The Smoke Thief

by Shana Abe

  Her lips formed soundless words: I'll get you.

  “Besides,” said Christoff, stuffing his shirt into his breeches, “what do you care what she says? She's only a halfling, after all.”

  Melanie's laughter pealed in her ears all the way home.

  The Morcambre Courant

  Saturday, March 28, 1742

  Young Woman Lost to Thaw

  Mistress Clarissa Hawthorne of Darkfrith, Durham, has been Lost and presumed Perished by Drowning in the River Fier. Mistress Hawthorne was knowne to be in the Habit of strolling alone along its banks.

  A shawl of Rose Poplin and cap of French Biscuit Lace were discovered. Savage rents in the Poplin indicated the Peril of Dangerous Animals about. The River Fier and its Woods were once known to be thick with Wolves and Other Beasts, although vigorous Hunting has well reduced their numbers.

  Mistress Hawthorne was the only childe of the Widow Hawthorne and was to have reached her Eighteenth Year on the very day of her Loss.

  Let us learne a Valuable Lesson from this unhappy Event, and keep our young flowers of English womanhood safely indoors during this spring thaw, tending Hearth and Home in the Tender Manner by which they will most Naturally come into full Blossom.

  CHAPTER TWO

  St. James's Square, London

  April 1751

  Letitia, Duchess of Monfield, felt very fine indeed.

  Her soirée was coming off particularly well. She had guests of the highest calibre circling and chatting round her table; she had shrimp and roast figs and Spanish sack; she had a freshly snared husband not yet in his cups. She had the envious looks of all the other ladies present, and several excellent young noblemen vying for her attention. Most wonderfully of all, she had the Monfield gemstones.

  Letitia was exquisitely aware of them, the tiara, the necklace and bracelet and heavy long earbobs, all newly secured through her marriage to the duke. She had posed with them and paraded in them alone in her chambers for weeks in anticipation of this evening, her first significant dip into society as a hostess. Her wig of rolled curls had been specially constructed for the tiara, the better to display the flare of blue and white above her smooth brow, the tide of diamonds and sapphires that sparkled in the candlelight like, she knew, raindrops against the sun.

  The sapphires rather matched her eyes, she thought, and could hardly repress her delight when the Comte du Lalonde put his lips to her ear to say so himself.

  “Je suis aveugle,” he breathed, his accent rasping her skin like lovely, raw silk. “Your Grace carries the stars and the night as her crown, and still she outshines them both. Your very gaze shames them to sorrow, I vow.”

  Letty lifted her chin and smiled. She had chosen her favorite for the soirée with great care, and he had yet to disappoint. Despite his youth and Continental ways, the comte was quite the most comely fellow here, far fairer than her own dull, fat Ambrose. The boy's looks—the dark eyes with such incredibly black lashes, the sweet willful mouth—were a perfect complement to her own delicate features.

  They sat together on the chaise longue by the bay window, her silver robe à la française a pale match to his gray satin waistcoat and breeches: a pair of splendid creatures, she thought happily, framed in a splendid moment.

  The duchess made of show of tapping her suitor's shoulder with her fan. “My dear comte, have a care. You will have all the gossips tattering.”

  He leaned back, those long lashes lowered. Really, he was so very pretty, with his rouge and lace and bright laughing eyes. She'd been quite charmed by him the moment they'd been introduced. Why, was it only a fortnight ago? How astonishing—it seemed ages past. Perhaps it was because she'd seen him so often since: whist at Sophie's, Vauxhall Tuesday last, that amusing little weekend at Therese's in Suffolk. . . .

  Perhaps, perhaps, if Ambrose kept drinking tonight . . .

  “Not for the world would I tatter Your Grace's reputation. It is as precious to me as my own.”

  “You presume much, sir.”

  “By your gracious word, madame, I will depart.”

  The comte looked up at her again, a corner of his mouth faintly quirked. Letty brought her fan to her lips. It would not do to let the boy gain too much confidence. He was a comte, yes, but she, after all, was a duchess.

