Or rather, to the mattress that had been placed on the other side.
She landed on shaky legs. Her arms too felt sore from exertion. And of course she was the weakest one among the ladies, the maharani proving herself surprisingly agile, Mrs. Watson strong and determined, and Livia as scrappy as any street urchin who needed to scramble up a wall to escape a bobby.
Charlotte dearly wished to settle down in a comfortable padded chair with a cup of hot tea, a slice of heavenly cake, and a Patent Office catalogue or two. But there was nothing for it. She took a deep breath, rubbed her hands together, and said, “Let’s try that again?”
* * *
The day before the ball, Livia and Mr. Marbleton took a walk in the Jardin des Tuileries.
They’d strolled from one end of the Grand Allée to the other and taken in the sweeping view from the Louvre to the Place de la Concorde. Now they were in a slightly more intimate area, walking past stone sculptures and old Parisian women seated in clusters. It wasn’t the best time to be in the garden—the trees had lost their foliage and stood naked underneath a grey sky. Still, Livia loved a large, well-kept park at the heart of a city.
And Mr. Marbleton’s company.
She’d been worried about him going into Moriarty’s stronghold. He, far less concerned than she, pointed out that it was a masquerade ball, and that no one would see his, or anyone else’s, face. And so she had allowed herself to relax a little.
There were still preparations to make and rehearsals to hold for their undertaking at the ball, but he’d insisted that she couldn’t come to Paris without having experienced a little of the city. After the park they would browse in his favorite Parisian bookshop and then have a meal at a neighborhood brasserie, before returning to Hôtel Papillon for the home stretch.
“I have finished my Sherlock Holmes story!” she blurted out, as they rounded a faded garden bed.
He stopped in his tracks. “Congratulations!”
She wanted to laugh and cry all at once. “Thank you. I got to the end on the rail journey from Dieppe to Paris.”
The day she, Charlotte, Mrs. Watson, and Lord Ingram returned to France.
“You reached this monumental milestone two days ago and you didn’t say anything in the forty-eight hours since?” He threw up his hands in mock outrage.
“I—I wasn’t ready for anyone to read it yet. And I’m still not. But since I promised you that you would be the first, here it is.” She pulled out the stack of three notebooks from her reticule. They were tied together with a dark blue ribbon, the bow now half-crushed. “I’ll need to leave for home very soon after the ball. You can read it after I leave.”
He accepted the notebooks with both hands and held them as if she had placed a flower in his palms. “Thank you. I have never read anyone’s manuscript.” He looked up, his gaze clear and sincere. “I will guard your manuscript with my life and make sure it returns safely to you.”
Her heart had never felt so . . . permeable, yet so spacious and all-encompassing. She laughed. “And now, after I have made my grand gesture, I will need to put these notebooks back in my reticule so that you won’t need to walk all around Paris with them.”
He pushed her hand away and gave her a brilliant smile. “Absolutely not. I insist on walking around with them, as the proudest man in Paris.”
* * *
When Charlotte arrived in the ballroom, Lord Ingram and Lieutenant Atwood were still at their canne de combat practice.
She’d very much enjoyed it when Mrs. Watson and Miss Redmayne had demonstrated maneuvers for her—they moved with such lightness and dancerly grace. The men before her fought not with dancerly grace, but with an animal ferocity. She studied their footwork, the rapid steps and turns; she studied how their offense and defense seemed apiece, attacking and safeguarding in the same flowing motion.
She was no expert, but if anything, Lieutenant Atwood seemed the superior combatant. When the two stopped, it was because Lord Ingram asked him to demonstrate a particular stance. Lieutenant Atwood explained, then the two men reengaged, but at a much slower speed, for Lord Ingram to see how Lieutenant Atwood pulled off his maneuver.
She didn’t consider Lord Ingram a humble man, but he’d shed a good bit of unnecessary pride over the years. Ten years ago, he would not have had the confidence and humility to ask for instruction. Would probably have been displeased, even vexed, that he’d come across a greater opponent.
Everyone changed. But it was rare to meet anyone who could be relied upon to change for the better.
The men looked in her direction at almost the same time. Lieutenant Atwood inclined his head and left from a different door. Charlotte advanced toward Lord Ingram.
“That was an impressive display of prowess.”
“More so on Lieutenant Atwood’s part than mine,” he said.
“He is better, but you are also very good.”
He smiled.
She raised a brow. “Are you thinking that another woman would have assured you that you are at least his equal?”
“Where you are concerned, I am well past that. I am simply delighted that you think I am very good,” he said, patting at his forehead with a handkerchief. His shirt, open at the collar, displayed a few enticing inches of sternum, also covered with a faint sheen of perspiration.
She might prove a more regular practitioner of canne de combat if her practice partner always looked like this.
“Shall we start?” she asked.
They still had a great deal left to do, but with Livia and Mr. Marbleton at the Jardin des Tuileries, Mrs. Watson at the maharani’s hotel for the final fitting of the maharani’s ballgown, Charlotte thought a little exercise would be helpful for her well-being and her concentration, not to mention her figure.
