by KJ Charles
“That is an option,” Crozier added calmly. “We’d far rather you change your mind now than later. No hard feelings and all that. But if you go ahead, no finer feelings either. We would be very upset if you committed our time and then decided you couldn’t go ahead with stealing from your own father.”
Blood surged into Alec’s cheeks. “It isn’t like that!”
“We don’t care,” Crozier said, with terrible simplicity. “You’re in or you’re out. And if you’re in, there will be no middle ground, no secrets, no sudden surges of decency in the third act. Either you’re going to help us steal from your father and split the proceeds, or we’ll shake hands now and watch the show.”
“Actually, we’re going to watch the show anyway,” Lane said, and pointed to the stage, where a woman was coming on to wild applause. “Miss Christiana.”
“About time. We’re actually here for her,” Crozier informed Alec. “You have a think.”
On which they both turned to the performance. Alec sat, stunned. He’d imagined a lot of ways in which this conversation, this conspiracy might go; he hadn’t pictured admitting his treacherous intent and then having that dreadful confession put to one side in favour of a music-hall act.
And a female impersonator to boot, he realised, as he heard the light tenor. The singer was painted for the stage but not to excess, and wore a wig with cascading dark ringlets and a high-necked dress suitable for a governess. The respectable appearance was doubtless deliberate, because she was singing “I’d Just Like to Know,” a minor sensation of innuendo that required the performer to deliver the filthiest possible implications with total innocence.
The Lilywhite Boys hadn’t been joking about being here for Miss Christiana, either, because they were both watching intently. Lane started laughing almost at once, a deep and infectious sound. Crozier’s response was more restrained but his smile widened at the more outrageous lines, into a sharp-angled expression that was frankly wicked.
Miss Christiana would perform perhaps three or four songs, and then the Lilywhite Boys would turn back and demand a decision.
Alec had come here to set up a robbery, but he hadn’t quite let himself think of it in the bare terms the thieves had used, the ones the newspapers would use if or when this went wrong. Planned to steal from his own father, abusing his position as a son and the hospitality of Castle Speight...
But his father had stolen from him, from all his children. He had stolen their birthright and the lives of luxury a duke’s offspring might expect, and far, far more than that. Alec had no position as a son except on his father’s humiliating terms, which made him feel hot and sick to consider. Castle Speight’s hospitality was a joke, and not one that would draw the roars of laughter now echoing around the hall.
If the only way to get to the Duke of Ilvar was through the Duchess, and the only way to get to her was through her hoarded jewels, he’d bloody do it, whatever it took. And if that made him a villain, so be it. He wasn’t going to abide by Honour thy father; he needn’t trouble himself with Thou shall not steal either.
He’d be a criminal. That was what you were when you conspired to commit a crime, even if you didn’t lift a finger yourself. A criminal like Crozier and Lane, both of whom seemed to be quite happy watching Miss Christiana sing, and laughing at the punchlines. They weren’t racked with guilt, and nor should Alec be, because this would be revenge—for loss, for a lifetime of contempt, for the life Cara should have had and the one Annabel ought to have and the strain in George’s eyes. Revenge because he’d finally accepted that he couldn’t wait for fate or natural justice or God’s will to punish the Duke and Duchess. It was down to him.
Miss Christiana had left the stage while he was lost in thought. The Lilywhite Boys were both watching him.
“You look as though you’ve decided,” Crozier said. “Last chance: if you want to forget this conversation ever happened, it can be done without consequences. After this, we aren’t open to changes of heart. If you say no now, you won’t see us again. If you say yes, we’ll be the best of friends.” He smiled. It wasn’t the most reassuring smile Alec had ever seen.
“I’ve decided. I want you to do it. To rob my father.”
Lane and Crozier exchanged a swift look. Lane nodded. “In that case, thirty seventy. In our favour.”
“Fine.”
Crozier’s brows flicked up. “Then we have a deal. Are you going to tell us why you’re doing this?”
