Beauty Like the Night

by Joanna Bourne

  On one side and the other Papa and Hawker exchanged looks.

  “Neither do I,” Papa said.

  They’d all reached the same conclusion. She’d be the one to say it. “The attack on O’Grady was arranged before he walked into Carlington House. Whoever’s behind this meant for him to die.”

  Papa said, “Somebody’s thorough.”

  “And stone cold,” she agreed.

  Twenty-eight

  PILAR Deverney y Gavarre had become competent, if not expert, in the art of following someone around London. Her employer had never ordered her into outright danger, exactly, but Miss Séverine had a pliable view of what was dangerous. She also assumed anyone who worked for her would have or acquire certain questionable skills. It seemed spiritless to do otherwise.

  This afternoon, she spied upon Miss Séverine with her new skills. The irony of this situation did not escape her. She also followed Monsieur Deverney, the man who was not her father and wanted no part of her. There was more satisfaction in that.

  She wore the worst of her boy’s clothing, Peter’s clothing, which put her a hair’s breadth from ragged. It made her just another among the swarms of street urchins of London. She’d clapped a new and concealing cap on her head and she kept some distance between herself and the objects of her interest. So far, she hadn’t been noticed.

  She knew Miss Séverine’s plans for today, up to the doorstep of the Sleeping Hound. After that, anything might happen. She loitered about Hyatt Street, keeping an eye on the tavern and waiting to see what came next. To conceal her presence, she played tuppence brag with a pair of well-dressed schoolboys who used the marked cards widely sold in stationery shops. They must have thought themselves very clever. She amused herself taking their pocket money. Who could grow up Mamá’s daughter and not be skilled at cheating?

  She was not the only one watching Miss Séverine this fine afternoon. A changing crew of street children did that duty, three or four of them in place at any time. They were rather better at the work than she was. They belonged to Lazarus, King Thief of London. The British Service and Lazarus usually kept a politic distance from one another, but they did a great deal of watching back and forth.

  Time passed. Another lot of watchers replaced the current street rats and began lounging about the place. A messenger entered the tavern and could be seen approaching Miss Séverine’s table and talking to her. When Miss came out a few minutes later she walked away with brisk, annoyed steps. She and Deverney then had a less-than-cordial exchange, one that left anyone who spied upon them wanting to turn invisible and get closer. They seemed to be saying interesting things to each other.

  They walked off, more or less together, headed north, not speaking to each other and not acting affable. Probably one or the other of them would end up doing something intriguing.

  That left her with a dilemma of sorts. Hyatt Street wasn’t a place she could hide in the bustle and follow them discreetly. It was, in fact, an excellent place for stropping off unwanted interest, like her own. A good reason to conduct business at the Sleeping Hound.

  She crouched with her head down over the cards till Miss Séverine was some way off. Then she scooped up her winnings and bid farewell to the budding card sharps—she’d had more skill at palming cards when she was eight—and nipped off in subtle and indirect pursuit. She knew the streets here. Knew most of London, in daylight and in darkness. She’d been five or six when Mamá started turning her out of doors while she entertained men. Mamá had neither known nor cared that her daughter was out in any weather at any time of the day or night, walking aimlessly in streets where she could have been attacked to steal the shoes from her feet.

  That was another legacy of her mother, a knowledge of the streets and a certain toughness. Both were useful now that she was Peter. Life with Miss Séverine was filling the gaps in her education at a great rate.

  As soon as Miss Séverine and Deverney disappeared from sight it was time for her to go and be clever. She pulled her hat down firmly, held her big, flappy coat tight, and ran. She took Tacker Lane away from Hyatt, slipping in and out between women on their kitchen errands and men gossiping in tight groups. A left and another left. She sprinted full out down an alley and she was on Hyatt again, panting.

  She was ahead of Miss Séverine and Deverney, in time to see them turn in to a little mews. It was a dead end. What the devil did they want down there?

  She picked a vantage point in an untidy innyard and settled down to loiter with no visible purpose. Nobody’d be surprised if a servant boy was left to cool his heels here. So long as she didn’t cadge tips that belonged to the inn servants, no one would bother her.

