John took a bite of caviar, appearing bored as he glanced about the room in an effort to increase her desire for his attention. “Give me a hint.”
“I went to university in St. Petersburg.”
“Oh, let’s see. You’re Russian. You were a student in St. Petersburg.” He smiled playfully. “You took an oath to kill the Czar.”
Shock crossed her expression, followed by a frown. “Why you say this? This is not funny to Russian.” She feigned indignation, but he didn’t think it was because he had insulted her—but because he had hit the mark.
“Are you quite serious, Miss Janvier?” He stared at her aghast, which appeared to please her, before he burst into laugher. “I was only making a joke. University students. St. Petersburg. I didn’t suppose you would be part of a knitting group with your oath to make a blanket before the winter set in.”
John leaned back in his chair, laughing to ease the tension while his mind raced. So, perhaps she belonged to a revolutionary group which plotted to kill the Czar—and which succeeded. If this was the vow she kept, then the second vow she hadn’t kept—along with her marriage vow—was that of protecting the Czar. A truly successful agent would have pretended to work both sides in order to obtain information.
“I told you not funny! That was Ignacy Hryniewiecki. The first bomb which failed was Nikolai Rysakov. They have both been executed.” He thought he saw a smug smile cross her expression. “All Russian know this.”
“Of course.” He shrugged, feigning indifference as he motioned to the waiter. “Dull dinner conversation at any rate.”
A blush crossed her expression, an experience he was certain was quite uncommon to her, followed by intense anger. Inadvertently he placed his free hand on the pistol inside his jacket.
She looked as if she were through speaking—and through with dinner. She withdrew her hand in a pronounced fashion, starting to rise from her chair, and it was obvious that she was furious. If she was indeed a spy, having her cover blown was extremely dangerous for her—and for him.
Life or death, he didn’t care, but he did want to succeed at this and to protect his country. He decided to try a different tactic, attempting to prove to her that he was harmless.
“There, there, my dear,” John murmured. “I would not offend the magnificent Miss Janvier for the world. And remember, it was your game, not mine. I assure you that I have little interest in your empty oaths to political groups.” He hoped she believed him. Taking a box from the inside of his coat, he handed it to her, afraid that if he didn’t, she might leave. “Please take this as an apology and a token of my admiration.”
She opened the box to behold a double strand of perfect pearls, her eyes suddenly growing wide with appreciation.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked, helping to put the pearls on, which looked magnificent against her bare skin, framed as they were in black silk.
She fingered the beautiful pearls, looking at him as if to decide if he was just a foolish, wealthy man or an actual threat. Her eyes narrowed.
“No more talk of such things,” she said.
“Certainly not. I abhor politics. Frightfully dull.”
The lobster arrived, and he was glad she had ordered it, succulent and delicious as it was.
John didn’t know if it was the champagne or her idea of manipulation, but she seemed to suddenly think it better to make light of the entire situation. “Is true, I heard of the revolutionary groups, I went to a few meetings, but I had no interest.”
“Why did you go then?” To withdraw at this point would make her more suspicious.
“Is many handsome young men in revolutionary groups. Also, it annoyed husband.”
“Ha! Ha!” He gave the reaction he thought she would like but studied her eyes, taking her hand in a patronizing manner. “But you could be hung for such an offense, Miss Janvier. Belonging to such a group was extremely reckless of you.”
“Is true I reckless.” Her seductive smile accentuated her words. “But if caught, would simply say I was spying on revolutionaries.”
Not unless she had an official position with the Russian Imperial Police to protect the Czar. She wouldn’t be believed otherwise—and would hang.
He effected a sudden frown, hoping to display his displeasure. Perhaps playing the jealous besotted fool would be more to the diva’s liking.
“Revolutionary groups is where I met Stanislav,” she said, in an obvious attempt to make him jealous.
John frowned, attempting to give her the reaction she wanted. “He seems a bitter young man, always complaining about the bourgeoisie and the injustice of things. He seems to greatly resent anyone with money.”
“Stanislav is fool. Why not just take money?” she laughed. “He not know when to keep mouth shut. Or how to get what he want . . .”
“And you do, Miss Janvier?”
She nodded, taking another sip of champagne, a sensual light in her eyes. He had to admit that he was drawn in.
“It stands to reason. And yet—what would be your reason for associating with him, my divine Miss Janvier? He is poor, and you seem, forgive me, rather fond of, let us say, affluence.”
“Why not? What poverty can offer?” She took a bite of the succulent lobster, staring at him sideways in a manner which sizzled.
“Ah, but do you love wealth more than danger and adventure, Joëlle?” he laughed, easily goading her on.
She shrugged, but there was amusement in her expression.
Most of all, he wondered, Are you still planning to kill the Czar? An action which could entirely destabilize Russia. If the rebel forces succeeded in taking over the government of the world’s largest country, who knew what else it might lead to on an international plane?
John wondered. Am I as clever as I think myself to be? Was this all bedroom games? Or simply that she thought him to be harmless? Or was her improved disposition an act? He sensed danger in proceeding, but he had to attempt to find out if she would tell him more. Now for the information he had been directed to procure.