“Well, the money—” Crozier’s eyes narrowed sceptically, as well they might. Alec scowled. “And because he’s a terrible person and he deserves something terrible to happen to him.”
“Well, that’s us,” Lane said. “We happen to people, don’t we, Jerry?”
“Better than having people happen to us. When’s the house party?”
“The grand dinner will be on the seventh of August, at Castle Speight,” Alec said.
“So we have two months.” Lane looked at Crozier, questioning. Crozier shot a glance at Alec, then lifted a single finger like a man bidding at an auction. Lane opened his hands. Crozier tilted a brow.
“All right, then,” Lane said, for all the world as though that had been a conversation. “Jerry will be your new best pal and eventual guest. You won’t be seeing me for some time after this, if all goes well. If you let Jerry down you’ll see me when you least expect it, and not pleasantly, but I’m sure that’s an unnecessary warning. Have fun, gentlemen.”
He stood, proving to be as sizeable as Alec had feared. “Catch up tomorrow, Jerry. Pyne.” He nodded at Alec, took up his hat and coat, and left.
Alec blinked after him then looked back at Crozier. “What did he mean by that, about seeing him?”
“That if you run to the police, now or later, you might be able to inform on me but Templeton will be at large and resentful. We look after one another. A certain gentleman recently put pressure on our fence—receiver of stolen goods, you know—to pay him for protection. In the ensuing discussion, Templeton dropped one of the gentleman’s henchmen out of a second-floor window.”
“Out of a window? But—was he hurt?”
“He strained his shoulder a little, what with the weight. Oh, you mean the droppee? Yes. He was.” Crozier’s smile was satanic. “Don’t play silly buggers with us. We play it better.”
Alec swallowed. “I won’t. I mean, I’ve made up my mind.”
“Good. Right, then. If I’m coming to your family event as a friend, we should strike up that friendship. Where do you like to drink?”
“What?”
“If we’re to be sufficient pals for me to attend your parents’ wedding anniversary celebrations—”
“Father’s,” Alec said. “She is not my mother.”
Crozier’s eyes hooded but he didn’t comment. “If we’re to be sufficient pals for this, I shall need to strike up acquaintance with you, enough that you will have a plausible story should things go south. So where do you drink?”
Alec’s mind went blank. Where he actually liked to drink was a quiet, unobtrusive public house called the Jack and Knave that catered for a very particular clientele. He had no intention of sharing that titbit, whatever the Lilywhite Boys said about secrets. “I go to the Stratton Club sometimes, the journalists’ club. Or the Sketch. It’s a sort of place for artists.”
“I can’t draw, and I prefer to avoid journalists for obvious reasons. Anywhere else?”
“Not often. I can’t afford much in the way of night-life. I just go to the pub, really.”
“Lord Alexander Greville de Keppel Pyne-ffoulkes just goes to the pub?”
“Alec. And yes, actually, I do.”
“Well, that’s no bloody good,” Crozier said. “How about the Criterion Bar?”
ALEC WOKE UP THE NEXT morning with a sense of impending doom. He lay in his narrow bed for a brief moment, feeling the worry without being able to identify the cause, and then he remembered.
“Oh, shit,” he said aloud.
This wasn’t the same thing, but perhaps it wasn’t a mile away, because Alec didn’t believe he was truly doing anything wrong in seeking male embraces, and he also felt a deep sense of justification at what he planned to do to the Duke and Duchess. The world would not agree, and his brother and sister would not like any of what was to come, but that couldn’t be helped. The smouldering resentment he’d carried so long had caught into flame, and it would be his guiding light.
It, and the Lilywhite Boys. He was, he thought, probably glad that it was Crozier who would be his “new best pal”. Lane had made him uncomfortable, even if Alec couldn’t put his finger on why: it was something about the very charming smile he wore on his frank, open face while his eyes ran calculations. Crozier seemed a little more...Alec couldn’t think of a better word than ‘straightforward’ even though that was wrong. Unambiguously dangerous, perhaps. Templeton Lane smiled and smiled and was a villain; Crozier didn’t bother to smile.
