Beauty Like the Night

by Joanna Bourne

  She’d known Robin for years, in a distant way. The ton was a small world or, more precisely, many small worlds. She and Robin didn’t move in the same circles. He was a golden lad, a sportsman, a noted whip, the darling of a certain segment of the sporting world. She moved among scholars, writers, and artists. Visited back and forth in the great, noble families of England and France. Had a large acquaintance among the military and spies of every nationality. Consorted with rogues and criminals on a regular basis. Their paths simply didn’t cross.

  Then, a few months ago, Robin had begun what looked like a single-minded pursuit of her. It would have been courtship in another man, but she’d sensed no real attraction on his part. No heat. No desire. She hadn’t taken him seriously. She’d laughed at him.

  But she hadn’t quite pushed him away, either. The winter had been a dark time for her. She’d lost a client—one of those rare innocent men—to jail fever. He was dead before she could get him to trial and free. His widow had blamed her, loudly and angrily. She’d blamed herself.

  Robin had been there, playful, frivolous, light of mind and light of spirit, a gentleman entirely separate from the gritty world of her work. He was exactly what she needed. For a few long, cold, winter weeks she let herself enjoy his foolishness. If she went to a scandalous play in his company, if she rode in his high-perch phaeton racing at dawn in Green Park, if she kissed his cheek when they won the race, it meant nothing because they were playing a game.

  That had ended abruptly when vicious stories began and she traced them back to Robin. How strange that she hadn’t seen the spite inside him in all the hours they’d spent together. She’d seldom been so wrong in her judgment of anyone.

  He was tightly furious now. “You shouldn’t have come here tonight. You’re making it worse. What did you do to that man?”

  She tilted her head and looked blank. He didn’t deserve more effort than that.

  “The waiter wasn’t drunk. I saw you trip him. I saw the gun.”

  Dozens of guests had seen that incident and been uncomprehending as sheep at a balloon ascension. Robin chose this night to see clearly.

  She said, “The poor man had a fit. Everybody’s saying that.”

  “Why was he hustled out of sight?”

  “You’d best ask him, I should think.”

  “I can’t. He’s gone.”

  Three carriages to load before her own rolled up. Several people looked at her curiously. Major Gridley was obviously wondering if she would like an inconspicuous rescue or a punch delivered to Robin’s guts. Gridley waited only for a signal to come over and provide one or the other. He was another man she’d worked with in Spain.

  She said, “I’m not interested in your problems with staff. Go away, Mr. Carlington.”

  Robin glared off into the night, stiff and silent, resentful, not looking at her directly. “I didn’t send that idiot Brandy to annoy you. That was his idea. Not mine.”

  “He had an idea. How nice for him.”

  “I apologize,” Robin said loudly, and then, more quietly. “There. You have it from me. I apologize. Does that make you feel better? I was angry and said things I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

  More lies from Robin, pointless ones at that. Now that she thought of it, everything he’d done in the last months had the flavor of lies to it.

  She knew the worst of his slanders. A pitilessly truthful account had been carried to her ears by both friends and the ton’s reliable pack of busybodies. Robin had laid his poison in snide and sniggering jokes that never quite claimed he’d had her in bed. Never stated it openly, but implied it in every sentence. It had been a calculated campaign. A cold one, strangely without anger. She might have forgiven anger.

  In the torchlight, his eyes were fixed on her. He licked his lips uneasily. Not a happy Robin Carlington. Not at all.

  Something to think about when she wasn’t working on something important.

  Papa’s carriage rolled up. Fletcher was on the box, hunched in a driving coat, being a driver, except more armed and dangerous. That was the Service seeing her home safely. Beside him on the box sat MacDonald in all his Scottish glory, arms folded over his chest, glowering and stubborn. There was just no point giving orders to MacDonald, was there?

  She said, “The horses are waiting,” and stepped past Robin.