He did not answer immediately.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
He seemed to be debating with himself concerning his answer. The debate lasted several more seconds. “You asked me the same question a while ago.”
She had. They had been in a hansom cab, talking about the maharani and her possible interest in removing the British from the Subcontinent. Later that evening she’d set out with Livia, Mrs. Watson, and Mr. Marbleton across the English Channel, to begin their French adventure.
Or misadventure, as it could still become.
At the time she’d decreed that something was bothering him; he had made no response. “So something is bothering you?”
He tapped his fingertips against the head of his cane. “My children’s governess is thinking of emigrating to Australia—she has a cousin who has done very well there.”
Aha! She’d seen the governess once or twice over the years, trailing behind Lady Ingram and the children. It would seem that the rather mousy Miss Yarmouth had grown bold in Lady Ingram’s absence.
But why was he telling her this? Did he mean to—no, he had no intention of applying any kind of pressure to Charlotte. He was simply asking a good friend for advice.
“Australia has better marital prospects, I’ve heard,” she said. “For women, that is.”
“A very important consideration for Miss Yarmouth. She is, however, willing to forego the trip if I would espouse her myself, after the official dissolution of my current marriage.”
He spoke so somberly. The corners of her lips almost quirked. “My goodness, since when is one English divorcé worth a continent-ful of rich, virile bachelors? Miss Yarmouth is shortchanging herself.”
He snorted, then laughed outright.
“Is she in love with you or does she really hate ocean voyages?”
“I have no intelligence on the latter. And we all know I am terrible at judging how women truly feel about me.”
Strictly speaking, he had only been terrible at judging how one woman felt about him. By using the plural, did he mean to say
that he also had no idea how Charlotte felt about him?
“Did Miss Yarmouth offer inducements?”
“Besides not abandoning my children? Just that she will be content with a marriage of convenience.” He looked at her. “Any advice on how I ought to proceed?”
Given that the current impasse between them could partly be attributed to the imminent demise of his marriage, and that with great freedom came great likelihood of regrettable choices, did she want him to go back to being a married man?
And for nothing else to ever come of their friendship?
“You can find better candidates for a marriage of convenience right here at Hôtel Papillon,” she heard herself say. “My sister, for one. She is desperate to leave my parents’ household and adores Stern Hollow. She would be no trouble at all as Lady Ingram.”
“Good God!”
“You are excused for your language, sir. But you know who would be even better? Mrs. Watson. She also adores Stern Hollow, and she loves children. She would make for the world’s best stepmother.”
He glared at her—and laughed again. “Be serious, Holmes.”
Fine, if she must. She sighed. “I think you deserve better than a marriage of convenience.”
His expression turned solemn. “What do I deserve then?”
She had no good answer.
After a few moments, he said, “Shall we start our practice?”
Seventeen
Livia hadn’t danced with Charlotte in ten years, not since they’d been girls preparing for their first season. Charlotte had been slightly uncoordinated as a child. Livia, worried that she would step on gentlemen’s feet, had made Charlotte practice at home, with Livia as the gentleman.
But now Charlotte was the gentleman. She did not wear a wig, but sported her own still quite short hair. Her full beard was correspondingly blond, hiding the otherwise too-smooth skin of her face. Behind a black-and-white harlequin-patterned mask accented with bright teal, her eyes were kind and cordial.
All the space between them was taken up with Charlotte’s stomach, the most protuberant it had ever been. Livia was afraid to bump into it, afraid that she might accidentally nudge it out of place. She leaned back as Charlotte swept her into a turn, even as her hand tightened on the sleeve of Charlotte’s formal jacket, made of a bright teal satin to match her mask.
“You look very lovely tonight,” said Charlotte.
Livia had absolutely no idea how she looked—not that it mattered, with her own gold and blue mask on. She was sick to her stomach, her palms perspiring freely inside her ball gloves. “Thank you,” she managed.
All around them, other dancers whirled and gamboled. So many brilliantly hued masks, wild with feathers and rhinestones, so many diamond necklaces, sparkling in every direction, so many daringly attired ladies, jewel-toned gowns plunging front and back, spinning endlessly on the black-and-white marble floor.
Livia could not look too long at her surroundings—it made her dizzy. So she stared at Charlotte’s right ear, just visible behind her mask. Charlotte hummed to the music. Livia could hear the music, but it was only indistinct sound above an underlayer of chatter and laughter and nowhere as audible as the thudding of her heart and the whooshing of blood in her veins.
She didn’t even know whether they were in the midst of a waltz or a schottische. Her body followed along to Charlotte’s lead, while her mind cowered and whimpered somewhere in a dark room.
Charlotte, as ever, seemed immune to the strain that threatened to both crush Livia and cause her to explode. She steered Livia clear of other twirling couples, while scanning the entire ballroom with every turn.
“Mrs. Watson’s friend and Mr. Marbleton aren’t far behind us. She seems taken with him—and I’m sure she’s not easily charmed,” she murmured.