Alec was to meet him in the Long Bar at the Criterion this evening. I’ll strike up a conversation, Crozier had said. Follow my lead. Feel free to be charmed.
That seemed an extremely unlikely outcome, and Alec had no confidence he could sham it. He’d pointed that out as politely as he could, terrified he might ruin the entire scheme before it started by going bright red and stammering. If the Lilywhite Boys were depending on Alec seeming happy and relaxed in their company, they’d be in trouble. He’d said as much, but Crozier hadn’t seemed concerned.
“Let them do their job,” he told himself, and got out of bed to face the day, propelled by one positive realisation: he would have to go through this meeting and discover more about what was expected of him before he spoke to his siblings. He was not looking forward to the latter conversation at all.
ALEC WORE EVENING DRESS that night. It was, after all, the Criterion Bar. He checked his appearance in the mirror and was reasonably pleased with the results. The grey among the blond hair at his temples was only perceptible under close inspection; his nose was a little marked by the spectacles he used for close work but that couldn’t be helped. He looked really rather well, considering; it helped that his evening dress was expensive and not greatly used, and that he had put on a little weight recently, filling out after the months around Cara’s death when he’d barely been able to choke down a mouthful for rage, horror, and grief. He wouldn’t stand out for good or ill, and that was all he asked.
He took an omnibus to Piccadilly, self-conscious in his smart clothing among labourers and clerks, and strolled into the Criterion Bar with all the insouciance he could muster. He hadn’t been here for a couple of years and the tiled interior was more magnificent than he remembered, the mirrors bright under the electric lights. When he’d come here before he’d probably been drunk.
He ordered a whisky and soda and took a seat at a small table, sitting back and looking casually around in the manner of a gentleman awaiting a friend. It was something he’d done hundreds of times without thinking twice, but now he was absurdly aware of himself, as though he were somehow the object of everyone’s gaze. He picked up his glass and sipped the drink in a manner that felt ludicrously wooden. If a stage actor handled a glass that clumsily Alec would have felt inclined to boo, yet he couldn’t help it; his fingers felt stiff and sausagelike.
He must look like a bad narrative painting of a man waiting for a friend. He glanced around, wondering if he’d recognise anyone, imagined he saw pity or mockery in the few looks thrown his lonely way, knocked back the whisky and soda in the hope of a bit of Dutch courage, and rashly ordered another. He was actually startled when someone leaned over his table to address him.
“I say, sir, is this seat taken?”
Alec looked up and blinked.
It was Crozier. Or at least— No, it was Crozier, but he’d shaved. The beard had been trimmed into a sharp goatee, revealing a firm jaw, the moustache thinned to a neat line. It was a striking style that gave his narrow face distinction. Mephistopheles, Alec thought again. He wore evening dress as well cut as Alec’s own, and his brown hair was sleeked back. He looked every inch the man about town with a bright red carnation in his buttonhole, and he was regarding Alec with an expression of courteous inquiry.
“Uh. Yes, certainly,” Alec managed. “I mean, no, it’s not.”
“You aren’t waiting for anyone?” Crozier suggested.
“No. Yes, actually, yes I am, I was, but he’s late. If he’s coming at all. So you might as well.” Alec attempted a casual wave at the chair opposite and nearly knocked over his glass. The last time he’d been this tongue-tied about inviting a man to take a seat, he’d been panting in a back room within the hour, hot breath in his ear. He felt a momentary wish that his lawbreaking was going in that direction now.