  Almost, Robin reached to stop her. At the last second he remembered why that wasn’t a good idea. “We can’t leave it like this. Meet me in Green Park tomorrow. We’ll ride and talk this over.”

  “No.”

  He lowered his voice. “I know I said unforgivable things, Sévie. I make mistakes. But part of it’s your fault.” Robin’s smile became boyish and hopeful. “You’re a better person than I am. You can forgive me.”

  Robin Carlington was said to be the handsomest man of the ton. His fine, pale hair lay like a caress at his cheekbones. His features were almost uncannily perfect. He had the most mobile and tender mouth imaginable. Not that he was womanish. His body was smooth muscle on a strong frame, lean from driving his racing curricle and riding to the hounds.

  “One more chance,” he said. “That’s all I ask.”

  Odd that she felt nothing for him. Had she ever? She could look upon Robin and see his great beauty and be moved to nothing but annoyance. He was no Raoul Deverney to ensnare a woman with a dozen words and a raised eyebrow.

  “I could forgive you,” she said. “But I don’t think I will.” She shook out her skirts and swept past. She said the last words at a volume that would reach all the listening ears. “You were once amusing. You become tiresome.”

  She accepted a footman’s arm into the carriage and ignored Robin’s scowl. That, she thought, was that. Getting rid of Deverney would be considerably more problematic.

  • • •

  RAOUL propped a heavy chair under the doorknob. The library was his. An Englishman, finding the door locked, would go away. A Frenchman would peek through the keyhole and see nothing because Raoul had stuffed his handkerchief there. A Spaniard . . . But he was the only Spaniard or half-Spaniard here tonight, so he’d never know what a Spaniard would do.

  The English library. Why were these always gloomy, masculine, and stuffed with the dullest books in creation?

  He picked his way, both at ease and infinitely wary, across the room, barely making an impression on the carpet. Silent, because this was a secret business, after all. Confident, because this was his métier and his art. He was very, very skilled at it.

  It was good to be the Comodin again. The wild card. The thief. The jester. The pilferer of other men’s baubles. He saw more clearly, his hearing was keener, he was more alive when he was the Comodin. Everyone should have a second life to slip into.

  The safe was concealed behind a mediocre Italian painting. Safes were always concealed behind mediocre paintings in this country. The well-bred Englishman was the most predictable animal on the planet.

  Raoul found the catch and the painting swung away. Ah. His evening had been enjoyable on so many levels and was about to become even more so. Here was a Carron safe, made in Scotland thirty years ago and old-fashioned even then. It was a heavy, stupid turtle of a safe that would withstand about ten blows with a sledgehammer before the door popped loose. It opened—God help us—with a standard key that was probably hidden with incredible cunning in the top drawer of that desk over there.

  It would yield to the most common of lockpicks. Raoul extracted the one he needed from its place in his waistband and went to work.

  He didn’t dawdle. For the moment, the British Service was wholly concerned with returning their important politician to his home. Eventually they’d turn their attention from assassins to the suspicious foreigner in their midst. He would be wise to avoid meeting them when his pockets were full.

  The safe opened so easily it was almost unsporting. Banknote
s, legal papers, and similar trash filled the top. Jewelry took the shelf below, boxes and boxes of it.

  He spilled everything out on a convenient table. The Carlingtons had made a collection of his family’s goods. Here, a familiar piece. There, another. Six . . . Seven . . . He sorted out a dozen Deverney heirlooms, each with a centuries-long history in his bloodline. Many of them were famous.

  He held a bracelet up into the lamplight. The Graciela bracelet, brought into the family by his several-times great-grandmother, an Andalusian princess. Emeralds set in yellow gold glowed back at him, the artistry of the Renaissance, the passion of Andalusia. The emeralds had come as spoil from Montezuma. They’d been sacked in cities all over Europe. They were used to being stolen.

  It had decorated Lady Carlington’s bony wrist. A London friend recognized it and sent him word. He’d added Carlington to his list of those who held stolen Deverney possessions. It was only a matter of time before he dropped by to collect them.

