The Art of Theft

by Sherry Thomas

  “So . . . this entire masquerade ball is a racket,” whispered Livia, her fingers tight around her knife and fork.

  “That would be putting it mildly,” said Charlotte.

  “But if it’s the people at the château carrying out these dastardly deeds,” asked Mr. Marbleton, puzzled, “then why would they want the targets of their blackmail to disrupt this year’s ball? Or is there more than one set of blackmailers?”

  “That perplexes me, too, and I have no good answer for you,” answered Charlotte. “It’s possible that there is some sort of internal schism. Will you talk a little of the tapping in code, my lord?”

  “When I was in the first branch tunnel, I heard some very faint tapping.” Lord Ingram set down his cutlery, pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, and passed it to Mrs. Watson. “I recorded it as best as I could but haven’t been able to make sense of it.”

  Everyone examined it, but Livia sensed that they were all waiting for the code to reach Charlotte, who was eating her carrot salad in a terribly refined and ladylike manner, while eyeing the potato au gratin in its chauffe-plat, kept hot above a bain-marie.

  But Charlotte, when the piece of paper came to her, passed it on with barely a glance. “I don’t know what it says either, not without taking some time and effort to decipher it.”

  Lord Ingram tucked away the code carefully. “I wonder whether the tapper is the same person as the one who tried to run away the first time Mr. Marbleton and I visited the château.”

  “A prisoner,” murmured Mrs. Watson, pushing around the food on her plate.

  “I hope there won’t be another,” said Lord Ingram. “There is a female guest at the castle. The hostess, possibly Madame Desrosiers, led her into a secret tunnel to show her the peepholes, as a way of explaining why she hasn’t been given more luxurious lodgings. But later I saw a room that might be hers—of that I have no assurance—but that one, too, can be spied upon.”

  “I saw her arrive in the afternoon,” said Livia, relieved to be able to add something, at last, to the discussion. “When ice was delivered, I happened to look out as a woman stepped down from a hired carriage. She had a hooded cloak and held the hood low with her hand, so I didn’t get a good look at her face. But I did see that it was Monsieur Plantier who welcomed her.”

  She’d seen Monsieur Plantier again, when he came into the gallery where she’d waited an eternity to see a single guest, and she’d easily inferred his status as the host.

  “What’s this woman’s purpose at Château Vaudrieu?” asked Mrs. Watson. “Is she at all related to the ball and the trap it sets for the attendees?”

  Lord Ingram frowned and slowly shook his head. “If the guest Miss Olivia saw arriving was the same person who was shown the secret passage, well, the way they spoke, it sounded as if she and Madame Desrosiers barely knew each other. The guest was prickly and Madame Desrosier was careful to reassure her—but nevertheless didn’t entirely trust her.

  “And yet Madame Desrosiers also appeared keen to prove her sincerity. Her last words to the guest, concerning how she would achieve that, was ‘Let’s just say it involves a syringe and a choice of injectable solutions.’”

  The dining room was silent as everyone pondered the cryptic sentence.

  “What else did you observe?” Charlotte asked Livia.

  Alas, Livia’s usefulness as a spy had been severely limited not only by the amount of work heaped on the temporary staff, but also by the general watchfulness of the permanent staff. “There were guards stationed along the routes the temporary staff used to carry food and other things back and forth. I can mark those places on the architectural plans, but I think the guards were just there to keep an eye on us.

  “I did learn that most of the food at the reception was catered by an establishment in Paris. Usually they deliver the food in the afternoon, but this time, men from the château went to Paris in the morning and brought everything back. The cooks at the château did some final baking, assembly, and garnishing—I heard them grumbling over this additional work.”

  “Thank you, Miss Olivia,” said Charlotte, a note of approval in her voice. She placed a beef paupiette on her plate and turned to Mr. Marbleton. “Did you notice anything interesting, sir?”

