The 7th of Victorica

by Beau Schemery

  He moved about them easily, like a black shark in a school of brightly colored fish. He hooked his thumbs into the belts holding the holsters and a pair of pistols, the only bit of clothing he’d retained from his bandit outfit. He liked Victorica’s openness with firearms, and he’d gotten fairly good at drawing and firing the weapons quickly and accurately. Though he still preferred the thin daggers that remained strapped beneath his coat, he could get used to the wild ways of the colonies.

  There was certainly money to be made in these rough streets and many more just like them throughout Victorica. He’d had few opportunities to take advantage of the possibilities, but as soon as they wrapped up this North versus South nonsense, he’d be able to focus on his existing business interests and expand them as well.

  “Booth Brothers to perform at the Winter Garden Theater!” a young newspaper boy shouted, waving around the Tribune. “Huge charity event! Read all about it!”

  Midnight’s smirk melted as he was forced to abandon his previous train of thought and return to preventing the assassination of Lincoln. “One,” Midnight said, handing the young boy a shilling. He read the headline about the Booth brothers’ production of Julius Caesar, then the article, which consisted mostly of hot air and pompousness. The brothers would donate the proceeds to build a monument to William Shakespeare in Central Park. Midnight shook his head slightly and clucked his teeth disdainfully. He wondered if the other two Booths knew what their brother had planned.

  It didn’t really matter. If he had to kill one Booth or three, it was all the same to Midnight. He’d almost feel bad if he had to kill as talented an actor as Edwin Booth. “It certainly would be a shame,” Midnight mumbled to himself, before folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. He marched off to meet with his men, to see how their plans proceeded.

  A WEEK later he sat with Bruiser and the Killer, listening to reports of their efforts around the city. They’d offered their shop as a headquarters, and Midnight easily accepted. Some of the men had made their own arrangements. “So most of the boys have made it onto the production as stagehands and the like?” Midnight asked.

  “Indeed they have,” Bruiser said with a nod as he lit a pipe. “A few have even gotten parts in the play itself.”

  “Impressive.” Midnight nodded approvingly. “And where are we with convincing Lincoln not to walk directly into his own assassination?”

  The Killer shook his head. “Just where we were when this whole debacle started. The man refuses to listen to sense. He won’t let them scare him.”

  “Even if it kills him?” Bruiser asked.

  “Apparently,” the Killer answered.

  “I admire that.” Midnight shrugged. “But it makes our job that much more difficult.”

  “Have you gotten a ticket to the show?” Bruiser puffed on his pipe.

  Midnight slammed a gloved fist on the table. Bruiser and the Killer were two of his hardest men, and Midnight giggled inwardly at the way they paled in reaction to his anger. “I have not. The bastarding play has been sold out for weeks. No amount of money or intimidation I try to apply has any effect.”

  “Too bad you can’t simply walk up to someone with tickets and say, ‘Hello. I’m Jack Midnight, and if you do not part with those tickets, I’ll part you with your fingers.’ That would certainly do the trick,” the Killer offered.

  “Hm.” Midnight thought about it.

  “What?” Bruiser asked. “You can’t do that. You can’t just come out and say you’re Jack Midnight.”

  “No. I can’t do that. But it gives me an idea, and this may not be a job for Jack Midnight, the criminal mastermind. It may, in fact, be a job for Jonathan Middlenight, respectable gentleman.”

  Bruiser regarded him with a puzzled expression. “Who’s he?”

  Midnight tilted his head, frowning at his comrade. “He’s me, Bruiser. I’m him. It’s just an alias.”

  “Ah,” Bruiser said with a nod. “I get it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, no matter. You fellows have some contacts in New York’s upper crust, I trust?”

  “We do,” the Killer answered. “They may have money, but it doesn’t mean they’re without sin.”

  “Without a doubt.” Midnight grinned. “We’ll need to get Mr. Middlenight invited to one of their high society to-dos. Can we do that?”

  “It shouldn’t be a problem.” The Killer thought for a moment. “In fact, I think that Cornelius Vanderbilt is holding a bit of a fund-raiser for the Brooklyn Bridge project and to introduce the designer, Augustus Roebling, to New York’s high society.”