  The Graciela bracelet went into the pouch that hung around his neck under his shirt. You’d think he’d have learned not to carry the most important pieces there, but he never had.

  That was the last of his family’s property. Fourteen pieces. These and a dozen others had been on him when he was captured by the British in Béjar. It looked like Colonel Carlington had helped himself to the spoils of war while he was in Spain.

  Normally the Comodin would tumble quickly through the rest of the baubles and pick a dozen that caught his fancy. He never helped himself only to Deverney pieces. He didn’t want the authorities connecting the Comodin to the Deverneys.

  Tonight he scooped up the other trinkets and shoved them back on the shelf in the safe. He’d carry away only Deverney jewels. Colonel Carlington, hypocrite and dealer in looted goods, would know what these particular pieces had in common. He’d be afraid tomorrow. He’d quake in his boots, waiting for his old, dirty secret to be pulled into the light.

  Softly, he closed the door of the safe and centered the picture back in place. They’d discover the theft when they went to put those vulgar Carlington diamonds away.

  He’d left himself time to poke about the library, which he did just on general principle. He discovered three more places of clever concealment. Lord, but the British were fond of their globes that opened and clocks with false backs and secret panels in the walls. They had such admiration for the scheming Medici but no trace of their cunning.

  He uncovered hidden decanters of brandy, letters of timeless fidelity addressed by the baron to a woman not his wife, and an impressive collection of pornography being shy behind a false front on the bottom shelf.

  But enough amusement. Time to get on with the evening. He untucked his shirt, unwrapped the rope from around his chest, secured one end to the window frame, and let the rest dangle down the wall outside. The thief departed that way, obviously. The Comte Deverney would walk out the front door under the gaze of the many guards and guests.

  He grazed his fingers along the picture frame as he left, saying a fond goodbye to another safe he’d burgled. It pleased him to rob the Carlingtons while British Service myrmidons swarmed about. How embarrassing for the Service.

  Pornography, illicit love affairs, and war booty hid behind the façade of Carlington House. Like anyone who rummaged through his fellow man’s possessions on a regular basis, he found the human race infinitely ridiculous. It was a pity Séverine couldn’t be here to appreciate the humor with him.

  Thirteen

  PILAR Deverney y Gavarre leaned against a damp wall and stood in darkness, patient as the bricks behind her. She knew how to wait.

  Kepple Street was most perfectly silent. It was so late at night there were few carriages, even out on Gower Street. This was the hour the men who’d killed Mamá would come back to search the appartement. Now, when no one was awake. When there was no one to see.

  She watched here most nights for an hour or two. They had to return, those evil men. They hadn’t found what they wanted.

  This stairwell, across the street from what had once been her home, was chillier than the air up on the street and it smelled of mold, but it was a fine hidden place. Even if someone passed and noticed her, no one, not even neighbors who’d known her for years, would recognize her in these clothes.

  When she was young she’d hidden here, watching till Mamá’s guests left. She’d been cold, hungry, and afraid in this familiar stairwell in the dark between streetlights. In those days she’d had nowhere else to go. This damp and chill was better than sitting inside on the stairs of the house, taking the chance one of Mamá’s men would come searching for her. Even when she was a child, nine or ten, some of them had looked at her in a way that made her flesh creep.

  Tonight she was no longer a helpless child. Tonight she followed a path of duty and great purpose. She was embarked upon revenge.

  And there was another difference from the past. Tonight when she left this vigil there was a certainty of warmth waiting for her, a safe place to sleep, and a door that locked behind her when she crawled onto her mat. There’d be a plate of food left on the attic steps because no one who worked for Miss went to bed hungry. MacDonald cooked on the fire in the hearth in his room, French and Spanish and Scottish food. He was uncannily deft with those big, scarred, rough hands.