Livia didn’t look for their colleagues. Beyond their immediate vicinity, everything was a kaleidoscopic blur. So much color, so much gaiety. But to her nerve-stricken senses, the gaiety seemed forced, a great deal of froth without any true effervescence.
Perhaps she was correct.
Over the years a number of guests would have gone upstairs to those bedrooms, in search of forbidden pleasures. Knowing what she knew of how Château Vaudrieu operated, those unfortunate guests, already threatened with exposure, were probably also compelled to return year after year, lest attendance from the best Parisian Society seemed to wane over time.
She glanced at the couples spinning past. How many of them had to force themselves to dance and make merry? How many whirled in the midst of a place they loathed, gritting their teeth to convey good humor and high spirits?
All at once she couldn’t wait to be gone from this accursed manor.
But not until they’d done what they needed to do.
Every minute lasted an hour. Yet somehow she felt that they were behind schedule. Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson, according to the plan, should be strolling arm in arm on the balcony above, alert for any guests exiting toward the bedrooms. And Lord Ingram’s ally was watching the galleries where those who’d attended the reception and received special personalized tickets were to place those tickets, on which they’d handwritten their offers, into glass jars marked with the names of the paintings.
They were also on the lookout for a third signal. Charlotte was certain that at least one group of art thieves would try to sabotage the supply of electricity. She was also sure that the château must have a second electrical plant and that the outage would not last very long.
But when that moment of sudden darkness came, the guests, some of whom were already a little tipsy, might become amorous in their conduct. Which meant that after the light was restored, there would be a steady exodus of guests searching for privacy.
Charlotte and co. were to make their move after Lord Ingram’s ally had put in his bids, but before the stampede toward the bedrooms.
“Haven’t we danced enough? Shouldn’t we be at the next stage of the plan by now?” Livia whispered, as the music came to an end.
Charlotte glanced toward the balcony. “Maybe we already are.”
Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson were nowhere to be seen, but a man in a distinctive black horned mask stood with an elbow braced on the balustrade. Charlotte offered her arm to Livia, and together they climbed up.
“Mr. Nariman,” said Charlotte in a jolly tone, “did you put in your bids?”
Was this man Lord Ingram’s mysterious ally?
“I did,” he said in slightly accented English. “But there were only glass jars for incoming offers in the galleries, and no artworks at all. I spoke to the staff stationed near the glass jars and they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell me anything.”
Livia’s stomach rolled. They knew that the château had taken a number of defensive measures, including guarding the chapel against unauthorized entry and going to a different agency for the temporary staff required for the night of the ball. But removing the artworks altogether when the ball was also a celebrated occasion for transactions in art?
What was going on?
It was difficult to gauge Charlotte’s reaction with her mask on. She was silent for some time, and when she spoke, it was only to say, softly, “Here are Madame and Mr. Marbleton.”
Everyone addressed Mrs. Watson’s friend as simply Madame. Her black ballgown was modestly cut and revealed a Mediterranean skin tone. Mr. Marbleton had on the usual black formal attire. They wore matching gold masks with enormous purple plumes that nodded from above their heads.
“What does this mean?” asked Madame tightly, in French, when she and Mr. Marbleton had been informed of the latest development.
The five of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the parapet of the gallery. Below, the dancers eddied and swirled. For a moment Livia had the disconcerting sensation that she might fall into this human tide and be carried away.
�
�The château must have decided to neutralize all the would-be art thieves tonight,” said Charlotte. “All their plans of disruption would have been contingent on the paintings being within reach. Remove the paintings altogether and there is no point in any of the plans being put into motion.”
“You have been prescient, Miss Charlotte, in bypassing the Van Dyck in your preparations,” said Madame.
“Not this prescient.” Charlotte smoothed a gloved hand on the parapet. “Let’s not wait for any other signals. We will proceed to the bedrooms now.”
She placed Livia’s hand on Mr. Marbleton’s arm. Then she offered her own arm to Madame. Lord Ingram’s ally tucked Madame’s other hand into the crook of his elbow. A lone man wandering the hallways might make the guards suspicious, but a couple, or better yet a ménage à trois, would pass for revelers feeling a little too frisky for their own good.
Livia didn’t feel frisky. She barely felt the ground beneath her feet. Only Mr. Marbleton’s arm seemed real and solid. She clung on, trying not to double over in panic.
As they neared their destination, they encountered Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson, who had been directing traffic. “Only two parties came up so far, and they went to the other corridor. But there is a guard stationed outside the linen closet.”
They needed to access the first secret passage Lord Ingram explored, the one in which he had to hide from the two women who entered, one of whom being possibly his wife. From studying the architectural plans, which did not show any of the secret passages, Charlotte had deduced that that the women must have used a hidden door in the back of a linen closet.
And now the linen closet was guarded.
Livia’s heart beat so hard her chest hurt.
“This is not unforeseen,” said Charlotte coolly. “We’ve rehearsed for it. Let’s proceed.”
The Art of Theft Page 24