  “Brooklyn Bridge?” Midnight asked.

  “Yes. It’s going to be some kind of feat of engineering.” The Killer drew from his pipe. “I’m not keen on the details, but if Vanderbilt is hosting the party, you can be sure that a veritable who’s who of New York’s wealthiest and worthiest will be in attendance.”

  “And one can assume that at least some of them will be going to the Booths’ charity event as well,” Midnight guessed.

  “Most definitely.”

  “Delightful.” Midnight steepled his fingers and grinned his feline grin.

  LATER THAT night, Midnight pulled up before a spectacular example of Victorican architecture in an elaborately furnished auto-hansom his men had “borrowed” from Sev’s warehouse. He’d had Middlenight’s coat of arms emblazoned on the doors: a shield encircled by thorns and flanked by ravens, wings outspread. It had cost him, but it would sell the fact that he was a decorated member of Britain’s aristocracy. He’d also commissioned a lavish and ridiculously fancy new suit, all embroidered black with subtle red accents, and complete with a lapel festooned with medals and honors. He wore bright red gloves that matched the satin lining of his opera cloak. He’d even managed to find an apothecary to make him red-tinted kohl to highlight his eyes. It was all short notice and extremely expensive, but it would all be worth it in the end.

  He stepped onto the cobblestone street with one highly polished, cherry-red, hobnailed boot and glided from the interior of the carriage. Finely dressed men and women lined the beautiful staircase leading to Vanderbilt’s mansion. Midnight’s cape billowed dramatically, eliciting an awed collective gasp from everyone before him. All eyes were on him, and he beamed, his chin held high, a rakish grin plastered to his face. His pitch-black hair hung in a curtain over his right eye.

  The gaze of his left eye swept slowly over the crowd. His mind calculated the value of the gold and jewels that decorated the guests, and Midnight’s mouth watered in spite of himself. He flexed his fingers, his hands aching to pick the sparkling fruit from the necks and fingers of the gathered socialites. He took a step toward the nearest woman, a portly old matron nearly draped in sparkling garlands like a pale wrinkled Christmas tree in her emerald gown.

  Midnight bit the inside of his cheek. The pain and sudden taste of blood pulled him out of the moment, returned his mind to the task at hand. He took a deep steadying breath through his nose and released it, willing his heart to slow, his mind to calm as he touched one of his hidden daggers through his coat. It worked, and he was once again in full control of himself. He strolled confidently and purposefully up the grand staircase before him. It pleased him to no end that he offered such a spectacle that none of the guests seemed able to tear their gaze from him.

  He marched through them, his eyes half-lidded, wearing an expression only the truly entitled British aristocracy could manage. He may as well have been the queen herself the way the Victoricans reacted to him. He presented his invitation and his introduction card to the servant standing at the elaborate doorway.

  “Lord Jonathan Middlenight, Duke of Ravendale on Duskham, the Earl of Darkvale,” the servant announced. A satisfying lull in the cacophony resulted from the announcement. Midnight nodded as arrogantly as he could manage. Many of the guests rushed over to introduce themselves. It was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. He staked hi
s spot amidst the decadence, feeling very at home among the embroidery, polished wood, fine furniture, and crystal lighting accessories. He accepted a flute of champagne and held court in this more-than-well-appointed space.

  Midnight spotted Lincoln walking toward him. “Mr. Lincoln,” he hailed the man.

  Lincoln stopped and looked. Something like recognition flashed in his eyes. “Do I know you, son?”

  “Not really, sir. But I assure you, I’m a friend.”

  Lincoln frowned as he closed his eyes and tried, Midnight assumed, unsuccessfully, to place Midnight’s face.

  They fell into a conversation, and Midnight suggested Lincoln not attend Julius Caesar. Lincoln nodded exhaustedly and praised the Booth brothers, their production, and the monument it would fund. They conversed a few moments more before Lincoln eventually meandered off. Midnight tsked in the man’s wake.