  “I’ll tell you what is important in this life, me lad,” MacDonald said one time when they were eating dinner together and talking. “A full belly. If you can keep your master—or in this case your mistress—well fed, she will keep you alive no matter what trouble she leads you into.” MacDonald had pulled the bread apart and given her half of it. “De Cabrillacs keep you alive, usually, which is more than most people do. And it’s never dull.”

  The flat bread they shared was something MacDonald made himself, since he liked it and no bakery in its right mind would try to sell it in London. Havercake, MacDonald called it. Not so bad once you got used to it.

  The Scot was right about this being an interesting life, she supposed, and a well-fed one and fairly warm. Tonight she wore a good thick wool jacket and sturdy shoes because no one in Miss’s service went to work cold, even in the damp of late night, lurking in a cellar stairway.

  She’d been cold to her bones the day Mamá died. She’d walked endlessly in freezing wind with nowhere to go. She had been so alone and so frightened.

  The murderers had left the parlor and come down the hall toward her bedroom. She’d escaped through the window without her cloak, with only the money in her pockets and an ugly amulet. Mamá had hidden that among her daughter’s shifts and stockings where no one would think of looking.

  For reasons she did not understand the amulet was important. It had been Mamá’s death. Perhaps it would be her own as well. She wore it around her neck now and it was heavy with the treason and blackmail. It did not look beautiful or valuable enough to cause death but, because she wore it, murderers were looking for her.

  Two men had come to talk to Mamá in the parlor that day. One was a gentleman. A rich and powerful man from the way Mamá had answered him, very afraid. He had been contemptuous of her, as men were of women like Mamá. Afterward, he was unconcerned that he had killed her. On that horrible day, walking in the shuddering, knife-edged cold, she had known there was no one to help her. Her father’s man of business—Deverney’s man of business—inspired no trust. Mamá had told her he was not honest in his dealings and also a fool. Any magistrate she went to would think she was a hysterical child. She would be patted on the head and sent where anyone could find her and kill her for the amulet. If she went to a friend, she put them in danger. No one she knew could stand against men so powerful they could do murder and walk away laughing.

  That first night she’d slept in the cellar of her school. There was an unlocked window all the girls knew about. The next day she’d used the money in her pocket to buy boys’ clothing, and she’d set off to
find safety and revenge.

  The men who’d tormented Mamá had asked again and again if de Cabrillac was part of the blackmail. Did de Cabrillac know about the amulet? Where was it? What had Mamá told de Cabrillac? There was that in the gentleman’s voice that said he was afraid of the name de Cabrillac.

  Now, three months later, she understood why a man might be afraid of Miss Séverine.

  Three months ago, Séverine de Cabrillac had not been hard to find. She’d seemed honest, but one does not trust a woman merely because murderers mention her name. One does not trust her with great secrets. But she’d settled into Miss’s household and waited for her father to come for her and felt safe. If the killers showed up to bully and beat Miss with those same questions they’d asked Mamá, Miss would dispose of them neatly.

  Her father would come from France. He’d find the message she’d left and walk into Miss Sévie’s and know her at once, in boy’s clothing. She would give him the information she’d collected and leave it all in his hands.

  Then Deverney did arrive and he was nothing like she’d imagined. He did not give a fig for Mamá. He resented having a bastard thrust upon him. He spoke cynically about providing for his unwelcome responsibility. A number of childish dreams had died very quickly. She wished he hadn’t come to England at all.

  She would go to one of Mamá’s men and sell herself—she knew exactly what that meant—before she would take the charity of Comte Deverney. She would avenge Mamá herself. When that was done, she would go to Spain and find her mother’s people. She’d like them better than Deverney she was fairly sure.

  A coach rolled down Kepple Street, the lamps lighting the way ahead. It didn’t slow or stop or show interest in any of the houses. If they chanced to see her, they paid no attention to a bedraggled figure, grimy and ragged. The streets were full of her kind. Her camouflage was perfect.

  She huddled into herself and rubbed her hands along her upper arms. Mamá would approve of all that I have done. Mamá would—