  “By all means, stay you here. It is I who shall depart.” And with that, she rose in a magnificent stir of hoops and skirts, footmen bowing after her. When she tossed the comte one last, coy glance from over her shoulder, he was still smiling.

  “Prime bit of flesh, that.”

  The comte spared a look at the gallant who had come to idle next to him, quizzing glass in one hand and port in the other.

  He stood, straightening his cuffs. “If you say so.”

  “I?” drawled the gallant, lifting his glass to inspect the comte. “Why, my dear fellow, you've only to open your eyes, or at least your ears, to catch the shower of compliments that fall upon Her most de-lect-able Grace.”

  The comte had a new smile, razor thin. “I assure you, sir. My eyes and ears are well open.”

  From across the room the duchess turned, finding the two men together, observing her. Her fan twitched up, and she pirouetted away.

  “You know,” laughed the gallant, clapping a hand upon the other's shoulder, “I do believe they are. Good show. Nice dab of flash on her too.”

  Lalonde did not respond. The gallant removed his hand and tried the port.

  “Bit brazen of her, though, I daresay. What with all this nonsense of the Smoke Thief racing about.”

  Now the comte looked up. “Do you think it nonsense, my lord?”

  “What? A man turned to smoke? Now, a thief, aye, there's a certain truth for you. But all the other prattle—he walks through walls, he vanishes into thin air—damme! I'd hire the fellow m'self, if it were true! Get me a good bit of blunt from m' father!” He chuckled into his port. “No, mark my words, fellow's just a common bandit. Probably even a servant. Footman, that sort.”

  “Probably,” said the comte.

  The duchess had made half a circle around the room, surrounded by beaux, drawing slowly closer to the main doors. From behind her fan she sent the comte another lingering look.

  “I do believe that's your cue, old boy.” The gallant swirled his drink. “Ain't polite to keep a lady waiting.”

  Letty was not, after all, allowed a rendezvous with the comte that night. He had managed to disappear just after the final dessert course, and despite her discreet inquiries, no one seemed to know where or when he went. Most vexing. But it was the only flaw in an otherwise flawless evening, and overall she remained well pleased.

  Ambrose was snoring in his chamber adjoining hers. Lud, the walls clattered with it already.

  She dismissed the maid, whose sleepy yawns began to overtake Letty's own, shook back her hair, and sank into the opulence of her bed. After a brief moment she rose again, crossed to both her doors, and locked them.

  Ambrose might wake with any sort of bothersome idea in the middle of the night. She needed her rest.

  Quiet fell upon the home of the Duke and Duchess of Monfield, broken only by the deep, snuffling snores emitting occasionally from the master chambers. The duchess's polished guests had all departed, and as the Queen Anne clock in the main hall struck two and a quarter hours, even the lowest servants were at last abed.

  It was only then, from the darkest depths of the linen pantry, that a pair of brilliant golden eyes winked open.

  The pantry door made no sound upon its hinges. From the dark stepped the Comte du Lalonde, divested of his wig and ornate heeled shoes. He moved on stocking feet, utterly silent, only the sheen of his waistcoat and the strange glow of his eyes revealing him.

  A pair of mice watched, paralyzed, from a corner baseboard, then scurried the other way.

  The oiled maple floors reflected moonlight back at him, and the comte's shadow slipped and stretched as he passed window after window. He had taken good care to memorize
the layout of the mansion, but the truth was, he didn't need memory to find the duchess's chamber. The cloying scent of her perfume practically begged him along.

  At her door he paused, testing the handle lightly. Locked. His lips formed that faint, droll smile that Letty would have instantly recognized.

  The keyhole was empty. The comte peered through it to be completely certain, then stepped back into the hall. He began, piece by piece, to remove his clothing.

  Long dark hair, a slim torso, bound breasts and ivory skin: the comte was a woman.

  A tremendous snort rattled the air. The woman stopped folding her breeches, alert, but after a moment the duke settled back into his usual chirrup of snores.

  With great care, she placed the pile of her clothing to the side of the door. She moved back to the keyhole and took a deep breath.