The timing felt right; he prayed that he did not delude himself. He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Prince George—I saw you speaking to him. Is he one of your beau, Miss Janvier?”
“Georgie?” she giggled. “Not be silly, Zsh-ohn. He is old man.” She shrugged, but it was obvious she liked the turn of the conversation
“That is not what I asked. Are you keeping his company?” He raised his glass to her, but kept his expression severe.
There was fire in her eyes, but she was amused. This was a game she liked. “You telling Joëlle who she may see and who may not see?”
He raised his eyebrows in disapproval, patting his lips with his napkin as if he were ignoring a spoiled child having a tantrum.
But he knew very well that threats would not hold her. She was for sale to the highest bidder and the only way to keep her was to offer more than anyone else. Since his discretionary income was now the equal of Prince George’s thanks to Mycroft and the British government, he did have an advantage. He was young and fully functional, not an old man, all other things being equal.
“Do not pout, love,” he murmured, lightly touching the pearl strand around her neck. “I am willing to lavish every manner of gift on you.”
“I like every manner,” she murmured.
“But I am devoted to only one woman at a time, so naturally I do not wish to share.”
“Humph! I saw you talking to Veronika.“ Slowly she lowered herself back into her red velvet seat. It appeared that jealousy was a useful tool. She did not care to be second to any woman.
“She is a beautiful girl, certainly. You see, I like the Russian girls.”
“Stanislav like Veronika too. How dare you tell Joëlle not to see other men when you look at other women!” she retorted venomously.
“A mere child!” He laughed, taking her hand and kissing it, bestowing his most devastating smile upon her. “You, my dear, are a . . . woman.”
Her lips began to form a smile before she caught herself.
“And I am a man who does not share. Those pearls, for example.” He ran his free hand along her pearls, in the process touching the skin along her neck, even as he watched her shiver. “The luminescent quality of a genuine strand of pearls becomes your translucent complexion so well, don’t you think, Mademoiselle Joëlle? And would you not like the earrings to match the necklace?”
“Da.” She blushed before the fire returned to her eyes. “Is it gift or bribe?”
“Spend time with whomever you like, Miss Janvier. Keep the pearls. If you prefer the company of an old man, I shall look elsewhere. There are many ladies who like jewelry and fine dining. I prefer you—so beautiful, so experienced—but I shall not be alone long. “Do I . . .” he ran his hand along her cheek, “please you?”
“Da, Doctor Zsh-ohn,” she replied, breathless.
“But you must have more than one man, is that it?”
John could see the reluctance in her eyes, but it wasn’t because there was something he could not provide. Whether it was for the game—or the political benefit, he did not know.
He knew that at some point he had to force the issue, even if it made her bolt. Especially if it made her bolt: that would tell those in the service of the Queen all they needed to know.
John looked at the ravishing beauty before him. On second thought, it was too early to press the point and demand a choice. It was necessary to romance her a bit more.
“Are you ready for dessert?” he asked seductively, leaving some question about the dessert that he had planned.
She nodded, a slight smile forming on her lips.
I know my duty. It was a tiresome, thankless task, but he had made a promise to his government.
John snapped his fingers to the waiter, motioning for the cherries flambé.
“It is in your hands then, Joëlle. I shall let you decide. But once you have made your decision, I shall not be revisiting it.”
He was bluffing. Did she suspect?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Walking Dead
“HRRRRRR!” As the wild animal ripped into the flesh, Mirabella could not help but imagine it as her own.
Of all her numerous revolting tasks, feeding the tigers was the one she hated the most. Right after being in the cage with the tigers. Even cleaning the tiger cages was better than the feedings—and the resulting carnage.
“There, there, Pasha, I p-promised you a t-treat!” And I never break my promises to anyone with fangs capable of eating me for dinner. Mirabella spoke as soothingly as she could manage to the four-hundred pound Bengal as she cautiously placed the raw meat on a stick through the bars of his cage, her heart still pounding. It was a wonder her heart hadn’t pounded out of her chest during the last twenty-four hours.
Mirabella told herself that she might never go back into the ring, that was yet to be decided, but in the meantime she had responsibilities to fulfill. However much she might wish to ignore them. And now, of course, she had to tell Sherlock about Veronika and the missing key.
She hoped she might do so before she was eliminated—by man or beast, neither would surprise her. But there was no way to get word to Sherlock. She didn’t know where he was staying. And John Watson was dining with Miss Janvier.
“Such a magnificent animal in such a small space,” she murmured with a sigh, admiring Major’s orange fur from a distance after pushing the meat into his cage.
“You deserve so much better,” she added in a whisper. Despite her fears, she felt sorry for the animal and felt the cat’s anger to be legitimate.
“ROAR!”
Still, she did not wish to be shredded with that same anger. As much as she hated the idea of leaving Sherlock Holmes’ employ—at the moment she loved the job and hated the man—she was not willing to sacrifice her life for the honor.
Or was it loved the man and hated the job? She didn’t know anymore. But she was certain she hated something.