  She sat down on her heels by some stacked trunks and took an apple out of her shirt, the one she’d picked up earlier from a barrow. Stolen from a barrow, to be frank about it. Looking at the apple, it struck her that Miss Séverine wouldn’t like her stealing. She got struck by all sorts of new ideas working for Séverine de Cabrillac.

  She polished the small, red and brown, wizened apple on the sleeve of her coat, thinking about theft. She liked stealing and did it fairly well, just for the fun of it. An undersized, deft, innocent-looking child made a good thief.

  She bit into the apple and found it hard and sweet. She’d been hungry when she was small. The maids didn’t stay long. Mamá would take opium and forget she even had a child. Or she’d go away for days and leave no money. She cheated at cards and blackmailed young idiots for their indiscretions and took money from the men who shared her bed. Mamá was no sterling example of honesty. Pilar followed in her footsteps.

  A coach pulled into the innyard and she was treated to the excitement of a country parson unloading an extensive collection of baggage. Hyatt Street remained quiet. No one entered the mews and no one came out. She sat and practiced patience, which was one of the virtues she was cultivating. If her father and Miss Séverine parted ways when they came out she’d have to pick which one to follow—

  Not my father. He is not my father. Mamá had lied about that, as she lied so easily about everything. Liar, blackmailer, thief, traitor, and whore . . . her mother.

  The stolen fruit had stopped tasting sweet. She tossed the apple into the street and sat back on her haunches and waited. She wondered what Raoul Deverney thought about stealing. He probably disapproved of it.

  In the fullness of time Miss Séverine came stalking out alone into Hyatt Street, looking unhappy and angry. She headed toward the Thames, walking fast.

  Deverney followed a minute later. He is nothing to me. He watched after Miss Séverine till she turned the corner. He didn’t look happy, either.

  It was sexual desire, of course, that made them so unhappy. The sort of thing Mamá sold so profitably. It seemed to her a stupid thing to engage in. She would not be so stupid herself, when she was older.

  Miss Sévie was probably headed for the office. Deverney would be the interesting one to follow. She pulled her cap low to hide her face and followed him, keeping just in sight. When he got into a hackney, she tucked the amulet securely between her breasts and ran down the street behind the coach, keeping up. This wasn’t a problem. In London, in the afternoon, the traffic of the town moved slowly, and she was used to running long distances. She was dressed for it.

  Twenty-nine

  FOUR hours later, after a chat with his banker and a wine dealer, Raoul Deverney stepped from the hackney a hundred yards from Covent Garden. He’d walk the rest of the way. A wise man approached the sort of rendezvous he’d arranged with deliberation and decorum. This wasn’t his first meeting with dangerous men.

  Covent Garden was a microcosm of London—busy, vulgar, talkative, and just a little brutal. It got dark early this time of year. The façades of the theaters were lit by tens and dozens of lanterns. They’d begin the night’s performance in an hour. The market stalls lined up across the vast square had their lanterns l
it too. Some of them did their briskest business after sunset.

  He made his way past knots of strolling fashionables, nodded to flower girls and pasty vendors, touched his hat to the pretty whores, and searched for the outer ring of Lazarus’s guards.

  If he were walking beside Séverine he’d have coaxed comments out of her about these people. She’d see more than he did, know more than he knew, pick a hundred significances out of this ebb and flow of chaos. Just strolling through, she’d have made the colors brighter and every detail more precise.

  It wouldn’t be easy to talk his way back into her good graces. He’d offer his report on this meeting—assuming he survived it—and get her opinion of Lazarus. That would be somebody else she’d be well acquainted with.

  Lazarus, King of Thieves, ruled the pickpockets, beggars, hired killers, prostitutes, and pimps of this city. A succession of men called Lazarus had performed that office for three centuries. Probably the Celtic village here before the Romans founded Londinium had hosted some skin-clad predecessor. The current Lazarus was thirty years in his office. He was ruthless, brilliant, and one of the most powerful men in London.

