Beauty Like the Night

by Joanna Bourne

  Papa said, “Will he come as guest or servant?”

  “Guest,” Fletcher said at once. “Somebody who can get close to Wellington. It’s easy to forge an invitation.”

  “Servant,” Pax said. “Invisible. They can go anywhere. He’ll walk through the kitchen door and up the stairs. The waiters hired for the night don’t know each other. A man like O’Grady can’t pass as a guest.”

  From Fletcher, “For fifteen minutes he can. He’s nondescript, apparently. Ordinary. I hear that again and again.”

  Fletcher and Pax argued amiably back and forth. She’d heard these exchanges around the dinner table all her life.

  “He has to carry a gun or knife,” Pax said. “Guests don’t go banging about the ballroom with concealed armament. Servants can cart things around.”

  Fletcher said, “Doesn’t have to be big for a single use and discard. Single-shot gun in a cane. A sword stick. A spring-loaded spike. Bottle of acid. Grenade.”

  Hawker looked skeptical. “You try sneaking around with a grenade in your pocket.”

  “It’s possible. I’ve made one this big.” Fletcher showed with his hands. “Thirty-second fuse and it’ll blow a nice hole in anything you please. Not a grenade, technically, but—”

  “Will this man work alone?” Papa asked.

  Silence while they all thought about that.

  “It’s hard enough to smuggle one stranger into the house and close to Wellington.” Pax was thinking out loud.

  She could contribute. “O’Grady’s always worked alone in the past. One of the few things my friends in Bristol know about him.”

  “Whoever hired O’Grady can hire another man as well. We could have two of them coming at Wellington the same night, not working together.” Papa was matter-of-fact as always. He looked like he wanted to be fiddling with his pipe.

  “Or more,” Hawker said.

  “Oh happy day,” Papa murmured.

  Hawker shrugged. “Two men won’t be a problem. Wellington’s used to whole armies after him.”

  Seven

  RAOUL Deverney dressed for work. Half-naked, standing in front of the mirror, he took up braided silk rope, fine and thin, fantastically strong, and wrapped it around and around him from chest to waist. A surprising length of rope could fit round a man this way. Enough to assist in escape from an upper window or tie up an inconvenient guard. Useful stuff, rope.

  He pulled his shirt over his head, tucked it in. Shrugged into his waistcoat and inspected himself in the mirror. Nothing showed.

  He considered slipping a knife into the side of his waistcoat where there was a pocket sewed in for just that purpose. He decided against it. Walking around armed so often led to pointless confrontation. Better to sneak warily through the dark and avoid all chance of violence.

  He left the top button of his waistcoat undone, as was the fashion among a certain set of young Whigs these days. The Tories who saw him arrive with the French delegation would note this and waste time speculating about a turn in French policy. Behind the dancing and fancy food, at bottom, this was a political evening.

  He tied the simplest possible knot in his cravat. That might also be taken as political comment. In practice, a simple knot would hide completely beneath a turned-up jacket collar. He’d become invisible in the dark. He did some of his best work in the dark.

  Robin. What grown man still calls himself by a boy’s nickname? Who thinks of himself as “Robin” at thirty-five?

  A fashionable English wastrel, obviously.

  The lockpicks nestled into their pouches at the back of his trouser waistband. He carried both sets tonight. The large ones for getting through ordinary doors were on his left side. The more delicate picks for making entry to strongboxes were on the right. He slipped an ornate gold-encircled quizzing glass into his waistcoat watch pocket. How did that man-boy lure a woman like Séverine de Cabrillac into indiscretion? Did he? Is it even true?

  He put on his jacket, twitching the shirtsleeves neat underneath. He wore English tailoring tonight since he intended to blend in among unimaginatively dressed Englishmen. His coat and trousers were sober black. His waistcoat, a gray dark enough to pass for black in poor light. His jacket sleeves were long enough to hide the white flash of his shirt cuffs. At one time, in Paris, during the Revolution, that would have been a declaration of Jacobin leanings. Tonight, it was a wholly practical choice, making it easy to hide in the dark. Soon he’d see Séverine in a ball dress, working for the family spy business. A nice change from the depressing outfit she chose to work in.