  Before long, Vanderbilt himself drifted over with Roebling in tow. Jack accepted them humbly as they introduced themselves. “It is an honor to meet you, gentlemen. This has truly been the highlight to my visit to your charming country.”

  “Thank you, Lord Middlenight,” Vanderbilt responded. “Can we coax you into donating to our worthy cause?”

  Midnight curled his lip at the mention of money. “I may be so inclined, though I find it distasteful to discuss such concerns. It paints one as desperate.” He hoped his tone was properly condescending.

  “O-of course. Whatever was I thinking?” Vanderbilt smiled, bowing nervously. Roebling remained strangely silent.

  “I shall excuse your lack of decorum. When one is passionate about something, it can cloud the judgment and make one overzealous.”

  “Exactly that, sir.” Vanderbilt tittered. “I appreciate your generosity of understanding.” He continued to speak, but something had caught Midnight’s ear. Two women nearby were discussing the Booth presentation of Caesar.

  “Certainly not!” one woman stated, obviously disgusted.

  “How can I, Catherine? After how shamefully he treated me,” the second said.

  “You absolutely cannot, Tilly.”

  “No. It is obvious, but who shall I take to the performance now? I simply can’t show up at the social event of the year with no one at my side,” Tilly said.

  “No. No you cannot. It would be scandalous.”

  Midnight stole a look at the women. Neither was exceptionally beautiful but nor were they hideous. He might be able to stomach manipulating them. “Excuse me.” He interrupted whatever Vanderbilt had been saying without regard for his host’s feelings. “Forgive me, my ladies,” Midnight said with a slight bow. “I could not help but overhear that one of you is looking for an escort to the Booths’ production of Julius Caesar.”

  “That’s right,” the brunette said. “Tilly finds herself in need of a companion.” She pressed her hand on the blonde woman’s arm.

  “Ladies, may I introduce myself? Lord Jonathan Middlenight.” He grabbed each of their hands in turn, planting a small kiss on their knuckles. They giggled satisfactorily, and he knew he had them in the palm of his hand, literally as well as figuratively.

  “Tilly Bornland, heiress to the Bornland Cookie empire.” The brunette indicated the blonde. “And I am Catherine Mitcham. My father is Mitcham, the world-renowned chemist.”

  “Pleased to meet you, ladies.”

  “And you, my lord,” Catherine answered. “Are you interested in the Booths’ production?”

  “Most definitely.” Midnight flashed his most winning smile.

  “I am surprised that someone of your station could not secure a ticket to that event,” Tilly said.

  “Alas, I have only just arrived in Victorica and so have missed out on the opportunity.” Midnight offered them his most sympathetic expression.

  The young women turned to each other, whispering. Midnight could make out most of the conversation. Catherine argued for Tilly to offer him her spare ticket, not only because Midnight was “the bloody bee’s knees” but because taking such a handsome man would make her previous beau jealous as all get-out.

  Midnight, to his credit, pretended to be oblivious to and disinterested by their conversation, when, fortuitously, the orchestra began a waltz. He offered Tilly his hand. “My dear Miss Bornland, may I have this dance?” He flashed her his sexiest smile. An expression he’d rarely used on anyone but Wrathsbury in recent memory. She melted just as she should, blushed brightly, and offered him her hand.

  He pulled her onto the dance floor, and they waltzed among the other guests as he pressed her body close to his. He could almost sense her arousal. She gazed at him through her lashes with a sultry smile on her full, painted lips. “You are interested in the theater?” She raised her voice over the music.

  “I am.”

  She tipped her head back slightly and parted her lips in expectation. Midnight looked at her anticipatory expression. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and kissed her, quickly but with enough intensity that she’d be forced to invite him to the play. He wished for Wrathsbury’s lips and found himself getting carried away. He broke it off suddenly, apologizing for his forwardness.

  Tilly shook her head. “Oh no, Lord Middlenight. It was my fault, I’m afraid.”

  “Please call me Jack.”

  “Very well, Jack.” She offered him a coquettish grin. “And I expect you to call me Tilly.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And I also expect you to join me for the Booths’ Julius Caesar.”

  Midnight gasped dramatically. “My lady—Tilly,” he corrected himself. “It would be my distinct honor.”

