirely prepared.”
Ruby bounced on her toes, her eyes alight. Emma nodded with calm assurance. “We are entirely prepared, Amie. Nothing can possibly go wrong.”
Elliott entered his rooms at the Liar's Club and shut the door behind him. It was time for him to prepare for tonight. Capturing the Vixen would be his redemption. He tried to remind himself that was a good thing. She was playing a dangerous game with dangerous men, and compromising the Liars' efforts at the same time.
She was very good. Likely she was on her way to a very successful career. Yet, it was a chancy business, thieving. One moment of inattention, one guard or footman breaking routine, one slip, one fall would bring a tragic end. Prison...or worse.
It would be a grand idea to redirect all that talent and skill into something more productive than simple thieving. She would, in short, make a magnificent Liar.
His preoccupation with his lovely red-haired target consumed his mind, so he didn't see the fellow in a chair by the fire in his sitting area.
“You need a haircut. Which works out nicely, actually.”
Elliott turned at the teasing comment. “Good afternoon, Button. Are you here to trick me out in grand peacock style?”
Button rose and sauntered forward with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was a small fellow, with thinning gray hair and a pair of mischievous blue eyes in his puckish face.
“I’ll admit that you make up a rather marvelous package of raw materials, and you have such a lordly way of walking.” He shook his head. “But I didn't think I should dress you as a peacock. All those feathers can make for a rather awkward costume.”
Elliott looked at him in confusion. “I need a costume? I thought I'd simply dress well and wear a mask.”
“To a Grand Masquerade?” Button looked horrified. “Not on my watch!” He held out a large pasteboard box, presenting it in both hands with a little bow.
Elliot grinned at his theatrics. “The Golden Fleece? A new suit of armor? No, I've got it—the Emperor’s New Clothes!”
Button pursed his lips but his eyes twinkled. “Wouldn't that be fun? But no.”
So it was that Elliott found himself dressing in a blousy embroidered shirt, pointy hat, and full medieval hosiery.
“I look like a Prussian court jester.”
Button stood back and tapped a finger on his chin. “Nonsense. You look like a huntsman. You have excellent legs, due to riding often. So many of the upper classes look like spiders in knitted hose.”
Elliott had to admit that he did have very fit thighs. And the mask would surely hide his face. “Well, if this is my assignment…”
At which point Button flopped back down in the chair and laughed until he had to press his hands to his sides. “Oh, what a good little Liar you are! I cannot wait to tell my lady Agatha that she called this one entirely!” He looked fondly at Elliot. “I may be out one beribboned bonnet, but it was worth losing the bet to see your face just now.”
Elliott sighed. “This is not really my costume, is it?”
Still chortling, Button pulled another box out from under the bed. “You are still a huntsman, but a rather more manly and intimidating version, I hope.”
As Button handed him the new clothing, which Elliott much preferred, the little costumer managed to worm a few more details about his target from him. Elliot tried hard not to sound, well, smitten.
“I knew Jackham quite well.” Button told him. “I found him gruff, but he always treated me fairly. Not everyone does, when one is different as I am. I sought out his opinion when I designed those secret pockets you all use.”
Elliot paused in dressing. So that's how she knew about my secret pockets!
Button went on. “I liked him, and although he came to a truly unfortunate end, I can only judge the man that I knew. Until I was informed otherwise, I thought he was quite a good fellow.”
Elliott frowned. “Yet we cannot excuse his betrayal, can we? To sell men's lives for no reason other than greed? I do not think that describes a good man!”
Button gave a sad smile. “I suppose it does not. However, I can attest that one's parentage does not always determine oneself. This lady thief of yours may be another sort of person entirely.”
Elliott buckled the wide belt around his thankf
ully much more formfitting leather jerkin. “I liked her,” he said quietly. “She fought me fairly and didn't cheat until she had no choice. She was smart and skilled and…”
“And pretty.”
Elliott shot Button a glare. “So much more than pretty.”
Button narrowed his eyes. “Hmm. Alright, let's take a look at you.” He moved Elliott to stand before the mirror. “Oh yes, that will do nicely.”
Elliott liked this costume much better. The dark green jerkin fit close to his body and the leather trousers with the laces down the sides, along with the high-top boots, made him look rather untamed. A man from another time.
Button handed him the mask and Elliott tied it on behind his head. It was a molded close-fitting half mask that covered from the tip of his nose on up. It was unadorned leather was stained to such a dark green it was almost black.
“You look a proper predator now.” Button stepped back. “I almost feel sorry for your Vixen.”
Elliott turned to regard Button as the man gathered up his boxes and wrapping in preparation to leaving. “It's for her own good,” Elliot told him. “She's only going to get deeper and deeper in trouble on her own.”
Button straightened and considered Elliott for a long moment over the top of his burden. “That may be. But let me leave you with one piece of romantic advice that I know is true. You will always regret the one you allowed to get away.”
Chapter 9
Surprisingly, everything did go perfectly to plan. Emma and Amie had slipped unnoticed into the Earl of Chadwick’s house early in the afternoon. They'd realized that the best place to prepare in the home of the childless earl was in the nursery.
The room hadn't taken long to find. The two of them spent their time carefully pinning and powdering Amie's hair until it was as white as Marie Antoinette's wig, with not a betraying red strand to be seen. Emma even powdered Amie's eyebrows using a bit of sugar water to make it stick.
