Beauty Like the Night

by Joanna Bourne

  Without pausing, Lazarus walked forward through outrage from the fallen and laughter from the bystanders. A dozen paces onward, he remarked, “Men don’t seek me out unless they’re fools or desperate. What do you want, Mr. Deverney, and why do you think I’d bargain with you for it?”

  Not a good way to begin. “I want to know if there’s any connection between the British Service and the disappearance of a young girl, Pilar Deverney, from her mother’s appartement, three months ago.”

  “You don’t ask much, do you?” He’d amused Lazarus again.

  “It’s not an ordinary service, but it’s not impossible. They’ll have left evidence if they’re poking in that direction. Your man Monday said no.”

  “On my orders.”

  “Reconsider.” This was rash and he knew it. “I’m not buying felonies and assault, just information. I’m not asking for anything that brings you into conflict with the Service. They won’t even know. And I pay well.”

  “I stopped needing money when you were in short coats. Why should I touch your job?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  They covered another dozen paces. Lazarus said, “Do you think the Service killed your wife and took your daughter? Odd behavior for them somehow.”

  That answered one question. Lazarus knew about Pilar’s disappearance. If the Service wasn’t responsible, there was no man in London more likely to be involved. “Or you might have her.”

  “You think that?” Lazarus raised his eyebrows. Amused? Mildly surprised? Probably very few men accused him to his face.

  “If she’s not in government hands and not dead, the odds are she got pulled into the undertow of your world. You have a great collection of young women, Lazarus.”

  “Not, I think, that one. My taste don’t run to children. My pimps are less particular. I can ask, but look there.”

  They’d reached an open space in the middle of Covent Garden, relatively free of vegetable sellers and evening strollers. Lazarus pointed to one of the streets running out of the square, lined with restaurants, taverns, and shops. Brightly dressed women stood in the circles of light under the lampposts. “There’s a flock of doxies, a good many of them working for my pimps. Pretty chicks. They’re good sturdy scullery maids and farm girls, Irish lasses, runaway wives who got beaten at home, and brats from the rookeries. You see any chains keeping them there?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because, not being fools, they’d rather do this work than scrub floors and carry slops and get poked by their employers for free. Covent Garden pays better if they’re going to get poked anyway. Most of ’em have family to support. If one of them leaves, there’s barely a ripple. The streets are full of pretty girls ready to take their place. There’s less of this kidnapping of delicate aristocrats than you’d think.”

  “I’m looking for one girl, not a lecture on modern whoring.”

  For a minute he thought he’d gone too far. Then Lazarus chose to be amused. “Fair enough.”

  Ahead, where one lane of booths crossed another, a vendor sold tea from a giant urn. The market folk had lit a brazier there to warm their hands when the night got cold toward dawn. To one side, a narrow passage opened down the backs of the booths. Some of the stalls stayed open all night. A good number were closed and quiet. Young boys, ten or twelve, slept inside, guarding melons and cherries and the very slats that held the merchandise.

  Lazarus plucked a lighted lantern from the nearest stall. Nobody stopped him. They looked away and kept on drinking tea. He jerked his head to the walkway. “In here.”

  This space between booths was filled with muffled voices and the smell of rotten vegetables, urine, and burned sugar. No air stirred. Every edge and corner was full of darkness.

  “An unpleasant meeting place,” he murmured.

  “Private,” Lazarus said. The shadow that had followed them into the passageway was Black John, keeping close, equally prepared to defend Lazarus or kill somebody who annoyed him.

  Every night was an adventure when you dealt in stolen jewels. One of these days he’d stick to the wine trade.

  Lazarus said, “Stop here.” In the flicker of lantern light Lazarus’s eyes were dense and hard as stone. “Are you a spy, Mr. Deverney?” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. There was no lack of menace. “An employee of some government here or abroad? Be careful what you say next. Men don’t lie to me more than once.”

  “I haven’t worked for any government since the war ended. I never spied.” He was, at this instant, in some impressive amount of danger.

  “You come to me reeking of spy plots.”

  “A robust scent, but not mine. Thieving keeps me busy enough.”

  “The British Service and I have an agreement,” Lazarus said. “The Service don’t pimp, pick pockets, or housebreak. I don’t spy. I don’t let my people spy.”

  “And I avoid politics altogether. It’s the wisest course for a Frenchman these last few years. A girl’s missing and I’m going to find her. That’s not politics.”

  “Your wife dabbled in secrets, they say. Bought and sold them. Blackmailed men with them.”

  “I didn’t live with the woman. I have no idea how she amused herself.”

  “You should have.” Lazarus was illuminated from below by the lantern he held. It made him look sinister. Not that he needed help in that. “This is what I see, Deverney. The senior British Service was stacked three deep at the Carlington ball last night. Practically a reunion of spies. You were there.”

  “Not working for or against the Service. My interest is Pilar Deverney. If the Service doesn’t have her stashed somewhere, they’re not my concern.”

  “You arrived with a French attaché who spies for the Bourbons.”

  “He used to spy for Napoleon. Before that, it was the Directoire Exécutif. Before that, the Republic, more or less. And before that, Louis’ police. His true passion is collecting snuffboxes.”