  Most of the men and women who dealt with Lazarus never met him face-to-face. His lieutenants conducted the lion’s share of his everyday business with a brisk and brutal efficiency. They were sufficiently intimidating for most people. Raoul trafficked with lieutenants after his London burglaries, which suited him just fine. Tonight, he’d talk to Lazarus directly.

  He crossed the south corner of Covent Garden. A selection of rogues and villains assessed him as he passed before they moved on to easier prey. Rationally he knew London was no more dangerous than Paris or Vienna, but its hazards were less well known. Habit is everything. Being attacked in the alleys of Faubourg St. Antoine would have the comfort of familiarity.

  Twenty feet ahead a man leaned against the bricks, playing with a watch fob that hung in his waistcoat pocket and studying everyone who passed. He saw Raoul. A gesture from him and a little girl selling flowers scampered off in the direction of the Cobbler’s Last.

  He didn’t like being recognized by King Thief’s men. The cracks in his anonymity had widened since his last visit to London. Even if he didn’t get killed, it might be time to retire from London theft.

  He crossed the road and pushed open the door of the Cobbler’s Last. The tavern was new to him, but its cousins stood on back streets in every city in Europe. This one smelled better than some.

  He stopped on the threshold and considered the inhabitants of the haze of smoke. Twenty people lazed about the taproom, eating, drinking, smoking, talking. One of Lazarus’s senior lieutenants sat at the table next to the fire in the warmest place in the room, looking so permanent he might have sat with his back to that hearth since Tudor times, collecting the tax Lazarus demanded of the thieves of town and river.

  The man called himself Mr. Monday. He was tall, thin, polite, precise, and knowledgeable about jewels. They’d dealt amicably in the past. This evening Monday looked uncharacteristically annoyed. He glanced up, dismissed the barmaid who was giving her left breast a little rest on his shoulder, and beckoned.

  Raoul had dealt stolen property in many cities. London’s criminal establishment was less dangerous than some. Here, the lesser hyenas of the pack did not claw and bite with impunity. Customs were respected. Bargains were kept. Theft was very much a business in this town.

  It was easy to know who belonged to Lazarus. Mark the ones whose eyes followed him as he walked through the taproom. Those who ignored him were sheep. The men who watched him—and that old woman sitting alone with her half-empty glass—were the wolves of this world.

  The wolves were intrigued. They knew he’d asked for a meeting with Lazarus and were hoping for a little violence.

  They kept their eyes away from Monday, which was no surprise. As Raoul passed he saw there was another corner of this tavern they avoided looking at.

  In the back a man sat alone, easy and relaxed on a bench, half hidden in shadow. He was a sturdy, respectable-looking man, past middle age, dressed in the rough worsted of a tradesman. Perfectly ordinary. He could have been anyone. Tonight, in this place, he could only be one man.

  Monday said, “Verney.” The chopping of his name wasn’t ignorance on his part, but a deliberate de-aristocrating. Verney, not de Verney. “Take a seat.” Monday pushed one of the chairs with his booted foot.

  “Monday.” He didn’t sit. He didn’t like sitting with empty space behind him and he didn’t take orders from underlings like Monday, no matter how powerful they were. Some of the men in this room would see the message he was sending. One in particular.

  Monday said, “You owe the pence, apparently.”

  “From last night. I’ll pay it to Lazarus.”

  “That’s not your decision.” Monday had to look up to glare. He obviously didn’t like it. “If you have a request, pass it through me.”

  Demanding an audience with Lazarus, demanding anything from Lazarus, was the act of a man weary of life. In the decade or so he’d been dealing with the London gang he’d been pleased enough to avoid meeting King Thief.

  “I’ll see Lazarus.” What he had to say didn’t get said in front of this many ears. What he wanted to buy, Monday couldn’t sell.

  Monday said, “We’ve dealt together a long time, you and I. You’ve been an honest man and I appreciate that. You know how things are done here. I suggest you change your mind.”

  “No.”

  A sigh. “On your head be it, then.” Monday looked regretful. His shrug was a signal.