After leaving her delightful meetings with each Sherlock and Veronika, Mirabella had first washed herself followed by washing her satin high heels and her outfit (it was, as yet, unknown if they were ruined). She had then done what she should have done to begin with: put on some serviceable shoes and warmer clothes. Sherlock had been in such a dreadful hurry to speak with her that she had not changed before following his summons.
Mirabella pursed her lips as she thought of Sherlock. She had never met a person with less patience for anything outside of his own agenda.
“Yes, yes, I am so sorry to keep you waiting!” she apologized to all the tigers. “I know that you expect to be fed immediately after the performance, but I was with someone with an even louder roar than you!”
RRROOOWAH!!!!
Strange that Sherlock Holmes could have the patience of a saint for a task which might drive anyone else to jump off the London Tower and yet be feverishly intolerant towards anyone who did not share his perceptions and was not on his time schedule.
Mirabella felt a twang of guilt for her own part in Sherlock’s annoyance. If the truth be told, she was not doing that which she was hired to do. As yet, he wasn’t aware that she had learned anything of significance.
Just as Dr. Watson had been instructed to pay close attention to Joëlle Janvier. It was clear that Dr. John Watson had that covered in spades.
Evangeline roared, impatient for her dinner.
“Believe me, I feel the same way,” she murmured to the rarest of all the tigers, the beautiful golden, feeling a sudden kinship.
Mirabella felt her stomach growling with hunger, hoping to someday purchase something greasy, salty, and fatty from the food stand in the park set up for the circus employees. She placed the meat in Evangeline’s cage on a stick.
It was the height of torture to know that the ever-so handsome and debonair Dr. John Watson was gallivanting about with a woman-of-the-world: a beautiful and experienced woman whom she could never hope to compete with.
Did she wish to be like Joëlle Janvier? Ravishing and bewitching, desired by men?
Of course I do! Well, not all men. Just one in particular.
She sighed. John Watson. So nice. So uncomplicated. So handsome.
Mirabella sighed. The mysteries of attraction went far beyond appearance. Except where Dr. John Watson was concerned—who was far and away the most beautiful man she had ever beheld.
“Evangeline! You were resplendent tonight in the ring!” Mirabella returned to admire the gorgeous golden.
“Rajah, you were the best of all the tigers tonight, you will receive an extra treat. You are a perfect gentleman.” She sighed, a picture of the handsome John Watson flashing before her eyes, wining and dining the beautiful Miss Janvier. “Unlike most men!”
As she contemplated the lovely time everyone else in her entourage was having, the difference in their circumstances was glaring. No doubt Sherlock was staying in a local hotel with a private toilet and hot running water while she slept in a tent with the female circus crew and used a public wash basin filled with cold water to hand bathe herself behind a makeshift curtain, as did all the other ladies, the water so cold that the soap never properly dissolved.
And that is the best part of my day.
Grateful she was to have the soap, even a shared bar. It was a fact that Londoners and Parisians were competitive with their scent. And it was no wonder: the smell of soap or the lack therein was a strong indicator of one’s station in life. A bar of ordinary soap was roughly the cost of a good piece of beef, and a lady’s scented bar of soap well beyond that. To obtain water required effort after a long day of labor; how well she knew since she had had to carry a new bucket to the basin after washing her clothes.
Mirabella glanced at the small cage of the magnificent cat torn from her jungle home. Perhaps one wasn’t so afflicted after all.
“We all have our role to play, don’t we?” she asked Pasha, who, with his big golden eyes, almost tempted one to place one
’s hand in the cage, so sympathetic was his expression. She murmured to the tiger, “At least I chose my vocation voluntarily.”
It was true. She had wanted to do detective work, which was not an occupation that came with luxurious surroundings. One was to observe for long hours in probable discomfort; that was her job, and the purpose was not to provide her with entertainment—or luxury.
Mirabella was well aware of these facts. But Sherlock bloody Holmes should at least feel something if she were to die! Was that asking too much? Particularly when she was willing to sacrifice everything to perform well for him.
“Good Zamba!” She placed the meat in the cage with a stick and then backed up, even though she was a decent two feet away and there were bars between them.
And why? Why am I willing to do so much for Sherlock?
“Don’t eat so fast, Prince! You’ll give yourself indigestion.” His golden fur glistened in the light.
Rip! Shred! Well, that was time well spent, teaching dining etiquette to a hungry tiger.
“He is magnificent animal, nicht?” she heard a voice behind her ask. “You see Evangeline, in small house. She is of large size for female.”
Mirabella turned suddenly to see a girl covered almost entirely in bandages with crutches under her arms.
Angels above! Mirabella stared at her visitor stupefied, unable to reply.
“I saw you in show today—you looked frightened,” the mummy girl continued in a shy voice. “You must come to love them.”
“How were you injured?” asked Mirabella abruptly, finding her voice somehow. It sounded so rude, but the words seemed to erupt from her mouth.
“It was mine fault. I was with tigers when—”
“Heaven save us all!” Mirabella reached out to brace herself, the sight of the bandages and crutches dissolving what little remaining courage she possessed. “The tigers did that to you?”
“It was my fault. I lost my footing in a muddy arena, and it startled tigers when I fell.”
Sherlock Holmes and the Dance of the Tiger Page 12