  She wasn’t impossible to follow. Just difficult. William Doyle’s servants were impervious to bribery. The old man who swept out the livery stable, on the other hand, would gossip all day for the price of a glass of gin. William Doyle went to the Carlington ball tonight, the old man said. He’d take the big family coach.

  That meant Séverine was going too. The British Service, Séverine, and the Carlingtons’ safe. How could he resist?

  Pilar was gone as if she’d vanished in a puff of smoke. The British Service would be good at supplying smoke.

  The tools of his trade found their accustomed home in pockets sewed in the inside of his coat. An ivory-handled folding razor. A useful tool. It was a weapon at need, he supposed. He also carried a ball of string, a small file that glittered with diamond dust, a selection of iron hooks, and a handkerchief. That left many pockets empty. With luck, he’d fill them shortly after midnight.

  He was looking forward to this robbery at the Carlingtons. He’d had it on his list for a few years. Pleasant to think he’d rob the place when the British were thick underfoot. He liked it when events converged this way.

  Would a woman of Séverine de Cabrillac’s caliber really be seduced by Carlington’s looks? She seems too wise.

  We’re all fools for beauty.

  For one moment in her office this morning she’d looked at him and he’d seen the beginnings of passion . . . before she denied it to herself and wiped it away.

  She’d wanted him for that one small moment. Had she looked at Robin Carlington that way?

  He selected an emerald signet ring from the box on the dresser and studied himself one last time in the mirror. The overall effect was restrained good taste and deliberate, expensive elegance. Nothing could be further from the Spanish mule driver Séverine de Cabrillac had met ten years ago in a dusty army camp in Spain.

  What sort of man would say those things about a de Cabrillac? Who would insult her and her powerful family, bragging that he’d had her?

  Eight

  LIKE dirt and cold, false names were part of this new world of being a servant boy. Peter was a good name. It sounded innocent and reliable. Peter the rock upon which I build. Peter with the keys of the kingdom. Peter Piper. Peter run fetch us a pitcher of ale here’s-a-shilling-keep-the-change Peter.

  A new name for a new life.

  It was typical of this new life that it meant standing in the cold, satisfying curiosity in the only way possible, since nobody explained anything to the errand boy.

  Carriages pulled up in front of Carlington House and spilled out men and women in beautiful clothes. Every window blazed with light. Upstairs they’d pulled the curtains back to show the ballroom. When the dancing started there’d be a whirl of black evening jackets, scarlet uniforms, and bright, fine dresses. For a few hours ordinary Londoners could watch their betters at play.

  Miss Séverine arrived early, smiling pleasantly, pretending to be somebody who’d never dream of walking dangerous streets and being dangerous herself. The man beside her would be her father, William Doyle of the British Service. That was a new face, even after three months with Miss Séverine. He never came to Miss Sévie’s offices. MacDonald said he was properly respectful of Miss Sévie’s work and didn’t intrude. William Doyle blinked out sleepily over the crowd that had gathered on t
he pavement and took his time getting out of the coach. Miss Séverine stepped down after him, one hand on his shoulder, the other picking up the hem of her cloak so it wouldn’t get dirty.

  She wore delicate, expensive clothes, like the fine lady she was. The sort of dresses that never came to the office in Turnwheel Lane. Her cloak was black velvet with a lining the same red silk as the dress. Blood-color red. It suited her. Her necklace of rubies glowed in the torchlight when she moved.

  Her father offered his arm, being protective, as if she didn’t hop up and down from hackneys all day long, spry as a sparrow. They stood on the pavement while Miss shook out her skirt and he straightened the knot in his cravat and they ran eyes over the populace the footmen were keeping back. And they watched the other guests preening themselves in front of an audience, making ready to go inside.