  In his dark corner a dozen feet away a man stood up easily, put his hat on, and walked toward them. He was light on his feet for such a large man, calm, cold-eyed as an executioner, and in no hurry. He didn’t leave coin for the drink. He crossed the tavern with the calmness of absolute power, a shark swimming through minnows, a naval frigate among dories. As he passed, the ordinary patrons of the Cobbler’s Last switched their gaze to the floor, to the ceiling, to ales unfinished on the table, to their harmless boots. His pack went alert, awaiting instruction.

  At Monday’s table the man said, “Mr. Deverney. You insist on talking to me.” He sounded mildly annoyed. “You shall. Not here, though. Let’s walk.”

  Thirty

  THEY left the tavern quiet behind them. Some few of the usual patrons of the Cobbler’s Last would recognize Lazarus. Some would be stupid drunk or just witless by nature. But every one of those customers would know something dangerous had passed close by. They’d hunkered down with their drinks, glad to be overlooked.

  Lazarus was accompanied from that tavern by his entourage. Members of his pack sidled through the door one after another and spread out, moving to the sides, going ahead, or lagging along the pavement and street. One man took a place three paces behind. That would be Black John, known even to a stranger to London as bodyguard and close associate of Lazarus. Nobody but Black John got close enough to overhear. For jackals, they were well organized and discreet.

  And he—he walked beside Lazarus into the crowded evening of Covent Garden, between fruit hawkers and bun sellers and rich men on their way to an evening of vice, trailed by men ready to kill him at a nod from Lazarus.

  For the moment he was safe enough. Lazarus wouldn’t kill a master thief who paid a hefty fee for the privilege of stealing in this town. It was time to remind him of that. “I owe you money,” he said.

  “You’re good for it.”

  Every pickpocket in London, every beggar and whore, paid for the privilege of doing business in London. A weekly farthing from a street thief. Tuppence from a beggar. A shilling from a brothel keeper. And up and down the streets of the city, honest tradesmen paid the pence for protection from those same thieves. It made for a tidy system.

  If Lazarus looked over Covent Garden with the proprietary air of a farmer measuring his crop, he h
ad reason.

  His own particular payment was set in gold. Fifty guineas for a major jewel theft committed in London. He took the leather sack from an inner pocket of his coat and dropped it into Lazarus’s outstretched hand.

  Lazarus juggled it in his palm. “Paid full and on time, as always, Monsieur Deverney. A profitable night for both of us. I like dealing with honest men.” He whistled softly, and thirty feet away a boy about ten years old separated himself from the background of idlers and peddlers. He came running and skidding to a stop. Lazarus tossed the purse. “Put this away someplace.”

  The boy slipped it into the front of his shirt and departed, running.

  “Who did you rob?” Lazarus asked.

  “Carlington.”

  “That’s been kept quiet.” A flatness of voice said Lazarus—the man who knew all of London’s secrets—hadn’t heard about the robbery and didn’t like that bit of ignorance. “He was your host last night.”

  “The very one.”

  “You eat his food and drink his wine and then rob him. The treachery of the upper classes never fails to amaze me.”

  “It wasn’t particularly good wine.”

  He’d amused Lazarus. It wouldn’t keep the man from killing him, but it might prolong the conversation.

  They took a random, crooked path through market stands, past substantial housewives buying kidney pies, past sellers of melons and lettuces, past schoolboys peeling oranges and dropping peels behind them. Ahead, a little imbroglio unrolled, a matter of pushing and shoving and raised voices. Three young gentlemen, well dressed and comprehensively drunk, arms over each other’s shoulders, staggered between the rows of stalls, pushing folks out of their path.

  The black bodyguard lengthened his stride and went around Lazarus to stand in the path of those idiots, treelike and unperturbed. They broke on the rock of his solidity in confusion. Without comment, he heaved one to the left, into baskets of cabbages, one to the melons opposite, and sent the third to roll across the dirty cobbles to the feet of a cake seller. He dusted his hands and stepped back to take up guard again.