  Letty slept very well. She had but one dream, and it was of smoke and mist, and how it felt so cool against her face. At first she feared she was lost, but it wasn't that sort of mist. It was gentle, peaceful. She moved through it quite tranquilly, and when she reached the end of it, it coalesced into the shape of a woman. A beautiful woman, familiar, smiling at her.

  “Sleep,” said the woman, and Letty did.

  The sun was sinking to a horizon threaded with clouds, sending warm lazy rays to gild the trees and demure paths that formed the southern boundary of Vauxhall Gardens. Carriages rolled by with sweating horses and clinging footmen; flower girls carried their baskets over one arm, singing songs of damsels and posies. On a corner of the green a band of chimney sweeps had a rough game of trap-ball going that resulted in more than one bloody nose, and someone, somewhere nearby, was baking pork pies.

  “Shocking,” said one of a pair of fashionable young ladies seated upon a bench. She lifted her newspaper closer to her nose, scanning the print by the waning light.

  The spectacular loss of the Monfield gemstones was included in all five evening editions of the London papers.

  “Indeed,” agreed the other, smoothing the pleats of her petticoat. “They didn't even mention the bracelet. And it is particularly fine.”

  The first woman lowered her paper. “You know that wasn't what I meant, Rue.”

  “Wasn't it? Oh. I suppose then you were referring to the midnight duel in which the valiant duke fought off the thief before being overcome by the fellow's kick to his nether regions. That is rather shocking, I concur. I can't imagine how anyone could reach past that royal belly for a good kick.”

  “Rue,” said the other woman, but her gray eyes were narrowed with mirth.

  “Plus, it was well after midnight. My legs were beginning to cramp in that minuscule closet.”

  “Rue.”

  “Yes?”

  “A lady does not gloat.”

  Rue spread her fan open across her lap, webbed lace dyed the precise shade of summer apricots. She spoke more softly. “I am no lady, Mim, as you know.”

  “You are. In your heart, you are. I know plenty who do what you do, and spill blood to do it. You don't. Or won't.”

  Rue closed the fan again and smiled. “What a romantic you've turned out to be. The truth is, you're far more of a lady than I.”

  “I?” Mim glanced around them, then lowered her voice. “Oi'm jest a simple lass from th' East End, Oi am. Dontcha calls me no loidy.”

  “Charming. Mim from East End. It nearly rhymes.”

  Mim straightened. “And Rue from . . . nowhere at all, it seems.”

  Rue met her gaze, her deep brown eyes level, her gloved hands now motionless upon her lap. Mim was struck, not for the first time, by her companion's clear and relentless beauty, a deception of porcelain pale skin, black satin brows and lashes, and lips ever the color of roses. She wore powder and paint but Mim had never seen anyone who needed it less; everything about this woman she knew only as Rue spoke of genteel elegance, of exotic femininity.

  She would have made a stunning courtesan. But perhaps that was why she was so very good at her job.

  “Haven't we been friends long enough by now?” asked Mim.

  “Are we friends?”

  “Associates.”

  “I am from nowhere, Mim. You were absolutely right.”

  “Bugger.”

  Rue looked away and up, silent, watching the changing clouds past the brim of her hat.

  “Very well,” huffed Mim, rustling her paper. And then, testily: “You're doing it again. I always wonder what you're looking for up there.”

  “Dragons,” said Rue promptly, and the other woman was startled into a laugh.

  “Well . . . that one does somewhat resemble a . . . a rabbit, I think. And over there, above the trees, we have a teapot. Perhaps it's a chocolate pot. That's all I see.”

  “Yes. That's all I see as well. Shall we go? I'd fancy a stroll.”

  They stood, gathering the paper and parasols and fans, the fine graveled path crunching lightly beneath their feet. They walked in silence for some time, passing a courting couple with a harried little maid trailing behind, and then a pair of leering dandies, who smiled and bowed quite deep.

  Rue, Mim noticed, behaved exactly as a gentlewoman should: she ignored them completely.

  “By the by, Mistress Rue from Nowhere, ladies do not refer to their legs, either.”