  Times like this, those two showed what they were. Look once and you’d see father and daughter, harmless and fashionable. Look more carefully and you could see they were spying for all they were worth.

  Miss was here on British Service business. She wouldn’t go near the Carlingtons otherwise, not after the way Robin Carlington had talked about her. MacDonald had spent the afternoon muttering about “that limp rag of muck” and saying, “I don’t like her going into that lickspittle’s house without me.” MacDonald had a colorful way of talking. MacDonald didn’t like Miss doing work for the British Service at any time and told her so when he was feeling particularly grumpy. The Service, he pointed out, was full of family complications he couldn’t even begin to list and why didn’t she just hit herself over the head with a shovel if she wanted to be annoyed about something.

  Maybe tonight they’d finish this Service business—something to do with Wellington apparently—and Miss would get back to her proper work. The British Service could meddle in French politics and decide the fate of Turkey and China. Miss Sévie could solve London crimes, starting with one woman dying in her parlor in Kepple Street.

  Two pretty young ladies walked arm in arm past the admiring crowd and up the steps. Miss Séverine and her father followed, finding something to chat about as they went. They showed an invitation at the door and gave a last glance up and down the street before they went inside.

  Neither of them would notice a drab coat and cap out in the dark, sheltering behind this plump grocer and his wife. There were advantages to being small and ordinary.

  Inside, musicians began tuning instruments. A long steady note from the violin slid down to the street, clear and bright. The populace quieted, waiting.

  Music was one more thing left behind with the old life, along with comfort and a name. There was plenty to do elsewhere tonight, but against the temptation of violins, flutes, and cello, temptation won.

  Music began. Haydn. The shop assistants and draper’s clerks stayed, shoulder to shoulder with the grocer and his wife. A pair of ragged children looked up with wide eyes and gaping mouths. An old woman rocked back and forth in time with the music. Everyone out on the street listened in silence or spoke only in a whisper. The clamor and clatter came from guests arriving.

  A thin, artistic-looking fellow showed up and was admitted. That was one of the Service agents who came in twos and threes to sit in Miss Séverine’s office, laugh, and talk about cases. He made sketches and drank red wine and talked in a soft voice. He had the sharpest eyes of them all. He was the only one who made her worried he’d see through her disguise.

  They’d opened the windows a little. Laughter and talk spilled out, warm sounds on a night that was damp and chilly for everybody on the street, even packed together the way they were, sharing warmth. Monsieur Deverney arrived, hidden in the middle of a dozen loud, cheerful Frenchmen, at ease among them, just as elegant, equally highborn and expensive. To all appearances, equally French. He entered Carlington House without challenge, buffered by companions on every side, them showing their invitations and making nothing of Deverney not having one. The footman at the door waved the whole group in together.

  So Deverney was following Miss Séverine. That was good. He was a client. He’d keep her attention on Kepple Street.

  “He knew where to find her.” MacDonald’s voice came from behind, inches away. “I’ll start asking questions about how he does that.” MacDonald had a habit of walking around the office, not making any noise at all. Now he was doing it on the street. It was annoying. He came forward till they were standing side by side. “He’s interested in her. A wolf chasing after a fox.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I don’t like it.” MacDonald was wearing a kilt. In this weather. He should have been cold, but he probably wasn’t, out of sheer stubbornness. No reason on earth MacDonald should run around London wearing a kilt. It wasn’t as if he’d grown up roaming free as a deer in the highland mists. He’d probably never set foot in Scotland. “He wants something.”

  “He has a dead wife. He might be looking for justice. Who knows?”

  The grocer and his wife were giving them sidelong glances. MacDonald noticed too. “This way,” he pushed through the onlookers to a place at the curb. He was constructed entirely of gristle and elbows and nobody in their right mind was going to dispute with him over any square yard of pavement.

  Then he stood glaring at Carlington House as if it were a stronghold of the enemy. As it was, in a way. After he’d brooded sufficiently he said, “She doesn’t want me in there.”

