* * *
On the night of the reception, as Lord Ingram had explored the château’s hidden passages and looked through the spy ports, he had seen the interior of two rooms. One, small and utilitarian, was on the other side of the château. Charlotte now stood before the door of the other.
She exhaled deeply, inhaled, exhaled again. Lord Ingram had already entered the room a minute ago. The guard at the linen closet, two doors down, pressed his lips together in contempt upon realizing that it was a man rendezvousing with another man. Charlotte pretended to be ashamed.
Once inside, she leaned against the back of the door and bit her lower lip, giving every impression of hesitancy. Lord Ingram, who seemed to have been pacing back and forth in the room before her arrival, stood still for a moment, looking at her from behind his glittering yellow-and-green mask—the better to convey his surprised and tremulous happiness that she, or the man she was pretending to be, had showed up after all.
He closed the distance between them and braced a hand by the side of her head.
“Lieutenant Atwood didn’t laugh,” she said softly. The watchers inside the secret passage most likely couldn’t hear them, but she didn’t want to take the chance.
He grinned. “Lieutenant Atwood is a better man than I.”
He ran his fingers lightly along her beard, and then just as lightly over her paunch. Heat skittered along her nerves, even though he’d yet to touch her skin.
“All right.” His expression turned more somber. “In this position, the watcher can see only my back and the bits of you that I don’t entirely obscure. Once we leave this spot, be more careful.”
“Where is the spy port?”
“Concealed by the ornamental sunburst under the window seat with the books. You ready?”
He turned her and maneuvered her so that her back was against the nearest bedpost. To avoid dislodging her stomach, he stood to her side rather than directly in front. And now he traced the outline of her mask, his cool fingertip leaving a scalding trail.
“Lie with me,” he said in French, in case the watcher could read lips.
He should say things like that more often. She gripped the edge of the bed to show her trepidation. “Monsieur, that is . . . that is . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Do you doubt what I feel for you, chéri?”
Perhaps on the inside he still wished to laugh, but she no longer did. His tone was deeply serious and perhaps a little afraid. As an actor he could not do better. And if he were in any way channeling his own sentiments . . .
He had said that he loved her, under questioning by the chief inspector who’d suspected him of murder. Dressed as Sherrinford Holmes, she’d been in the same carriage when that happened. But he’d made the admission with his head turned away from her and had never mentioned it again.
Certainly not like this, gazing directly into her eyes, his expression open and vulnerable, his yearning naked.
Her voice caught. “My dear sir, so much stands between us and any possibility of happiness.”
“Yet where the possibility of happiness exists, do we not owe it to ourselves to try?”
Her breaths turned shallow. “I—my life is tidy and contained, sir. I don’t know whether anything will remain tidy and contained anymore, after we . . . try.”
He set his hand against her cheek. “Perhaps our lives will become more complicated. But that we will be together, does that not mean anything to you, chéri? Does that not make up for some difficulties here and there?”
Her skin scalded at his touch. She set her hand on his wrist. Beneath her fingertips, his pulse raced. Her heart, too, was racing. “What will happen to our friendship? Love can easily dissipate. Should our hearts founder, will we still be friends—or will we become strangers?”
For the first time since she had entered the room, he looked away from her. His hand left her face. Silence, their old companion, returned once again.
A strange melancholy settled over her. In playacting, had they been more truthful with each other than they had ever been in real life?
He turned toward the door. “That may be my wife.”
This, too, was part of the script. She mentally shook herself. They still had their difficult and dangerous task ahead; she could not afford any distractions.
He went to the door, walking without his usual animal grace, but with his shoulders hunched, his gait almost shuffling. He listened, glanced back at her, and said, “You stay here, my friend.”
That was her signal that it was indeed Mrs. Watson and the maharani outside. After he closed the door behind himself, she set her ear to the keyhole and could just make out the sound of Mrs. Watson giggling. “But why, Monsieur le garde, why should we go into a bedchamber? We are not doing anything that requires a bed, are we, mon choux?”
The maharani giggled, too, a rather shocking thing to hear. “Non, mon petit choux doux. And we like how you look at us, don’t we?” she said, now with a distinct Russian accent to her French.
“Please, Mesdames—”
The guard’s request was cut short. There was a brief scuffling. When it was silent in the corridor again, Charlotte opened the door a crack, then went to stand directly before the spy port.
A short while later, Lord Ingram and Lieutenant Atwood pulled the guard, already bound and gagged, into the room. Lieutenant Atwood pulled out a handkerchief, soaked it in chloroform, and secured it over the man’s nose and mouth.
Livia had asked them earlier whether they planned to use chloroform to remove the guards. All the gentlemen sighed sadly: Alas, it would take several minutes of holding a chloroform-drenched cloth over someone’s face for them to become unconscious. But they could use it after the guards were incapacitated, so that they didn’t wake up too soon to make trouble.
They stowed the man under the bed, where he wouldn’t be visible from the spy port. Lieutenant Atwood left, raising a finger to indicate that they had one minute. Lord Ingram went to stand near the door, closing it as if he’d just come in.