  “Ladies sound frightfully boring to me.”

  “Aye. That's rather what all the gents tell me.”

  “How glad I am, then,” said Rue serenely, “not to be one.”

  The path began a turn, leading them through a knot of nannies and skipping children. Their shadows swept before them, the violet dusk shades of two wide-skirted women, arm in arm.

  Mim asked, “Exactly how fine is that bracelet, anyway?”

  “Twelve carats of diamonds, nineteen of sapphires. Top notch.”

  “I believe I might be able to find a new situation for it.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “But the set will have to be separated. Especially the larger stones.”

  “I know.”

  The sun had vanished fully, softening the sky, splashing lustrous gold across the royal blue clouds.

  “Poor duchess,” sighed Mim. “But I suppose she has more.”

  “She does. And I mean, really,” added Rue, watching the clouds, “who wears a tiara to a soirée?”

  Number 17 of Jassamine Lane, in Bloomsbury, was by no means the grandest nor the meanest of the rows of red brick and gabled houses, but one as comfortably middle class as all the rest. It had green shutters and the same four narrow, street-level windows as nearly every other residence on the block. Perhaps its only noticeable distinction was the door, made not of wood but of painted steel, shaped to fit the frame with absolutely no gaps around its edges.

  True, the windows were seldom cracked and the curtains remained drawn, but that might be easily excused by the sooty London air, which begrimed whatever it touched.

  And true, too, that the mistress of the house was hardly ever seen, but she was rumored to be elderly, or infirm, or perhaps a little mad. In Bloomsbury, infamous retreat of the city's artists and performers, such eccentricity was barely worth mentioning.

  That mysterious lady approached Number 17's steps just as the last candle lantern down the street was being lit, responding with a nod to a collier's cheerful, “Evenin', miss.”

  The steel door latched gently shut behind her.

  Her sanctuary, her haven. Rue purchased it six years ago and had spent a great deal of effort and money since making certain of its security. Every opening had a secondary means of blocking it, from the windows to the keyholes to the chimney. She had memorized the scent of each room, the familiar creaks of the walls and stairs and floors. She had made this place hers, hers alone, and was a part of every corner, every peg hole and crevice.

  Because despite its soot, London was a foggy place. Many things could hide in the fog. Rue should know.

  She placed her fan and reticule on the entrance table, weighing the
dark.

  The rooms inside were far more richly furnished than might be expected for the neighborhood; it was her only open concession to the secret life she led. She enjoyed luxury, and her surroundings revealed it—sumptuous woods and imported fabrics, exceptional art and the finest furniture.

  All, at the moment, decidedly unlit.

  She never kept her home bright by normal standards, but usually her abigail took care to leave an oil lamp burning by the door.

  Her heels clicked down the hall as the gloves were removed, and then the hat. She tossed them to a chair in the parlor—also dark—then glanced into the drawing room. But the only illumination to be seen was coming from the dining room, and she paused in the doorway there, taking in the chairs and mahogany table, the giltwood mirror above the mantel reflecting the candelabra in an infinity of slim dancing flames.

  On the table were laid out the five evening newspapers, plus two others she hadn't yet seen. Rue leaned over them with her palm against the wood, browsing the headlines.

  “Where is the maid?” she asked quietly, without looking up from the papers.

  “I gave her the night off,” said a voice, just behind her.

  “Again?”

  “We don't need her. I can manage without her.”

  She turned, finding the boy in the shadows, lean and a trace too small for his twelve years, light brown hair that never looked combed, amber-lit eyes like a night creature from a very dark woods.

  Rue crossed her arms. “She is not in your employ, Zane, she is in mine. I'd appreciate it if you stopped sending all the help away.” She frowned, looking him up and down. “And where is your new livery?”

  “It itches.”

  “Then wash it.”

  “I ain't got—”

  “Have not got.”

  “—time to wash it. I've been out, you know.”

  “I do know. But you need to wear the livery, especially when you are here. Otherwise, you draw attention. The maid and the cook have uniforms; you must as well. We are an exceedingly proper establishment.”