The Art of Theft

by Sherry Thomas

  “I do believe that she is being blackmailed. I do not understand how those letters ended up at Château Vaudrieu. Or why, for that matter, she was informed about their location.”

  That was the reason he had wanted to know who was blackmailing her and with what. “I wonder whether the intended target is in fact the Van Dyck piece itself. If the people at Château Vaudrieu have been doing this for a while, they know how to secure their artworks. And if French criminals are unwilling to infiltrate the château, then that means the château has made sure its objets d’art are more trouble than they are worth as stolen goods. But if you find a woman desperate to keep her secrets, then you just might get your Van Dyck for a song.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while.

  To keep himself from staring at her again, he turned and looked out the window. But he remained conscious both of her nearness and of the perennial distance between them.

  “Are you concerned about the theft itself—the moral aspect of it?” she asked suddenly.

  “You ascribe more scruples to me than I actually possess. On the other hand, if what the maharani declared is her actual intention, that she wants only the letters, then it would hardly be theft to return them to her. Which doesn’t mean that should we manage the feat, I wouldn’t read them to make sure that they are what she says they are.”

  They were silent again. He didn’t know what to make of the silence. In some ways, things had been simpler when he’d been a married man who believed that he’d always be a married man. She’d been an impossibility, no less, no more. But now, with his divorce to be granted by the beginning of summer at the very latest, he had no idea what to do.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  He looked back at her.

  “Something is bothering you.”

  What could he tell her? My children’s governess specifically mentioned you in her bid to become the next Lady Ingram. Is there anyone under the sun who doesn’t know that I am in love with you? And God help me, but I’m beginning to wonder whether a marriage of convenience isn’t a better idea than I first thought.

  Could he and Holmes ever come to an agreement on what they wanted from each other? And if they couldn’t, then ought he not do the best thing for his children and marry Miss Yarmouth to keep her from leaving?

  He did not reply.

  Silence had long been the usual state of things between them; he was prepared to let this one last until the hackney reached Mrs. Watson’s house. To his surprise, Holmes spoke again.

  “I might have some ideas as to what’s in those letters the maharani wants back. But the knowledge could put you in an awkward position.”

  * * *

  Livia was a good sailor. She hadn’t known it—she’d never been on a steamship before and had expected to do poorly. But the pitching and rolling of the ship, on the infamous English Channel, no less, did not affect her at all and she was jubilant to have been spared.

  “I know seasickness is an ordeal. Still, I’ve never seen anyone so happy not to be seasick,” teased Mr. Marbleton, as they took a turn on the deck.

  “I’m always looking for hints from the universe to tell me how the future will proceed. If I were ejecting the contents of my stomach right now, I’d take it as an ill omen: Not only shouldn’t I be here, but no one should and everything will turn out badly,” she answered, a broad smile on her face, speaking over the waves striking the prow of the ferry and the steady hum of the engine. “But now that I’m practically dancing across the English Channel? I can’t help but interpret it as an auspicious sign.

  “But of course, my happiness will be short-lived. Because I suspect the universe to be full of malice and pranks. Soon I will wonder how I am going to pay for this moment of reckless exuberance. And what grand disenchantment will come my way to reduce me to my usual sullen and downtrodden self.”

  Mr. Marbleton tilted his head. “Do you really think of happiness as such a fragile entity?”

  “Mine is,” she answered, still smiling. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been properly happy. I simply careen between moments of intense buoyancy and moments of intense misery. Only my anxiety is constant: When I hope, I’m anxious that my hopes will come to nothing; when I fear, I’m anxious that my fears will all come true.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Some of her reckless exuberance faded, as did her smile. “I’m sorry.”

  Perhaps she’d been too honest. So few people liked her as she was. That he seemed to make her want to be herself, fully and unapologetically, without stopping to wonder whether she was meeting some arbitrary standard of normalcy and likability.

  “Why?” he said sincerely. “Have your fears ever hurt or even inconvenienced anyone?”

  She exhaled in relief—she still hadn’t managed to repel him. “Me, I suppose. How I hate always being so anxious. How is it that you are not?”

  A fresh wave of anxiety struck her. “You aren’t just putting on a brave front, are you?”

  He shook his head. “My parents have always told my sister and me that we are living on borrowed time. They said that not to make us live in fear but so that we would rejoice in each day that we have managed to stay ahead of Moriarty. Did you not feel a great joy, running away from home—without your parents being any the wiser?”

  “Such joy.”

  “That’s how I feel morning and night—and often in the middle of the day, too—that I am still at large, that everyone I love is still safe, and that my life is still my own.”

  The clouds stretched from horizon to horizon, yet she saw nothing but starlight in his eyes. She had never known such an unpolluted soul, such purity of spirit. “I envy you,” she said.

  “Because I’m happy?” He grinned. “My sister says I’m too young to know any better.”

  Ah, here was something she’d been wondering about. Charlotte had told her that he was at least five years younger than her, but she’d been hoping that perhaps Charlotte was wrong, for once. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I will be twenty-one soon.”

