by Anna Lord
Now, he knew the Countess had a soft spot for the Irish colonel, perhaps even a secret affection she was loath to admit to, but warning lights began flashing in his head. He needed to find Major Nash at once.
By the time he reached the box balcony it was vacant. Quickly, he scanned the ocean of froufrou and saw that Horatio Hornblower had changed direction and taken a different set of stairs and was currently tacking windward toward the Snow Queen who was conversing with a woman dressed as a Valkyrie with scandalous body armour that left little to the imagination.
Turning hastily on his heel, he doubled back and had reached the top of the landing when he tripped and fell down the stairs. He felt every painful thud and clunk as he bounced and crash landed in the corner where the stairs turned. That’s probably what saved his life. It was the shortest flight and not the longest; otherwise he would have been a goner.
Just before he blacked out he realized someone had deliberately tripped him up. In that moment, just before nothingness closed around him, he glanced back up and he could have sworn he saw a face he recognized.
And then it was gone.
Major Nash lost sight of the Russian ambassador. From the vantage point of the balcony, he’d observed the nobleman chatting to the Countess but by the time he came down the stairs she was conversing with the Valkyrie. He kicked himself twice. Firstly, because he’d lost sight of his quarry. Secondly, because he could not approach the object of his desire while she was in the company of a femme fatale he detested. He then kicked himself a third time. He’d lost sight of Jim as well.
Something was happening in the foyer. People were milling round and there was an unhealthy buzz. With more force than necessary he elbowed his way through the elegant crush and arrived in time to see a man wearing a tartan kilt being carried off by four guardsmen.
“What happened?”
A senior officer recognized him and saluted. “This chap took a tumble down the stairs, Major Nash. He’s out cold. There’s no infirmary so we’re taking him to the guardroom where someone can keep an eye on him till he comes round.”
“What’s your name, Captain?”
“Thompson, sir.”
“Well done, Thompson. Is there a doctor who can take a look at him?”
“There’s Frye, sir. He’s a medical orderly. He’s on duty outside the gentlemen’s latrines.”
“Get him to take a look. If there’s anything serious let me know at once. I want to know when this man comes round as well. That’s all, Captain.”
Major Nash developed a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched them cart Dr Watson away. He lingered in the foyer, eavesdropping on conversations.
“That Scotsman was rushing backwards and forwards like a lunatic!”
“He barged right into me!”
“Some men cannot hold their liquor. It is disgraceful!”
“Disgraceful who they will allow into these events nowadays too! Have you seen that foul-smelling pirate? There was a time when…”
The well-honed instincts of Major Nash warned him that something wasn’t right. Dr Watson wasn’t the type to rush about like a lunatic and he was no drunk either. He backed himself against a wall between a pair of marble columns that marked the corridor to the gents cloak rooms and ran a canny eye over the Mughal foyer.
At the top of the double staircase was a superbly dressed lady in a purple and gold brocaded Renaissance costume with lots of expensive jewels that looked like the real thing but she hadn’t spoken to anyone all night. He’d spotted her several times out of the corner of his eye. She casually circumambulated the mezzanine as if looking for someone but she was always alone.
There was General de Merville and Sir James Damery at the top of the stairs too. They were with the American cigar tycoon, Mr Bruce Blague. Perhaps they’d seen something suspicious? But if they had they would have reported it. It wasn’t the right time to question them.
Leaning against the balustrade that looked down into the foyer was the official photographer. He was carrying a new type of folding Kodak camera that did not require masses of equipment or a tripod stand. There was a second photographer in a studio directly above them. The studio had a beautiful painted backdrop of the Brighton Pavilion for those who wanted the traditional style portrait to commemorate the night, but this chap was roving and snapping whoever didn’t object to being immortalized au natural.
Mycroft Holmes was in a private sitting room at the far end of the pavilion. His boss hated these sorts of events and preferred to keep out of sight.