  He thought for a moment. “Several things, though I don’t know whether they are of any use or not. First, I overheard some permanent staff complain to one another. They don’t like outsiders at the château. For the ball temporary staff is considered unavoidable, but usually the permanent staff takes care of the reception, and those I heard didn’t care for the last-minute decision to hire extra help for the occasion.

  “Which makes me wonder if this ‘servant problem’ isn’t related to the attempted escape that Lord Ingram and I didn’t quite witness the other night. Maybe more guards were needed for the prisoner. Maybe some were let go because they let him get as far as he did. Maybe that was why the château suddenly found itself shorthanded even for the reception.”

  He loved his little jokes and moments of lightheartedness, but now he spoke with an assurance beyond his years. Livia’s heart skipped a beat. This moment she found him rather . . . manly.

  “Second,” he went on, “I’m almost certain that a few other members of the temporary staff from last night were also there under false pretenses. But I can’t be sure that they were interested in art or ways of stealing art. In fact, I couldn’t understand what they were doing until just now, when Lord Ingram mentioned the code that he heard someone tap, in the bowels of the château.

  “I don’t know whether Miss Olivia noticed, but several of the waiters in the gallery with us, during the time we waited for guests to appear, seemed to be always tying their shoes, straightening a corner of the tablecloth, or wiping away stains on the floor. But then I’d notice that they still hadn’t stood up. One time I crossed the room for more napkins at my station and saw that a waiter had disappeared altogether.

  “After a minute, he was back. The floor was solid—he couldn’t have gone anywhere so he must have been under his station, concealed by the tablecloth. And it stands to reason that he was there listening for the code, though I’m not sure whether he or his cohorts would have heard anything.”

  “Wait!” Livia exclaimed. “Was this the fellow with the thinning blond hair and a small mole next to his nose?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Good gracious, I caught him in a pantry on the floor. I thought he was taking a nap. He must have been listening there, too—he even had the audacity to wink at me. I thought he was some cheeky bloke happy to be paid to do nothing.”

  A chill ran down Livia’s back. She’d stood in that gallery, doling out champagne, without the least idea of the undercurrents raging all around her. She glanced up to see Mr. Marbleton looking at her, his expression clearly conveying the question, Are you all right?

  After a moment, she gave him a small nod. She’d been fine the night before at the château; there was no reason for her not to be fine now.

  Beside Mr. Marbleton, Lord Ingram took a sip from his water goblet. “Do you think those men were there for the code?”

  The question was for Charlotte.

  “They could have been, provided the code is a code and is meant to be overheard—and not, for example, someone merely tapping along to a piece of hummed music.” Charlotte raised a hand to forestall the collective objection from around the table. “I am not denying the likelihood, merely considering all possibilities.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Mrs. Watson, pushing away her plate with its largely untouched food. “The situation has become more complicated at every turn.”

  “We prepare, as best as we can, for the night of the ball—and beyond,” said Charlotte calmly.

  Despite foregoing puddings and rich French desserts, she still remained plumper than usual, her face ever more cherubic. All the
same, no one questioned her authority, least of all Livia.

  Charlotte looked around the table, stopped when her gaze reached Mr. Marbleton, then glanced at Livia. “By the way, did anyone pay attention to the Van Dyck?”

  Fifteen

  To prepare for the night of the ball, Mr. Marbleton and Leighton Atwood remained in France; everyone else returned to England. Their journey was uneventful. When they reached London, Lord Ingram bid the ladies good-bye and continued on to his brother’s country estate.

  He arrived under a darkening sky and was shown to the duchess’s solarium. His sister-in-law rose with her arms extended. “Ash, my dear!”

  The Duchess of Wycliffe was a handsome woman of forty, with a wide smile that showed a great many teeth. She enjoyed poking fun at her own slightly sharklike expression and loved boasting that she had the finest enamel among the entire Upper Ten Thousand.

  “We thought you’d be away for another week at least,” she said, taking both of his hands in her own.