Only then did Charlotte leave the spot before the spy port. “Was it your wife?” she asked.
“No, just some other women.”
He took her hands. They did not say anything. The clock on the mantel ticked. When there were fifteen seconds left, she said, “I—I had better go.”
“Please don’t,” he said. Again he sounded as if he meant it.
She dropped her gaze. She found herself reluctant to continue with the script, but now she must. “I think it would be best if we kept things as they are.”
He dropped her hands, took a step back, and turned his face away. “I know why you think as you do, my dearest friend. But if you change your mind in the next hour or so, you’ll find me here.”
* * *
Charlotte needed a moment outside the door to collect herself. Then she strode toward the linen closet.
Mr. Marbleton had taken the guard’s place. His mask had been taken off; his jacket, which they’d had specially made in London, turned inside out to closely resemble the château’s livery. Mrs. Watson and the maharani had gone into the bedroom immediately to the other side of the linen closet, and Livia should be in the room farthest down the hall—that the company had kept others from coming into this corridor meant that they themselves must now be the ones to distract the watchers.
When Mr. Marbleton was certain no one else was in the corridor, he let Charlotte into the linen closet. Lieutenant Atwood, already inside, had found the mechanism that opened a secret door at the back of the linen closet.
“Watch out for steps,” Charlotte whispered.
The secret passage was located between floors. Lord Ingram had not come across any steps in the passage itself, so the change in elevation must happen somewhere between the linen closet and the passage.
Lieutenant Atwood went in alone. Sec
onds passed. There came the soft, slow grinding of stone on stone.
Light from the corridor seeped in from underneath the front door of the linen closet. But it penetrated only a few inches before dissipating into the shadows. Where Charlotte stood, she could barely see her own hand held in front of her eyes. Where Lieutenant Atwood had disappeared, the darkness was stygian, a thick impenetrability that seemed only to grow blacker as he opened the door to the secret passage where the cameras were.
The grinding sound stopped.
“You at the western end, anyone in your rooms?” said Lieutenant Atwood, sounding uncannily like Monsieur Plantier.
“Oui, monsieur,” came the reply. “Une dame.”
That would be Livia, sitting in a room at the far end of the corridor, nervously playing with the buttons on her gloves, as if she were waiting for someone else to show up.
“You in the middle?”
“Two women in the yellow room.”
“You at the eastern end, what about you?”
“Two men in the blue room earlier, but they left one after another just now. So I’ve no one.”
This was the configuration they intended. Artworks in the galleries or not, at least so far their plan had held.
“Then you come with me,” said Lieutenant Atwood. “We need more men below.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
More careful grinding of stone on stone. Footsteps in the dark. An almost noiseless scuffle. An interval during which Lieutenant Atwood must be tying up the unfortunate watcher. A soft grunt of exertion as he dragged the latter into the linen closet.
A strong odor of cigarette smoke clung to the unconscious man.
“You are very good at this,” Charlotte murmured.
“I’ve seen someone who can disarm multiple men at a distance while barely lifting her fingers—compared to that, I’m nothing.”
And you saw her in Chinese Turkestan?
She didn’t ask that, but only put her ear to the linen closet’s door.
Almost immediately someone spoke on the other side. “Why are you standing there?”
The tone was icy, the French a little stiff, but the voice was indisputably lovely. Lady Ingram.
“I’m here at Monsieur Plantier’s orders, Madame,” said Mr. Marbleton, in his capacity as the counterfeit guard.
“Step aside.”
“Alas, Madame, I can’t let anyone in unless Monsieur Plantier says so.”
Charlotte whispered in Lieutenant Atwood’s ear for him to move himself and the guard so that they wouldn’t be visible with the opening of the linen closet’s door. Then she slipped out, inclined her head at an astonished Mr. Marbleton, and said, “My lady, I was rather hoping to run into you. Shall we take a round?”
Lady Ingram stared at her in suspicious distaste. Charlotte smiled. Of course Lady Ingram would object to a man in a teal evening jacket and matching mask. She herself was in a deadening grey gown that absorbed light without giving anything back, and her mask was equally dull.
“You know me, my lady,” said Charlotte in her own voice. “A little promenade?”
Lady Ingram recoiled with shock. Her brow furrowed. But she eventually settled her hand on Charlotte’s arm.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
Charlotte walked her out of the corridor. “Long story. But you may be sure I didn’t come for you.”
Elsewhere on this floor, card rooms had been set up for the gentlemen and lounges for the ladies where they may rest on chaises or have seamstresses repair hems that had been damaged by vigorous dancing. As Charlotte and Lady Ingram moved away from the bedrooms, more guests milled about, chatting, some obviously flirting. A faint music floated in the air: In the ballroom below it was another energetic waltz.
Lady Ingram removed her hand from Charlotte’s arm. “Is my husband here?”
Charlotte raised a brow. In her exile, was Lady Ingram becoming somewhat fonder of the man about to divorce her? “Yes.”
Lady Ingram inhaled audibly. “Are you sleeping together?”
“Would he do that to you?” Charlotte retorted lightly.