  “You waltzed with William Doyle’s daughter.”

  “She was the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  Lazarus showed his teeth briefly. “So she is. But you went looking for her on your first day in London, before you knew she was pretty.”

  “I found her. She’s tracking down Pilar for me. We have a business arrangement.”

  A shrug from Lazarus and he seemed to relax. “Good enough. I’d hire her myself if I was looking for somebody.”

  “The British Service is her blind spot. She won’t look at them.”

  “Neither will I.” Lazarus glanced toward the bodyguard, exchanging silent comment. “I think you lie, Deverney.”

  The sense of threat became profound. The bustle of Covent Garden receded. The thin walkway between booths filled with arctic chill. The bodyguard edged closer. Lazarus said, “I think you’re playing a game against Meeks Street. I won’t be dragged into the middle of it.”

  “You already are.” This was a time to make no sudden moves and show no fear. “You became part of this when you took a commission to follow Séverine de Cabrillac around town. Sending a few people to interest themselves in whether the Service has a young girl in custody won’t make it any worse.”

  Lazarus was expressionless. “If the Service has your daughter, it’s unlikely any harm will come to her. But it makes this business political. And important. They don’t interfere unless it’s important.”

  “I don’t care how important it is to the British government. Why should I?”

  “Why indeed? And if the Service has taken her, what then?” He sounded genuinely interested.

  “I’ll get her back.” He surprised himself by how certain he was of that.

  “Ambitious of you. We’ll see.” Lazarus gestured to Black John. “Fetch him here,” and got a nod.

  That argued some tenure on life.

  “I h
ave a”—Lazarus considered his words—“respect for Séverine de Cabrillac. She’s done me favors from time to time and won’t touch my money. I’ll repay her by returning you to her in one piece.”

  “That’s good.”

  “She might take it amiss if I break your neck. So I won’t.” Lazarus turned. “Here’s a present to take with you when you leave.”

  A shuffle and drag approached. Two men jostled a boy into the alley between them, an undersized boy with his black hair hacked off raggedly, his cap missing, and his face bloody. They let go and he dropped to his knees.

  “He’s been trailing you a while,” Lazarus said. “Almost well enough to be one of mine. He was admirably silent when questioned. Tell Miss de Cabrillac I’ll be happy to take him into my organization if she gets tired of him.”

  The boy raised his head, panting. It was Séverine’s lad-of-all-work, Peter. He looked more stunned than defiant.

  No. There in his eyes. Wells of resentment and stubbornness. Defiance enough to set rocks on fire when he was older.

  Looked like the boy was his responsibility for a while. He pulled Peter to his feet, then kept an arm under his shoulder so he didn’t fall again. “I need a hackney. Do you have anybody else lying about the place, injured?”

  “Not yet.” Lazarus sent a villainous fellow off, either to get a hackney or to commit mayhem in some distant place. “You’re wrong about a commission to follow Miss de Cabrillac, by the way.”

  “I saw your rats.”

  One of the men who’d been beating Peter sniggered. Another grinned.

  “I have no client in this matter, except my own curiosity. Someone—besides you—was asking questions about her and following her. It started months ago. I want to know who.” Lazarus said, “That concludes our business. Come see me next time you rob in London,” and to his jackals, “Escort them out of here.”

  Thirty-one

  IT was an uncomfortable hackney, Raoul thought. An old, poorly sprung, lumbering carriage that smelled of unsavory assignations between people who didn’t wash much. Lazarus’s men must have chosen it carefully.

  Peter sat on the seat across from him with his knees pulled up to his chin and bled gently onto the seat cushions.

  “Take this.” He passed his handkerchief over. Sévie would be less than pleased if her messenger boy had broken his nose. Nothing to be done about it at present, though. It wasn’t as if he’d brought the fool with him.

  He said, “Why did you follow me?”

  “I was curious.”

  “That was a poor choice.”

  “Seems to have been.” Peter held the cloth to his mouth, which was also bleeding.

  “Did somebody pay you to follow me?”

  The boy’s eyes flashed fifty emotions, impossible to sort or identify. Fury. Contempt. Why would the boy be contemptuous of him? Pain. Impatience. Then he looked down and everything was hidden. Peter said softly, “I don’t bribe easily.”

  “Then why?”

  Peter dabbed at his mouth for a while, dealing with the bleeding. When he’d ruined the handkerchief in a thorough way, he said, “I wanted to see what you were doing.”

  “Now you know. I’ll take you back to Miss de Cabrillac and she can lecture you about the stupidity of following a man who visits Lazarus. Where is she?”

  Not at once, but after some consideration, Peter said, “She might still be at the office. Might be breaking into your agent’s by now, since you don’t seem to be any good at getting hold of your papers.” Peter sounded fed up. “I should be there in case she needs a lookout. You can drop me off at Clement Lane on the way to wherever you’re going.”

  There were few women in London better prepared for housebreaking and pilferage than Séverine de Cabrillac. He didn’t doubt she’d had a chance to hone these skills over the years. But he was the expert. And if they got caught, he had a reason to be in Hayward’s office. She didn’t.