  “I missed my children. And everyone at Eastleigh Park, of course.”

  The duchess shook her head. “Come, let’s have a cup of tea. Then you can go up to the nursery.”

  She didn’t ask him what he’d been up to, but told him a bit about herself and his brother, and a great deal about his children and hers, who’d had a grand time pretending to be Romans and druids—and sometimes Yorks and Lancasters.

  “What children their age playact the War of the Roses?” asked the duchess, a note of indulgent accusation in her tone.

  “Such are the bedtime stories Lucinda prefers,” answered Lord Ingram with a smile. “I’ve left out the bloodiest and the most salacious bits.”

  “History, the ultimate gossip,” said the duchess authoritatively, and shooed him off to see his children.

  Outside the nursery, however, he came across Miss Yarmouth, the children’s governess, hovering in the corridor, obviously waiting for him.

  “Miss Yarmouth.” He stopped.

  “My lord, there is something I need to tell you before you see the children,” said Miss Yarmouth, her expression anxious.

  She was presumably embarrassed to be standing before the man to whom she’d proposed a marriage of convenience, but her demeanor made it obvious that her anxiety was, for the moment at least, not related to the success of her suit.

  He waited.

  She bit her lower lip. “Miss Lucinda—Miss Lucinda insists that Lady Ingram visited her three nights ago.”

  He stared at her, his ears ringing.

  “Children can be fanciful, but Miss Lucinda has never made up stories,” said Miss Yarmouth in a low whisper, even though there was no one else in the corridor. “So I asked her to tell me all the details of Lady Ingram’s visit.

  “She said that it must have been late at night. She woke up, opened her eyes, and Lady Ingram was sitting by her bedside. She was thrilled to see her mother, of course. Lady Ingram said that she couldn’t stay for long, so Miss Lucinda made her lie down on the bed with her and then proceeded to tell Lady Ingram everything that had happened since they last saw each other.

  “And then Lady Ingram told her that she should go back to sleep. Miss Lucinda asked if she could tell me about the visit. Lady Ingram said that she could and that she might as well tell you, too, but that she should probably not tell her brother, because he didn’t wake up and would be sad to know that he’d missed her visit.”

  Miss Yarmouth stopped and peered at him, looking apprehensive. He realized that he was scowling. How had Lady Ingram managed to waltz into and out of the nursery without alerting a soul at Eastleigh Park? What had she wanted with the children?

  He forced his features to relax even as his hands balled into fists behind his back. “I see,” he said. “You are sure about the timing of Lady Ingram’s visit, Miss Yarmouth?”

  Three nights ago. Why had Lady Ingram come at that specific moment?

  “I’m sure,” said Miss Yarmouth, nodding. “Miss Lucinda told me the next morning, while Master Carlyle was playing with His Grace’s heir—I can’t ever forget how stunned I was.

  “Yesterday when I was alone with her I asked her again to tell me about Lady Ingram’s visit. She added some details and didn’t mention some other details from the first telling, but overall it was the same account. You weren’t expected back for a while and I thought of letting Their Graces know. But I kept hesitating. I thought you should learn first, before Their Graces.”

  He exhaled. “Thank you, Miss Yarmouth. You made the correct decision to tell me first.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She flushed with pleasure.

  He inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  * * *

  Lord Ingram spent the rest of the afternoon with his children, until they were led to their bath. He had an early dinner with his brother and sister-in-law, then returned to the nursery to put the children to bed.

  Carlisle, after a long, full day, dropped off soon. Lucinda, who had obviously been waiting for that moment, clutched Lord Ingram’s hand. “Papa, Mamma came to see us.”

  Her eyes shone. Lord Ingram’s heart pinched. He brushed away a strand of hair from her face. “Miss Yarmouth told me. You must have been happy to see her.”

  “I told her all about our visit to the Natural History Museum when we were in London. And about me playing Margaret of Anjou in a game of Yorks and Lancasters.”

