The Devil's Thief

by Lisa Maxwell

  “She certainly has the bone structure to carry it off,” Julien said, appraising her openly. “And the nerve, apparently.”

  “Don’t,” Harte warned Julien. “The last thing I need is for you to encourage this.”

  “It doesn’t look like she needs any encouragement,” Julien told Harte, sending a wink in Esta’s direction.

  She lifted her glass—a silent salute—in reply.

  “If you need some pointers?” Julien said, offering Esta one of the thick black cigars from his inside jacket pocket. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

  She waved off the offer of the cigar—the sting of the whiskey was enough for one night. “Pointers?”

  “Don’t—” Harte warned again, but they both ignored him this time.

  “If you’re going to go through with this little impersonation, I could be of some assistance. You know, I’m something of an expert.” Julien struck a match and let it flare for a second before he lit the cigar she’d just refused, puffing at it until smoke filled the air. He waved his hand to extinguish the flame and tossed the spent match carelessly into the ashtray on the table between them. “For instance, your legs.”

  “What’s wrong with my legs?” Esta asked, frowning as she looked down at the dark trousers she’d lifted from the neighboring room. They fit well enough, she thought, examining them critically. They certainly were a lot more comfortable than the skirts she’d been wearing for the past few weeks.

  “Men don’t sit like that,” Julien said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that had Esta’s eyes watering. “Women make themselves small. It’s pressed into them, I think. But little boys are taught from birth that the world is theirs. Spread your knees a bit more.”

  Esta raised her brows, doubtful. She didn’t need that kind of help.

  Understanding her point, he smiled. “Not like that. Like you deserve the space.” He leaned forward, a spark of amusement in those raven’s eyes of his. “Like it’s already yours.”

  Julien was right. Even in her own time, the men she’d encountered on buses and in the subway claimed space around them like they had every right to it. That understanding—plus the expression on Harte’s face that warned her not to—had her sliding her knees apart a little. “Like this?”

  “Exactly,” Julien said. “Better already.”

  “Julien, this is ridiculous,” Harte said, his voice tight.

  She had the feeling that if she looked, Harte’s ears would be pink again, but Julien was still watching Esta, and she wasn’t about to be the first one to look away. After a long moment, he turned to Harte. “She’ll be fine. If I could turn you into”—he gestured vaguely in Harte’s direction—“this, then I can teach her just as well.”

  “What do you mean?” Esta asked, not missing how Harte’s lips were pressed in a flat line.

  “He doesn’t mean anything. Just ignore him,” Harte said, eyeing what was left of the glass of whiskey in her hand like he wanted it.

  Julien acted as though Harte hadn’t spoken. “What I mean is that I taught Darrigan everything he knows about becoming the fine specimen of manhood that you see before you today. I even gave him his name.”

  “Did you really?” Esta asked, more than a little amused at the silent fury—and embarrassment—etched into Harte’s expression. She tossed back the last of the liquor, just to irritate him.

  “Where else do you think he learned it from? You should have seen him the first time he auditioned at the Lyceum. It wasn’t even one of the better houses, you know. Catered mostly to the riffraff who could afford a step above the theaters in the Bowery, but not much more. I’d been working on my own act for a while then and was having a fair amount of success. I happened to be around for auditions one day, and I saw him—”

  “Julien,” Harte said under his breath.

  “He wasn’t any good?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “Oh, the act itself was fine.” Julien looked to Harte. “What was it you did, some sleight of hand or something?”

  Harte didn’t answer at first, but realizing that Julien wasn’t going to let it go, he mumbled, “Sands of the Nile.”

  “That’s right!” Julien said, snapping his fingers to punctuate his excitement. “He didn’t get to finish, though. The stage manager let him have maybe a minute thirty before he got the hook. You couldn’t blame the guy—anyone could tell what Darrigan was within a second or two of meeting him. You should have heard him then. His Bow’ry bo-hoy twang was as thick as the muck of a city sewer—I could hardly understand him. And it didn’t help that he looked as rough as he sounded . . . like he’d punch the first person who looked sideways at him.”

  Esta glanced at Harte, who was quietly seething across the table. “He still looks like that if you know which buttons to push,” she said. Actually, he looks like that right now. Which was fine with her.

  “So you helped him?” she asked Julien. “Why?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Julien took another long drag on the cigar, spouting smoke through his nose like some mischievous demon.

  Esta suspected that he wasn’t really thinking through the answer. The pauses were too purposeful. It was a fairly ingenious ploy, she had to admit, and one Julien was damn good at—pulling the listener along, making them want to hang on his every word. By the time he finally spoke, even she was aching for his answer.

  “I could say that I’m just the sort of kind, benevolent soul that likes to help others—”

  Harte huffed out a derisive laugh, but Julien paused long enough so that nothing distracted from the rest of his statement.