  Good heavens, he was even younger than she’d feared. There must be a full seven-year difference in their ages, as she was not far from her twenty-eighth birthday. “I—feel like a fossil standing next to you.”

  “I happen to adore fossils. I have visited every museum of natural history in every major city we have passed through to see their paleontological collection. I even dragged my family to Lyme Regis in the hope of discovering some fossils myself.”

  She laughed. It was so easy to laugh with him.

  He reached across and took her hand. Her heart pounded. The boat tilted up all of a sudden, sending them both skidding across the deck. They ended up against a railing, her falling into him.

  “Do you mind my age?” he asks.

  “Somewhat. But I worry more that you will mind my age—or that other people will find our age difference ridiculous.”

  “Well, our age difference will always be the same, but at least I’ll never be as young as I am now.”

  They still clasped each other’s hands, still stood chest to chest.

  “Maybe . . . I don’t mind your age at all. Maybe I like that you are young and kind and not at all cynical.”

  She lifted a gloved hand and touched it to his face. She could not feel his skin, of course, but just the fact that she was doing something she had never dared in her life—somehow that made it less important that she was fast approaching the cliff of thirty, beyond which unmarried ladies plunged into utter uselessness and undesirability.

  She pulled her hand back, shocked by her forwardness, after all. “I should—I should go see how Charlotte is getting on.”

  * * *

  The ferry reached Dieppe before dawn. By the time their train pulled into Gare du Nord in Paris, it was barely p
ast eight in the morning. A cold drizzle greeted them, along with staff from the house that had been put under Lord Ingram’s disposal.

  Paris was a better planned, more impressively laid-out city than London, which simply grew and spread however it liked. The thoroughfares were straight and wide, the grand houses that lined them, with pale stone stucco facades and slate-colored roofs, uniformly imposing. And the city as a whole seemed cleaner, less grimy than its English counterpart.

  Livia expected to pull up at a town house rather similar to Lord Ingram’s dwelling in London. Instead, they were brought to a four-story, green-roofed hôtel particulier, a private mansion, set some distance back from the street and surrounded by high walls.

  When Livia was younger, she’d been confused that the rich and powerful people of France all seemed to live in this or that hotel. Her governess had chuckled at her question and explained that an hôtel was simply a large town residence, not necessarily an inn, the same way that a château was but a large country residence, and usually not a castle.

  This one had an unusual name, Hôtel Papillon: Butterfly Residence. At the moment, the family that lived in the house was away and it was served by a skeleton staff. A manservant named Forêt, who spoke English with a pronounced French accent, welcomed Livia & co. and showed them to a dining table laden with coffee, hot chocolate, croissants, and pain au chocolat.

  “I have been given to understand,” he said—I ’ave been giveng to undairzdang—“that the Anglais prefer eggs for breakfast. I hope these oeufs au cocotte will serve?”

  He lifted a large domed lid to reveal a platter of ramekins, which turned out to contain baked eggs, made with cheese and ham. The Anglais gave their hearty approval and fell upon their meal, with the exception of Charlotte, who ate slowly, gazing at the spread with the lasting regret of a monk who’d taken his vows immediately before inheriting a harem.

  At the end of the meal, Forêt led them to a large library with a comfortable reading area and presented them with a dossier. “Mesdames, Monsieur, milord’s friend brought this for you.”

  They thanked him and waited until he’d left to open the dossier.

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Watson immediately exclaimed, “but Lord Ingram’s ally works fast. These must be the architectural plans for Château Vaudrieu.”

  While she, Charlotte, and Mr. Marbleton bent over the architectural plans, Livia picked up a magazine from the dossier, which happened to be an omnibus that reprinted articles from other publications. She flipped through a feature from the Journal of the Royal Geographic Society on Chinese Turkestan, another on the current and future development of railway tunnels in the Italian Alps, before landing on a piece concerning the Château Vaudrieu masquerade ball.

  The article, which originally appeared in an American magazine, presupposed its readers to be unfamiliar with everything about the ball. That assumption of ignorance grated on Livia, but because of it, the author omitted no details or explanations.

  The château was described as sitting on extensive grounds, with its own apple orchard and a herd of dairy cows. One approached via a splendid tree-lined boulevard, lit for the occasion with thousands of paper lanterns. The would-be revelers then traversed a formal garden with extensive parterres, abundant sculptures, and dramatic fountains, before—and here the writer nearly swooned with excitement—crossing a handsome stone bridge that led to the actual manor.

  For the edifice itself was situated on an island one third of the way into a lake, which acted as a natural moat, and the bridge was the only access. At either end of the bridge stood gates that could be locked. As if those weren’t enough, a third gate barred the way on the island itself, in the center of high wrought iron railings that surrounded a courtyard that was also a miniature formal garden.

  For those still entertaining the idea of an unauthorized entry, perish the thought. The château had been constructed on the foundation of a former fortress, the base of which rose directly from the water and retained rows of downward-pointing spikes as sharp as shark’s teeth.