Lady Ingram’s grimace was obvious, even with the mask covering half her face.
“But I didn’t come to speak of Lord Ingram, but of Moriarty,” continued Charlotte. “I take it you and he have reconciled?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are here at his château. Did he sacrifice de Lacy to win back your good favor?”
Lady Ingram smiled grimly. “De Lacy is dead. I emptied the syringe of absolute alcohol into him myself. But Moriarty had nothing to do with it. He has been deposed.”
Charlotte stopped in her tracks. “Deposed?”
“Madame Desrosiers is in charge of the organization now.” Lady Ingram almost sounded as if she was proud to know the woman.
Charlotte’s fingertips tingled. “Is she? Where is Moriarty then?”
Lady Ingram shrugged. “She never told me. Besides, he’s been deposed for months. So why does it matter anymore where he is?”
“It would matter if he were here,” said Charlotte, a chill slithering up her spine. “Have you not felt it? The château has been preparing for something.”
Lady Ingram had stopped when Charlotte had, but now she resumed walking. “Art thieves—they’ve been preparing for art thieves. There is an overabundance of them this year.”
Charlotte caught up with her. “I hope they have prepared for more than that. If Moriarty is held here at the château, then there will be an attempt to rescue him tonight.”
Everything made sense now. Moriarty still had loyalists, but they were at a disadvantage. Even before the coup, Madame Desrosiers must have made sure that the château was populated by her own most stalwart supporters, let alone afterward. She would have also made sure that he had no way of communicating with his own followers.
They, on the other hand, would have done their best to infiltrate the château. Charlotte would lay good money that the person caught escaping the night Lord Ingram and Mr. Marbleton first trespassed on the grounds was not Moriarty but an infiltrator who had given himself away by getting too close to Moriarty’s cell.
What was to have been his mission? To get the combination to the safe from Moriarty? Or the location of the safe? No, Moriarty would not have given away the location of the safe. That was his bargaining chip, both with Madame Desrosiers, if she suspected the existence of such a thing, and with his own rescuers: If they knew the location of the safe, who was to say they wouldn’t concentrate their efforts on liberating the safe, rather than him?
Now they were coming for him—both the true loyalists and the hired guns.
Did Madame Desrosiers and Monsieur Plantier know what they would be facing tonight?
“This place is hardly undefended,” said Lady Ingram, perhaps echoing the attitude of her hosts.
She was not wrong. Château Vaudrieu was braced for more than an onslaught of art thieves this night. It had to have been preparing, for a while, for trouble from Moriarty’s followers.
The reason the château had been shorthanded for the reception? A purge of its own roster, following the discovery of the infiltrator who had run out from the chapel but hadn’t made it over the fence.
The reason Livia, Mrs. Watson, Mr. Marbleton had been subject to inspection by men from the château while they were still at the staffing agency? To prevent Moriarty’s known followers from coming back inside.
In fact, Charlotte thought as they rounded a corner, if it weren’t so expensive to stage coups and defend against Moriarty’s followers, Madame Desrosiers and Monsieur Plantier might not have held the ball this year at all. But they needed the cash from the art sales and the future income generated by photographic evidence of fresh indiscretions. So they took a risk in carrying on as if nothing had changed
.
And in securing the château as best as they could, they had reason to be confident. Charlotte had seen firsthand the aplomb with which host and staff had handled the disruption on the night of the reception.
But perhaps, with that very competence, they had sown the seeds of their own downfall. Moriarty’s followers, knowing that they faced a wary and capable defense, had had time to revise their plan of attack.
Charlotte would not want to be on the receiving end of it.
She took a deep breath. “You are right that the château is defended. But defended doesn’t mean impregnable. I would recommend that you seek refuge tonight at the village inn. If all is well, you can return tomorrow.”
Lady Ingram looked insulted. “You think I feel so little loyalty to the woman who helped me avenge my sister that I would run at the first sign of trouble?”
Charlotte gave her a look. Lady Ingram had an odd sense of loyalty; still, she couldn’t say the woman didn’t have one. “If you wish to help Madame Desrosiers, please do. I only ask that you do not mention my name. Or Lord Ingram’s.”
“Of course not. I need him alive and well to look after my children. And I still owe you a debt for finding out what happened to my sister,” said Lady Ingram, sounding unhappy about both.
Considering that Charlotte’s investigations were also responsible for Lady Ingram’s exile, Charlotte would not have said Lady Ingram owed her anything. But she inclined her head. “Thank you, my lady. Good luck to you.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait. Why were you in that linen closet? Were you trying to take photographs of anyone at their indiscretions?”
Charlotte turned back around. “Were you?”
“I wanted to see what sort of indiscretions people get up to.” Lady Ingram laughed rather dryly. “It astonishes me that they would come to a ball and . . . do such things. All I want when I’m at a ball is to go home and be alone.”
“I was not taking anyone’s photographs,” said Charlotte, folding her hands primly before her.
Lady Ingram’s lips thinned. She turned around and walked away, perhaps understanding that she was better off not knowing anymore.
The Art of Theft Page 25