  “I could say that, but I’ll tell you the truth instead,” he finished, his gaze darting momentarily to Harte. “That day I saw something in him that you can’t teach—I saw presence. Even as untrained and uncouth as he was then, when Darrigan got up on that stage, he commanded it like he was born to walk the boards. There was something unmolded about his talent—something I wanted to have a hand in shaping.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it, Jules,” Harte said, apparently unable to take any more. “You only helped me because you needed someone to take care of the Delancey brothers.” Harte glanced at Esta. “They were a couple of wannabe gangsters in the neighborhood who didn’t understand that Jules’ act was just an act. They’d taken to stalking him after shows, trying to intimidate him to prove what big men they were.”

  “I held my own with them,” Julien said stiffly.

  “Sure you did, but the rules of the gentleman’s boxing club don’t exactly hold water in the Bowery, and swollen eyes are hard to cover up, even with all the face paint in the world.” Harte shrugged. “So yeah, Jules here taught me how to not look and act like trash from the gutter, and I taught him how to fight dirty so he could get rid of the Delanceys. It’s as simple as that.”

  Julien’s expression was drawn. “You know how to ruin a good story, you know that, Darrigan?”

  “I’m not here to tell stories,” Harte told him, and then glared at Esta. “And neither is she. We’re here for the necklace.”

  Julien frowned, and Esta didn’t miss how he’d blanched a little. “I already told you, I don’t have it.”

  “How could you get rid of it after that letter I sent you?” Harte said, his voice low. “Did you miss the part where I asked you to hold on to it for me? To keep it safe?”

  “No,” Julien said, his voice going tight. “I understood, but I also believed you’d jumped off a bridge and were supposed to be dead.”

  “So you decided to ignore my dying request?” Harte asked.

  Julien looked slightly uncomfortable. “I held on to it for so long, and it’s not like I thought you were ever coming back—”

  “Enough drama, Jules. Just tell us where it is already,” Harte demanded, a threat coloring his voice.

  “Harte,” Esta murmured. “Let him talk.”

  Julien sent her an appraising look, less grateful than interested. “Like I said, I did hold on to it.
I kept it under lock and key, just like you told me to. But then last winter, Mrs. Konarske, the costume mistress at the theater, created a gown that was practically made for it.”

  Harte groaned. “You didn’t.”

  “I figured you were dead and gone, and I couldn’t resist.” Julien snubbed what was left of the cigar into the ashtray. “I wore it for less than a week before someone offered to purchase it.”

  “You sold it?” Esta asked, her instincts prickling. If Julien had simply sold the necklace, it meant that it wasn’t lost. She was a thief; she’d just steal it back.

  “I didn’t really have a choice.” From Julien’s uneasy expression, Esta knew there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Anyway, if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t worn the gown since.” He sounded almost disappointed.

  “I don’t care about your costume, Jules. I need to know who you sold the necklace to.” Harte’s eyes were sharp and determined.

  “That’s the thing.” Julien looked up at Harte, waiting a beat before he spoke again. “I have no idea.”

  Harte swore at him until Esta kicked him under the table. As frustrated as she was with Julien, they needed him on their side, and at the rate Harte was going, he was going to say something he wouldn’t be able to take back.

  “You must have some idea of who purchased it,” she said more gently. “Even if you don’t know who the buyer was, someone had to have given you the money and taken the stone.”

  “Oh, of course there was an exchange,” Jules agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I know who it was that made it.”

  Esta could practically feel Harte’s impatience. “Stop talking nonsense, Jules.”

  “I didn’t sell the necklace to a person.” Julien’s voice was calm and even, and he paused to take a long swallow of whiskey.

  “I’m not getting any younger,” Harte said through clenched teeth.

  But Julien refused to be rushed. It was a master class of a confidence game. He leaned forward, his dark eyes ringed with the reflection of the lamp on the table between them. “If you’re thinking of getting it back, you might as well forget it,” he said softly, pausing to draw the moment out. “Because I sold it to the Veiled Prophet.”

  THE SOCIETY

  1904—St. Louis

  Harte felt the ends of his patience fraying as the power of the Book churned inside of him. It had started the moment he’d looked up and found Esta standing there, her hair shorn and her eyes bright with anger. He wasn’t ready for her unexpected appearance, hadn’t prepared himself to hold the power back, and when he felt the fury radiating from her, the voice reared up, pushing toward the feeble boundaries he’d erected in his mind.

  He could feel the sweat at his temples from the exertion of keeping that power in check. He wanted to throttle Julien just for looking at Esta, and doubly for the meandering explanation, but Harte managed to keep his voice somewhat calm when he spoke. “Who, exactly, is the Veiled Prophet?”

  Julien considered the question. “The Veiled Prophet isn’t so much a who as a what.”

  “If you don’t stop talking in riddles—” Harte started to growl, but he felt another sharp kick under the table. Across from him, Esta shot a warning look that had the power inside of him purring. It liked her anger—and it liked his even more so, because it distracted him. Made him weak. So he buttoned his temper back up the best he could.

  “What Harte means to say,” Esta cut in, shooting him another look, “is that we’re in a bit of a bind. As you might have surmised from my new look, the police know I’m here in the city. We only took the risk of meeting you because we need the necklace. And since you don’t have it, we need to find it and get out of town—and out of your hair—before they find me. If there’s anything you can do to help, we’d be grateful.”