  The writer went on to proclaim, smugly in Livia’s opinion, that he had been invited to the dinner, a more intimate gathering before tout le monde arrived for the ball. She carefully read the description of the entry, the grand drawing room, and the dining room but skimmed over the dissertation on the food, the wine, and the guests who were favored enough to partake of this meal.

  “Something is missing,” said Charlotte.

  Livia looked up, as did everyone else.

  “I don’t see anything amiss, but I do wonder what this is.” Mrs. Watson pointed at something on the plans, which Livia, from where she sat, couldn’t see. “It’s labeled C. E.”

  “I would guess that is the electrical plant, le centrale électrique,” said Mr. Marbleton. “What were you saying about the missing item, Miss Charlotte?”

  “I understand the château is built atop the remains of a medieval fort,” said Charlotte.

  “I’m reading about that now,” interjected Livia. “A fort with downward-pointing spikes and whatnot at its base.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Mr. Marbleton. “The fort would have existed in dangerous times. It would have been built to withstand a siege. There should have been a tunnel that would have allowed the family to leave undetected.”

  “Perhaps that knowledge was lost over the centuries,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “Perhaps,” said Charlotte.

  She went back to studying the architectural plans, and Livia resumed reading, only to pipe up excitedly a minute later, “There’s a private art museum at Château Vaudrieu—or at least that’s what this article is choosing to call it.”

  Everyone looked at her.

  “Is that so?” said Mrs. Watson, sounding a little breathless.

  “Let me read this to you.” Livia cleared her throat. “‘Upon rising from dinner, Madame Desrosiers, our elegant and effervescent hostess, invites us to tour the private museum. The guests chatter about the legendary fireworks display to come as we mount the stunning double-returned staircase and walk down a wide passage, lit in such a way as to draw the eyes up to the painted ceiling. A collective gasp of delight echoes against the murals. Besides the Sistine Chapel, I have rarely seen another ceiling as grandly and gloriously illustrated. But here the themes are mythological rather than biblical, and the tableaux consist of the births of Athena and Aphrodite, Perseus killing Polydectes with Medusa’s head, Daphne turning into a laurel tree to escape Apollo’s insistent pursuit, and other dramatic renderings of classical themes.’

  “‘The space dedicated to the private museum doesn’t have such dramatic murals, but muted walls to better display the artistic treasures thereupon. We the gathered exclaim with exulted admiration at the richness before our eyes—canvases by the greatest masters of the Renaissance sit side by side with works of Flemish maestros and more recent oeuvres from this current century.’

  Livia turned the page. “‘I was surprised to see a number of English portraits and landscapes. They are indeed very magnificent specimen and a worthy addition to any collection, but simply not what I have expected in this collection. A gentleman whom I later learned to be our hostess’s brother informed me that though the English pieces were unexpected, they were possibly the most valuable in the collection, as the English government did not hesitate to part with tens of thousands of guineas to acquire the finest works of its native sons for the National Gallery.’”

  “But that is marvelous information,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “Indeed. Very helpful,” added Charlotte.

  Livia’s cheeks warmed with pleasure. Of course everyone present would have read the article eventually and learned all it had to impart, whether she had brought it to their attention or not. But still, she felt as if she’d actually contributed something, however minor that contribution.

  Forêt returned. “Mesdames, Monsieur,�
� said the manservant. “Milord said that you wish to see the marché de Nöel at Mouret today. Shall I order your carriage? There is a train that leaves for Mouret in an hour. The gare isn’t far, but the roads can be terribly congested these days. And you wouldn’t wish to leave any later or the marché will have dispersed by the time you reach.”

  Why would they want to rush off to some Christmas market at a place they’d never heard of?

  “You may order the carriage now, M. Forêt,” said Charlotte. “We will all of us be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

  When the manservant had exited, Charlotte showed everyone a map of Paris and its surroundings.

  Mouret was the village nearest Château Vaudrieu.

  Livia’s heart pounded. Their adventure was about to begin.

  Six

  Mouret didn’t have a true Christmas market, only the usual village market with the addition of some seasonal items. Still, its small square was filled to the brim, with cattle and a herd of turkeys milling about at one end and stalls crowding the rest of the space, selling everything from tablecloths to Christmas crèches to hams the size of small boars.

  Mrs. Watson purchased bottles of mulled wine, Mr. Marbleton a wheel of local Brie cheese. Charlotte, after much contemplation of loaves of pain d’épice, acquired skeins of homespun yarn. Livia, while nobody was looking, bought lace-edged handkerchiefs—she could monogram them and give them as Christmas presents.

  They spoke in German to one another. Livia and Charlotte’s governess had been from Alsace, and they could get by in both German and French. Mr. Marbleton, according to himself, spoke only enough German to fool the French. Mrs. Watson had the least acquaintance with the language and didn’t speak much except to the locals, in French that had a heavy German accent.

  When Charlotte deemed that they’d made as many purchases as any quartet of genuine tourists, they entrusted their new possessions to Forêt and headed into an establishment that seemed to be both a pub and a coffeehouse.