  “I have no explanation for that.”

  “None of your lip, boy.”

  MacDonald had enlivened one of the dinners they shared on the stair to the attic by explaining the superiority of kilt over trousers in blunt anatomical terms. It turned out kilts were also good for concealing weapons, up to and including pistols. MacDonald looked like a man carrying a pistol.

  “It’s the kilt.”

  “They’d notice me,” MacDonald said loftily, “whatever I wore.”

  “Sounds likely.” Two paces behind Miss Sévie he looked almost natural. On his own, stalking the perimeter of a ballroom, he’d be a little startling, frankly.

  “They wouldn’t see you,” MacDonald went on. Musing. Just musing.

  “They would. Then they’d beat me for sneaking in to steal and toss my limp and battered body into the road. I have some experience in this field.”

  “The Service agents are watching whatever damn operation they’re running. None of them is taking care of Miss Séverine.” MacDonald’s blue eyes had become quietly ruthless. “You’re not much but you’re better than nothing. If anyone asks, you’re carrying a message. Messenger boys go anywhere.”

  “Maybe they go back home and get some sleep.”

  “I think not.”

  MacDonald turned out to be right, as he usually was. “Go,” he said, and she did.

  She couldn’t imagine what she was supposed to do if someone actually did attack Miss Séverine. MacDonald seemed to think she’d rise to the occasion.

  Peter the errand boy with no last name, who was also Pilar Deverney, bastard daughter of a murdered woman, fugitive, not the daughter—not any relation—to Raoul Deverney, took himself around to the back of Carlington House and into the kitchen, trying to look as if she were carrying a particularly significant message.

  She was just the plaything of Fate, wasn’t she? And why the Scots didn’t rule all of Europe, she couldn’t imagine, if MacDonald was a fair example of the breed.

  • • •

  “I’D rather kick Carlington’s arse than shake his hand.” Calmly stated, but when Papa said, “kick his arse,” he meant breaking bones and knocking out teeth.

  Papa was the most even-tempered of men. He made few threats. It warmed her heart, this evidence of fatherly affection.

  They strolled across the grand foyer of Carlington House, beautifully dressed men and women of the ton on every side. Marble tile and the great curved staircase echoed
dozens of deep voices from men and the higher laughter of the women. Nobody would overhear Papa and no harm if they did. He sounded like any outraged father whose daughter was the subject of gossip. One had to have specialized knowledge to interpret what he meant.

  People looked at him, saw a great placid bull of a man, and assumed he was stupid and slow. They were quite wrong.

  Papa said, “I wish you didn’t have to talk to that worm. I’m using you because I need you here. This is an apology.” He frowned at the innocent marble railing of the staircase as they went up.

  She shrugged. “Il ne vaut que la puce de la puce.” He’s less than the flea of a flea. Papa grinned.

  Past Papa’s bulk she saw harmless fashionables, ambitious young politicians, the old families of the kingdom being arrogant, and the recently rich minding their manners. Hard to believe a professional murderer could be hidden among them.

  She said, “If we all avoided our former flirts, the ballrooms of London would be empty.”

  “Can’t have that,” Papa muttered, meaning exactly the opposite.

  They came to the top of the stairs and the wide door to the ballroom and joined the receiving line.

  Sir John Carlington, baron, was noncommittal, as if he didn’t quite remember ever meeting her before. Lady Carlington was diamonds and an unpleasant smirk. Their gloved hands met for three seconds.

  Sir John turned to become affable to Papa, who controlled six seats in the Commons and would someday vote in the House of Lords. It was time for her to offer her hand to Colonel Carlington. He was Robin’s uncle and, like Robin, another spare relative living under the baron’s roof. The colonel was a lieutenant colonel, strictly speaking, and even that by the bare skin of his teeth. She didn’t remember ever meeting him in Spain. She’d been busy with Military Intelligence, the British Peninsular Army had been huge, and Carlington would have been infinitely unmemorable as a captain and quartermaster.