Not that Crozier was quite so handsome as that previous man had been. He was a little more than medium height, though his sinewy build probably made him look taller than he was. Mid-brown hair, skin that was neither interestingly pale nor notably darkened by nature or sun. Not an unattractive face, of the sort Alec would sketch for the background of an army or clubland scene, and the dark brown eyes under his sharply defined brows were striking, but the goatee would be the main thing most people remembered. If he were a politician, the caricaturists would bless him for the goatee and curse him if he shaved. If the police asked for a description of ‘the man who stole the jewels’, the goatee was what they’d get.
He was looking at Crozier as he would a subject, and, he realised, Crozier was looking back.
“I do beg your pardon. Have we met before?”
“What?” Alec had a momentary panic—he couldn’t have got it wrong, could he? This was surely the man from last night?—and then realised that Crozier must be playing his part of a stranger, in which case Alec had indeed been gaping at him in a way that merited the enquiry. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. I’m sorry, was I staring?”
“Perhaps a little.” Crozier’s mouth curved, very slightly.
“I beg your pardon. I’m an artist,” Alec explained, tongue taking over since his brain seemed not to be much use. “An illustrator for the papers. I’m always on the lookout for faces.”
“How intriguing. Specific faces, or are you a snapper-up of unconsidered features for later use?” Crozier’s brows slanted comically. “Good heavens, I trust you don’t work for the Illustrated Police News. I’d hate to hear I had the looks for a murderer.”
That was very nearly too close to the bone. Alec wasn’t sure what to say for a second; Crozier went on with barely a break. “So do you acquire faces from among your acquaintance when you aren’t drawing from life? It never occurred to me to wonder before, but now I think about those great crowd scenes and coming up with all the different people...”
“It is tempting to use friends,” Alec admitted.
“Ah, but do you use enemies? Allot some tiresome bore’s face to a pickpocket or a dubious bookmaker? I would.”
“Also tempting, but I prefer not to have actions launched against me.”
“Good point.” Crozier was smiling properly now, the amusement reaching his eyes. “I’m fascinated. Do you specialise in any particular sort of illustration? Exotic scenes, courtroom incident?”
Alec found himself answering with a peculiar sense of familiarity. He was pretending to strike up an acquaintance with a charming stranger, yet it felt awfully like he was doing just that in reality. As though he were making light conversation, taking the other man’s measure, wondering what sort of fellow he might be.
And, still, looking at him. Crozier’s most distinctive feature was the pair of remarkably mobile eyebrows w
hich gave visual punctuation to his speech, and their dancing movement was another thing you couldn’t convey in a police sketch. They combined with his apparently habitual half smile to give Alec the impression that he was being laughed either at or with. He wasn’t confident which.
“So are the illustrated papers your primary interest?” Crozier asked. “That is, do you illustrate books, say, or otherwise exhibit?”
“I’d love to illustrate more books,” Alec said, instantly forgetting everything else. “Especially for children. This is a glorious time for illustration—the publishing techniques are improving hand over fist, and the public are coming to expect far higher standards. I’m being considered for a new edition of Shakespeare at the moment, as it happens. I don’t know if I’ll get the work, but it’s nice to be in the running.”
“I should say so. That calls for a drink.” Crozier raised his hand with the sort of calm assurance Alec could never manage, and a waiter appeared within a few seconds. “Two glasses of champagne, thank you.”
“That’s, uh—”
“My pleasure,” Crozier said. “Why books for children particularly?”
Answering that took several moments, in which the champagne came in two glittering glasses. Crozier raised his and inclined it to Alec’s. They tapped the crystal together with a delicate ting.
“To art,” Crozier said. “In all its forms.”
“To art,” Alec managed. The whisky and soda had gone to his head already; the champagne prickled against his lips.
They talked on: about Alec’s current work on the Graphic and the Illustrated, and then about newspapers and the latest scandals. Crozier volunteered a couple of stories that made Alec choke on his champagne laughing, and grinned, and waved his hand for the waiter again.
“Dinner,” Crozier said, several glasses later. It was past ten already, and Alec discovered abruptly that he was starving. “Join me? They do an adequate table here.”