Major Nash was in two minds. Should he report what had happened? Or let it go? What if Dr Watson’s tumble had been nothing more than an accident and he jeopardized his real mission by putting the wind up everyone?
Should he tell the Countess her friend had had an accident? But what if she insisted on sending the doctor home in her troika and then decided to accompany him? He wanted to be with her at midnight. He wanted more than anything to take her in his arms and deliver that first magic kiss just as the old century ticked over into the new one.
Jim! Where the hell was Jim? He wouldn’t be surprised to learn a Musketeer had been standing at the top of the stairs when the so-called accident happened. No time to track him either. His prime mission was to keep an eye on the Russian ambassador.
Nerves were kicking in. He was feeling edgy. A quick search of the smoking rooms was called for. Jim was probably holed up in one of them. Maybe he should have had him evicted straight away. Why wait? Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his gut. The longer he left it to take action the worse it would get.
When he re-entered the ballroom two things alarmed him.
The Countess was standing in one of the box balconies chatting to the mysterious Renaissance lady in purple and gold. It appeared as if they knew each other and it gave him a slight shock.
In the adjoining box, was an evil-looking chap in a bizarre pirate costume. It wasn’t just the sinister get-up that set off alarm bells, it was the fact the man was armed to the hilt. Two gleaming cutlasses and two flintlock pistols were tucked comfortably in his leather belt. This costly knees-up was turning into a fucking nightmare!
He was about to take the stairs by twos and collar the Blackbeard lookalike when a voice waylaid him. It was Captain Thompson.
“Just wanted to let you know, sir, that the chap who took a tumble is not seriously injured. No broken bones. He has some heavy bruising and slight concussion. A proper doctor was found among the guests and he has given the chap a sedative to calm him. He was a bit delirious when he came round. Ranting and raving and not making much sense. He’s sleeping now and will probably not wake until the fireworks are over.”
“Thank you, Captain Thompson. Before you go, there’s something you can do for me. There’s a guest here dressed as Blackbeard the pirate. He is heavily armed with flintlock weapons and I don’t like the look of him. Choose two men you trust and corner him but do it discretely. I’d like to interrogate him. If you can escort him to the stable without him making too much of a fuss that would be appreciated.”
“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”
The string quartet was being replaced by an orchestra. The dancing was about to start.
Major Nash was ready to track down the Russian ambassador when another voice waylaid him. This one was seductive, husky and deadly.
“Good evening, Major Nash, are you here in a private capacity or as staff?”
It was the voluptuous Valkyrie, breasts as dangerous as a set of matching cannon balls about to go kaboom. He didn’t want to give her the pleasure of seeing him drool so he made sure to fix his sights on her winged helmet. The last word was pronounced with disdain.
“Staff,” he said flatly. He might have lied but what would be the point? She’d already humiliated him once and she’d probably do the same again if he pretended to be more than what he was – a penniless baronet. The bigger the audience, the more she enjoyed rubbing salt into the wound. T
he rich young men trailing in her breathless wake looked like a bunch of smug arseholes.
“Oh, what a pity,” she purred condescendingly wearing the smile of a shark about to go in for the kill. “I was about to save you the first waltz.”
“That wouldn’t be possible,” interrupted someone else. “Major Nash has promised the first waltz to me. I understand he is never off-duty but I begged him to spare me a few minutes of his valuable time.”
The Valkyrie swung round, and the twin cannons swung round with her. “Oh, it’s you, Countess Volodymyrovna. How fortuitous. The orchestra is starting with a Viennese number. Have you seen Prince Sergei?”
“Yes, he is dancing with Miss Violet de Merville who is dressed as a shepherdess. I can see them through the archway as we speak. I wish we could converse some more, Mrs Klein, but a Viennese waltz waits for no woman. By the way, your mouche has slipped.”
Mouche meant fly in French but the Countess was referring to the beauty spot that was the height of fashion last century. Mouches came in silk and velvet and all manner of shapes. Isadora Klein’s mouche was heart-shaped.