  Despite his mounting unease, he smiled. “Margaret of Anjou, eh?”

  Not exactly the most beloved figure of her time.

  “She was busy—I like that,” said Lucinda. “But I had to remind Mamma who Margaret of Anjou was—Mamma said she couldn’t tell those kings and queens from four hundred years ago apart. I think she was sad when I got to the part about Margaret of Anjou being exiled to France so I told her that later Margaret became queen again.”

  He did not want Lady Ingram to return from her exile to hold court in their lives again. Then again, even Margaret of Anjou couldn’t hold on to her reclaimed throne for very long.

  “Did Mamma say how she is?”

  “She said she was fine.”

  He did not doubt that. “Did she mention why she came to visit you?”

  Lucinda knocked him gently on the forehead. “Silly, of course it was because she missed us.”

  His temples throbbed. He didn’t know why he believed he’d be able to find out something by talking to Lucinda. As precocious as she could be at times, she was still a child. “You’re right. Of course.”

  Lucinda sank a little deeper under the covers and yawned. “She cried when I gave her the page of pressed flowers I made for her.”

  When Lucinda had told him about making pressed flowers, he’d thought it would be years before mother and daughter reunited, not mere days.

  In fact—

  Something gonged loudly in the back of his head. “Pansies,” he said weakly. “You were going to make pressed pansies.”

  “Yes, purple pansies. A whole page of them. The duchess even gave me a frame for it.” Lucinda smiled dreamily, her eyes closing. “It looked so pretty. Mamma said she’d take it with her everywhere she went and look at it every day.”

  * * *

  Charlotte considered herself skilled enough as a cryptographer, but she didn’t always enjoy a cryptographer’s work. Decoding a Vigenère cipher, for example, was analogous to hitting herself repeatedly on the head with a mallet. She could only hope that the code Lord Ingram had obtained from the bowels of Château Vaudrieu would not prove quite as trying.

  She had memorized the code on the rail journey back to London and could see the entire sequence of dots and dashes in her mind’s eye. The problem was, without any indications on how to group the symbols, there were too many possibilities—too many futile paths to follow.

  A light knock came at her door
. It was Livia, in her dressing gown, her hair in one long plait. “Are you working on the cipher, Charlotte?”

  “Reluctantly.” Charlotte extended the paper on which she’d copied the code. “You can help me.”

  “Me?”

  “Why not you? You were the one who first taught me about coding and decoding messages.”

  Livia scoffed. “Caesar ciphers that every five-year-old can do.”

  “When I was a five-year-old, yes. But don’t forget you also learned about and constructed all the subsequent ciphers I decoded, too, all the way up to the Vigenère cipher.”

  Old habits were hard to break. Their mother had always put Livia down, and Livia, in turn, had learned to put herself down even faster.

  For a moment Livia looked as if she might argue further, but then she came forward, took the code from Charlotte, and sat down on the spare chair.

  Charlotte put a kettle in the grate. “Some tea?”

  Livia looked up. “You must be missing hot cocoa. That’s what you prefer for long winter nights, isn’t it?”

  “I miss hot cocoa with a burning passion,” Charlotte sighed. “Every time I approach Maximum Tolerable Chins, I make solemn resolutions to be more moderate in my cake intake. And then a year passes and I’m at Maximum Tolerable Chins again.”

  This made Livia chortle.

  She had a lovely laugh, but she didn’t laugh very often. Maybe, Charlotte thought, her sister would laugh more if Mr. Marbleton were a permanent part of her life.

  “Did you want to speak to me about something?” Charlotte asked.

  Livia nodded, sliding her fingertips along the edge of Charlotte’s desk.

  Charlotte waited.

  After a few seconds, Livia said, “I’m almost done with my Sherlock Holmes story—and I’m stuck.”

  “Stuck in what way?” Charlotte was not familiar with the process by which fiction was produced, but she understood it to be closer to handicraft than to manufacturing and might not turn out as specified.