  He looked the boy over. “Are you hurt? Besides the nose?”

  A headshake said no.

  “Cracked ribs? Loose teeth?”

  “Nothing like that.” Peter leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, pressing cloth to his face, waiting patiently for the bleeding to stop. “They knew what they were doing.”

  “An advantage of dealing with professionals.” The boy would do well enough. He wasn’t a street brawler, obviously, but there was some toughness to him. “I’ll come with you, robbing Hayward. We’ll give her a hand.”

  “Good. You can carry things for her.” Peter wasn’t even being sarcastic.

  “So I can. My hotel first. It’s on the way. Then on to Clement Lane.” He stretched up to pound on the roof of the coach and shout directions to the driver.

  Thirty-two

  SÉVIE selected small empty crates from the loading dock of the warehouse and carried them one by one and two by two over to where the wagon waited. She tossed them up into the bed of the wagon and straightened them into stacks. More than she needed, but the warehousemen had been generous. Who knew what interesting things she’d find in a solicitor’s office?

  The warehouse floor and the loading dock were empty at this time of night, except for Holloway. The night watchman walked with her, holding the lantern, lighting her way. Annie paced on the other side, continuing the report she’d started upstairs half an hour ago. A busy night.

  Annie was the best of her Eyes and Ears, a big, comfortable, motherly woman, full of shrewdness. She’d arrived this late because she’d stayed to talk to men and women who were out on Kepple Street after dark, a wholly different cohort from the ones there at dawn or at noon.

  “The woman who lives upstairs,” Annie was saying, “that’s Mrs. Bruno, says the girl would be out in the hall, sitting on the stairs in the dark for the whole night. Back when she was just a little snip of a thing. Mrs. Bruno would come out in the morning and find her there, half-frozen. Or the girl had been outside on the street somewhere all night. And all the time that mother of hers was making the beast with two backs with some so-called gentleman.” Annie didn’t try to keep scorn out of her voice. “No good talking to the mother, either. ‘Mind your own business,’ she’d say. Wicked, I call it. But the girl wouldn’t hear a word against her mother. Not then and not ever.”

  Her Eyes and Ears were not just talkative women, they were good women. People didn’t gossip with strangers unless they sensed genuine warmth under the nosiness. More than that, her women paid attention to what was really being said. They asked the right questions. They made that last leap of intuitive understanding. Annie, in particular, was always worth listening to.

  This last crate brought to the wagon was larger than she’d need, really, and so heavy it was hard to carry. What was she going to use it for and how did she expect to cart the thing about when it was full? A job for MacDonald, obviously. He was the best possible man to assist at robbing offices and she was glad he’d be there. Though a man like Deverney was probably useful too.

  She said, “Annie, when Pilar wasn’t spending the night curled up on the building staircase, where did she go?”

  Annie puffed up with scorn. “Nobody cared, if you ask my opinion. That big set of rooms on this fine street and the child lived no better than a beggar. My grandchildren are better off.”

  Annie went home every night to a big noisy household of grandchildren, cousins, aunts, and nephews. They’d share a hodgepodge of a collective meal, brought in by the whole family from whatever they found or earned or stole everywhere in the city. The kids tumbled over each other, fighting and laughing, and crawled six and eight into a big communal bed when the last lamp was blown out. She knew this because she visited and sat on one of the low stools and shared their tea every couple of months to see that all was well. De Cabrillacs took care of their people.

  One of Annie’s cheeky little grandsons would be waitin
g outside in the street right now to walk his grandmum across London in the dark.

  Annie said, “She was stealing food, Miss Séverine, when she was that little. The costermonger said she’d watch his cart and he knows what hungry looks like. She wouldn’t take a gift. She was proud-like. But if he turned his back, she’d steal an apple. So he turned his back some.”

  “Does she sell herself?” Because, sadly, twelve was old enough to do that, especially if her mother set an example. It made a difference in where she’d look for her.

  “Not yet,” Annie said grimly. “Matter o’ time, if you ask me.”

  Another virtue of her Eyes and Ears. She’d chosen women who knew the streets.

  Annie left, still fuming. Sévie carried the last pair of small crates across the yard and asked herself questions about the ebb and flow of money in Sanchia’s household. Where did it come from? Where did it go? Money was the first thing she looked at in any case. The second and third thing too. Those expensive objets de vertu and china shepherds collecting dust on Sanchia’s shelves shared household with a child stealing to get enough to eat.

  Ironic that Deverney was so certain Pilar was not his child. They seemed to share an interest in theft.

  Holloway departed on his rounds. MacDonald came down the warehouse stairs carrying a black satchel. “I tossed in a crowbar,” he said.

  “Good. I’ll probably end up smashing my way into something tonight. The man kept calling me Miss Cabby-yack.” But mostly she was still angry with Deverney and she knew it, even if she was cleverly concealing it from MacDonald.

  “Deserves whatever he gets, in my opinion.” MacDonald fit her bag of criminal gear into the space behind the seat.

  “He called me ‘my dear,’ and offered to go over the books with me and explain the numbers.”