Major Nash took her arm and led her onto the dance floor, and she was pleasantly surprised to discover the baronet did not have two left feet.
“Have you seen Dr Watson?” she asked as soon as they fell into step. “I haven’t seen him all evening.”
“Yes, he took a tumble down the stairs.” He heard her gasp and felt her pull away; his grip tightened and he made sure to pull her closer. “No need to feel alarmed. A doctor has seen him. He is sleeping calmly in the guardroom. A sedative will keep him there until after the fireworks.”
A flicker of genuine concern was evident in the wide-eyed startlement of the blue-grey eyes. “You can assure me he is not injured?”
“I can assure you he is fine. By the way, thank you for intervening back there.”
“I presume that you and Mrs Klein have some history?”
“We did but it’s over.”
“I imagine she eats handsome young men for breakfast.”
He laughed and they both began to relax. “She prefers her admirers young and rich. When she discovered I could not afford to buy her any baubles from Old Bond Street she decided to make an example of me.”
“Her loss is my gain – you dance very well.”
He glanced up to make sure the crazy pirate wasn’t on the mezzanine, and spotted Jim instead. The Irishman was watching them hungrily from behind some red velvet curtains – let him eat his heart out. He pulled her as close as he dared and off they went spinning.
As soon as the dance was over she convinced him escort her to the guardroom to see Dr Watson for herself. The guardroom was a separate building at the far end of the pavilion. It meant they had to go outside through the foyer and along the full length of the veranda. He knew Jim would follow them and this was his chance to get the Irishman evicted. Once Jim was outside it would be impossible for him to come back in again without an invitation that had his name calligraphied in fancy gold lettering.
The doctor was sleeping like a baby on a makeshift bed set behind a partition wall. Reassured that her friend had not suffered any serious injury and that he was quite comfortable, they began making their way back to the foyer, passing the Musketeer on the way, tucked tightly into a niche. Major Nash pretended not to notice.
Once they returned to the foyer, Prince Sergei claimed her in a dance and it freed Major Nash to issue some instructions. He spotted Captain Thompson as he was about to go outside.
“Did you collar the pirate?”
“No, sir, he is proving elusive. I have six men scouting the pavilion but he appears to have gone to ground. Should I put more men on it?”
Nash frowned. “No, we don’t want to alarm the guests. Keep the six men at it. There’s someone else who shouldn’t be here. He may be a Fenian sympathiser. He is currently outside and will try to gain entry. I want you to take charge personally. Stand guard at this door with four of your most trustworthy men. This man is dressed as a Musketeer. As soon as he appears I want you to arrest him and then have your men escort him to the police wagon by the stable block. Lock him inside. I’ll deal with him later tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Nash glanced at his watch. It was getting on for half past ten o’clock. The Russian ambassador was still dancing with the Countess. The photographer was roaming the mezzanine, snapping pictures of couples on the dance floor. The mysterious lady in purple and gold was nowhere to be seen. Supper was being served in the twin banqueting rooms and quite a few of the dancers were drifting away. If he was quick he could personally check the gentlemen’s smoking rooms for that damned elusive pirate.
No sooner had he dashed up the stairs than a man in a tartan kilt appeared at the entrance. He had an invitation in the name of Dr John Watson. Captain Thompson thought the tartan looked vaguely familiar but he was looking out for a Musketeer not a Scotsman with a curly wig. He checked the gold-emblazoned name on the gilt-edged card a second time and nodded him through.
Too easy! Colonel Moriarty smiled as he followed the crowd into the banqueting rooms. He was hungry and did not stint on the royal fayre. He was helping himself to seconds of smoked salmon in aspic when Horatio ‘bloody’ Hornblower appeared in the doorway looking vexed.