  “See, Darrigan, this is how you deal with a friend.” Julien’s mouth curved up before he turned back to Esta. “The Veiled Prophet isn’t just a person. He’s an institution in this town—a figurehead of sorts—and the person who plays him changes,” he explained. “Each year the Society selects someone new to fill the role, but the identity of the Prophet himself is never revealed. So you see, the person I sold the necklace to could have been any number of people. I never saw his face.”

  “What’s the Society?” Esta asked.

  “The Veiled Prophet Society,” Julien explained.

  “Never heard of them,” Harte told him, trying to keep his voice even.

  “You’re new in town, so that’s not surprising,” Julien said with a shrug. “But you know how it is—the rich always have their little clubs. The Society’s not so different from the Order. Mostly, it’s a bunch of bankers and politicians who see themselves as a sort of group of the city fathers, and just like the Order back in New York, they model themselves as a philanthropic organization. Each Independence Day, they put on a big parade and throw a fancy ball to crown a debutante. Nothing—and I mean nothing—happens in this city without the Society knowing or having a hand in it.”

  “Which is why you had to sell the necklace when they offered to buy it,” Esta said.

  She was right. With the kind of act Julien did, he’d be a target. He’d need the Society behind him, not against him.

  Julien nodded. His jaw was tight as he took another long swig of the whiskey in front of him. “It wasn’t just money they were offering,” he told her. “The Veiled Prophet himself came to me after one of my shows—showed up in the dressing room without an invitation, a lot like you two,” he said, but there was no real humor in his voice. “Said he’d pay a king’s ransom for the necklace, and when I refused—because honest to god, Darrigan, I never intended to part with the stupid thing—when I didn’t accept his offer right away, he made it clear that if I didn’t sell, I wouldn’t work in this town, maybe not in any other, ever again. But if I sold . . .”

  “They offered you protection,” Harte finished.

  Julien nodded tightly. “I’m this close to making it big, Darrigan. I’ve had people from the Orpheum Circuit checking out my act multiple times now, and I’ve even been talking to this bigwig in New York about developing a whole show for me, maybe even opening back on Broadway. But they aren’t completely sold on the idea yet. You know how it is. They’re waiting to see how the rest of this run goes. With the Exposition and all the visitors in town, it could go pretty well, but if the Society decided to make things hard, I could lose everything I’ve worked for. You understand?”

  Harte nodded. He did understand. He knew what it was like to be on the edge of success, one step away from the grime of your past. Sometimes you did what you had to do. How often had Harte himself ignored the coincidence of a lucky break that came not long after a “favor” he’d done for Paul Kelly? Too many. So yes, Harte understood, but . . .

  “It doesn’t change anything,” he told Julien. “We still need the necklace.”

  “You have to understand, Darrigan. As much as I’d like to, I can’t help you. Not if the Society’s involved,” Julien said. “There’s too much at stake for me right now.”

  Harte almost felt sorry for him. He definitely felt the twinges of guilt for his own part in the mess Julien was in, and he probably would have felt more than just twinges had Julien not gone against his explicit directions. “I’m afraid, Jules, that you don’t really have a choice.”

  Julien’s brow furrowed. “You can’t force me to help you.”

  He was wrong about that, of course. A simple handshake or tap, and Harte could force Julien to do whatever he wanted him to. From the tentative expression on Esta’s face, that was what she expected to happen. But he didn’t want to do things that way if he could help it. He didn’t want to treat an old friend like a common mark.

  Harte leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Let me ask you a question—do you really think that J. P. Morgan gives a fig about some dead people on a train?”

  Suddenly Julien looked wary and unsure. “What are you talking about?”<
br />
  “The bounty on Esta’s head,” Harte told him. “It isn’t because of any train derailment. It’s because of what we took from the Order.”

  “The Order denied that anything was stolen,” Julien said, but his voice wavered.

  “They lied,” Esta said. “They couldn’t let anyone know what we did. It would have made them look like weak fools if word got out that they’d been taken so easily.”

  “Their headquarters at Khafre Hall was basically a fortress,” Harte added, “and we still managed to relieve the Order of their most prized possessions, including the necklace.”

  “No,” Julien said, his voice rising.

  “Settle down, Jules,” Harte told him gently. His frustration had given way to pity—and to guilt. “People are starting to look.”

  “You wouldn’t have put me at risk like that,” Julien said, his voice shaking. “Not after all I did for you.”

  “I needed someone I could trust to keep the necklace safe for me,” Harte said. I needed someone good at keeping secrets. “And if you remember, I gave you specific instructions to keep it hidden unless you needed it for an emergency. An emergency—as in life or death. I didn’t tell you to go parading it out onstage because you got a new outfit.”

  Julien’s hand trembled as he went for the cigars in his coat pocket. “I still don’t see how any of that’s my problem.” He tried to light one, but after fumbling for a moment with the matches, he gave up.

  “Oh, come on, Jules. Don’t make me spell it out for you,” Harte said. “These rich men are all alike—and they talk. You don’t think eventually the Order is going to find out this Prophet has the necklace?”

  “And if the Order finds out, they’re going to wonder if you know where the other things are,” Esta added. “They’re going to come after you.”