  She blushed forcefully once more, and Midnight felt extremely pleased with himself. He remained for an hour longer, offering small talk and dancing, before he respectfully took his leave. Tilly tried to coax him home with her, but he refused as a proper British gentleman. He finally managed to escape, catching his auto-hansom still outside the mansion. He watched the beautiful building shrink as they drove away. He could see Tilly on the steps, gazing at him and his carriage. He felt a momentary pang of hurt before he shook it off.

  MIDNIGHT GAZED through the window of the borrowed auto-hansom, his forehead pressed to the cool glass as rain beaded on the exterior. It seemed appropriate to him that this night would be rainy and miserable as he approached the Bornland brownstone. The auto-hansom pulled up, and Midnight opened his umbrella, then approached Tilly’s front door. A servant answered and invited him in. “I’ll wait out here, thank you,” Midnight said. Tilly appeared moments later.

  She walked up to him and embraced him beneath the protection of the umbrella. “Good evening, Lord Mid—” She caught herself. “Hello, Jack.”

  He offered her the warmest smile he could manage. “Hello, Tilly. You look simply beautiful.”

  She blushed and chortled. “Thank you, Jack.” He led her by the hand into the lush interior of the auto-hansom. They fell into easy conversation as they traveled to the Winter Garden Theatre. Midnight was pleased and felt slightly homesick when he saw the elaborate façade, brightly lit despite the wet night. The beautiful people draped in their finery stood beneath a marquis that announced the Esteemed Booth Brothers’ Production of William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Each of their names appeared below. Midnight sneered inwardly when he read John Wilkes’s name.

  Attendants met them, standing on either side of the carriage door and holding umbrellas. They escorted Midnight and Tilly through the chilly drizzle until they were safely beneath cover with the other attendees, who lingered about chatting and preening as if they were birds on display in a shop window, hoping to be seen by as many people as possible. These Victoricans might come from new money, but they remained just as shallow as Midnight’s own country’s aristocracy. “The new aristocracy,” he mumbled.

  “What’s that, dear Jack?” Tilly gazed at him affectionately.

  “Hm? Oh, nothing, just thinking aloud.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?” She slipped her hand into the crook, and they
strolled through the crowd. Midnight marked more than a smattering of Southern accents—Booth’s contemporaries. No doubt they’d come to see the spectacle and not the show itself. Midnight took no little pleasure in the fact that he’d be responsible for their disappointment.

  He tossed glances to his men who had infiltrated all around the theater. He tried to block Tilly’s constant chatter out. They checked their coats, and the man behind the counter whispered to Midnight. “Look for it at intermission.” Midnight nodded. When he turned he found himself face-to-face with Lincoln.

  “Lord Middlenight,” Lincoln said, offering his hand. “Abraham Lincoln.”

  Midnight shook his hand. “I remember, Mr. Lincoln. I’m very pleased to see you again.”

  Lincoln pulled him slightly closer and whispered next to his ear. “I know who you are, Mr. Midnight, and I appreciate your concern.”

  “Our mutual friend,” Midnight responded, “has asked me to look after you.”

  Lincoln nodded. “I am aware, sir. But my illustrious friend General Grant has arranged for Pinkerton’s men to look after me.”

  Midnight glanced around the lobby, easily picking out the slightly stuffy men dressed in rags. “They’re obvious.”

  “I’ll give you that, sir. But you need not worry. I am well taken care of.”

  “Then I shall simply enjoy the show,” Midnight reassured him with a beaming smile.

  “I have to admit, I am surprised by this,” Lincoln stated. “Given our mutual friend’s disdain for authority and eagerness to do the opposite of what he’s asked. I thought I’d have a harder time.”

  Midnight fought a proud smirk, shaking his head instead. “The precociousness of youth.”

  “Indeed,” Lincoln agreed with a smile. “Well, Lord Middlenight, enjoy the show.”

  “And you as well, Mr. Lincoln.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lincoln drifted off into the crowd. Pinkerton’s men followed him in what Midnight assumed they thought were random, inconspicuous numbers. He returned to Tilly.