Moriarty slipped out the nearest door and took the servants’ stairs to the next level. A lady in a purple and gold dress was looking strangely at him so he gave her a wide berth and mounted a set of narrow spiral stairs that led up to the top of one of the Mughal domes.
He’d already carried out an exploration of the pavilion and knew that the two end domes housed a couple of oriental type divans and some hookahs, probably to keep in with the oriental theme. He could hide in one of them until just before midnight then locate the Countess and whisk her away while everyone else was distracted by the fireworks. At least, that was the plan.
He yanked off the curly wig and scratched his bald head with both hands then stretched out comfortably on the divan and closed his eyes for about ten minutes when the door opened suddenly. There was nowhere to hide in a round room so he braced for the unknown but what happened next took his breath away.
“Colonel Moriarty!”
Every nerve ending was suddenly on fire. “Close the door. Did anyone follow you?”
“What are you doing here? Why are you dressed in Dr Watson’s kilt?”
His heart was banging against his ribs. “How did you know I was up here?”
“My maid saw you sneaking up the stairs.”
“The purple and gold dress was your maid?”
Xenia was wearing Princess Paraskovia’s Renaissance costume along with a splendid amethyst parure that belonged to the Countess to make sure she looked the part.
“What are you up to? What are you doing in Dr Watson’s kilt?”
“It was the only way I could get through the front door.”
“You stole his kilt!”
“And his invitation. He didn’t need it. He’s sleeping soundly. I left him covered with a blanket. He’s fine.”
“This is madness. You cannot gate-crash the Prince Regent’s ball and impersonate another man. You will end up court martialed and drummed out of the army.”
“I can always join Freddy’s regiment,” he quipped. “If someone who isn’t even in the army can get promoted to Lieutenant then it shouldn’t be too difficult to get a posting as cannon fodder on the front line.”
She ignored the gung-ho rejoinder. “So you’ve heard?”
“Yes, but what no one seems to know is who organized it and why?”
She adjusted her ermine-edged décolletage to accommodate her pert breasts. “It’s truly baffling.”
The ploy distracted him but momentarily. “Beautiful liar. You always know exactly what’s going on. There’s something else. There’s been a whisper all night about the wife of the new Russian ambassador. She’s not here tonight and there are all sorts of wild rumour
s floating round.”
She looked unconcerned as she patted the ermine cuff to make sure the fur was going in the same direction. “I heard that she had separated from her husband and chose not to come to the ball to save embarrassment.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. Otherwise England will be fighting a war on two fronts. Do you know the Russian ambassador, Prince Sergei?”
“We met once in Odessa. I was about five years of age.”
“What about his wife?”
“We were never introduced.”
His brain was jumping from one thing to another. “I saw you dancing with Nash.”
“This is a ball,” she reminded frostily in keeping with the resplendent Snow Queen froideur. “I didn’t realize you knew Major Nash?”
“We were at military college together. Do you know who he works for?”
“I presume he goes by the title of Major because he works for the army.”
“There you go again. Beautiful liar. It must be someone high up if you’re not willing to divulge the name. What does he mean to you?”
That was it! She spun round on her heel, ready to leave him to work it out for himself. “Really! This conversation is growing exasperating. Happy New…”
The sentence was cut short by the door being thrown open.
It heralded the arrival of Prince Sergei, General de Merville, Sir James Damery and Mr Bruce Blague. The foursome of smokers had decided to escape the dancing and partake of the hookahs that vaporized flavoured tobacco known as shisha.
There was no telling which of them was most stunned, but suffice to say another couple of minutes and it could have been a disaster from which there was no recovery. Moriarty was about to sweep the Countess into his arms and put her in no doubt as to what she meant to him.
Sir James Damery, the Irish diplomatist, was the first to find his silver-tongue. “Countess Volodymyrovna and Colonel Moriarty, I see you have had the same clever idea as we have had. These Safavid water-pipes are a brilliant invention. Have you tried one before? Oh, I am forgetting myself. Are we all acquainted?”