“Pay her some more, the frog says,” Jennison said in a mocking voice. His boots crunched over the pottery shards. “I’ll show him, and his French tart.” The door slammed behind him.
Alistair waited a moment, listening to make sure they were actually alone in the office again, before letting go of Charlotte and opening the wardrobe door. Once he had straightened and popped a kink in his back, he helped her climb out.
“We need to get out of here, before somebody else comes in,” he whispered.
“Right. Just let me get…” She headed for the bust of Julius Caesar.
Alistair grabbed her hand. “Not on your life. We agreed. Toussaint is here, so we’re leaving. Since you’ve figured out where it is, Sir Will—Lord Q can send somebody else to retrieve it.”
“But I’m so close!” She glanced back at the glass case.
“I know, but so is Toussaint. He could come in here any moment. Don’t take any foolish risks. Lord Q is a fair man, and will give you credit for locating the box.” He caressed the side of her neck. “The important thing is to get you out of here safely.”
He hated to see her shoulders slump in defeat, but felt relief that she saw the wisdom in his decision. Careful not to disturb the teetering stack of teacups, he lifted her up and over the broken plates, opened the door a crack, and peered out. He saw the swish of a black cloak as someone entered the room across the hall, two doors down. Noise emanated from behind several closed doors and drifted down from the staircase at the far end, but the hall itself was deserted. Grabbing her hand, he darted out, pulled the door shut behind them, and wrapped his arm around her waist as befitting a properly besotted sot with his mistress.
As another couple emerged from the private gaming room, giggling and groping and heading for the stairs, Alistair bent to nuzzle her ear. “We accomplished our objective for the evening. The sooner I get you home and away from this place, the better I will feel.”
“Just one thing before we go. It’s a long ride home.” She spun on her heel and headed back, past Jennison’s office, and went in through a door on the opposite side of the hall, the same one into which the black cloak had disappeared.
Alistair started to follow her until he spotted the L carved into the door. She should be safe in the ladies’ water closet. Even here.
Shouldn’t she?
Charlotte shut the door to the ladies’ withdrawing room and leaned against it, her heart pounding. There was no way on God’s green earth she was going to get this close to the snuffbox and simply leave it behind.
Sounds of rustling fabric reminded her she was not alone—someone was in the curtained alcove, attending the call of nature. The other woman had hung her thin, worn black cloak on the peg near the door.
Black. Charlotte glanced down at her red cloak, which she’d worn less than a dozen times.
She opened the door and peeked out. In the time-honored tradition of all men waiting for women, Alistair was pacing the length of the hall. She ducked back as he made his turn and softly closed the door.
The other woman, whoever she was, shouldn’t mind a trade too terribly much, since she was getting a better cloak in exchange.
Alistair felt ridiculous propping up the wall. He paced up and down the hall, drawing a puzzled look from the serving wench who passed by. How long could it possibly take her? He strolled to the stairs and actually climbed to the next floor, then turned around as though he’d forgotten something, and strolled to the other end of the hall.
On the second round he thought he heard a hall door open, but when he looked, they were all still closed.
On the third round he spun at the sound of a door opening, but saw only the bottom edge of a black cloak entering Jennison’s office before the door clicked shut.
Charlotte pulled the hood of the black cloak over her head and peeked out the door. Alistair was halfway down the hall, his back to her.
She pulled the door closed behind her and darted across the hall, into Jennison’s office. One minute. That was all she needed. One minute, and one hairpin.
After she had the snuffbox in her reticule, she’d swap cloaks again and meet Alistair in the hall, as though nothing had happened.
She hurried over to the glass cabinet and bent to the lock. Her hands were trembling so much she almost dropped the hairpin. “Steady on,” she muttered, and took a deep breath. She glanced over her shoulder, listening. Nothing but Alistair’s even tread out in the hall.
Sweat trickled down her back and beaded on her upper lip, but she didn’t take time to swipe it off. It took a few twists and a second hairpin, but finally the lock clicked open. She slid the glass door aside, grabbed Caesar by the ears, and tugged off his head.
Yes! She plunged her hand inside Caesar’s neck, feeling the cold marble, smooth metal, and something beaded. First she pulled out an enameled cosmetic case, then a purse filled with clinking coins. She reached in again.
On the third try she withdrew a snuffbox—the most gaudy snuffbox she’d ever laid eyes on. The silver box, just big enough it didn’t quite fit in the palm of her hand, was studded with gemstones of every shape and color, set in random order, with abstract designs etched into the silver. She flipped open the lid, and her heart did a triumphant somersault at the sight of the piece of parchment folded into a tiny square.
She grinned from ear to ear, resisted the impulse to dance a little jig, and tucked the box into her reticule.
She was just putting Caesar’s head back in place when the knob on the office door turned.
Alistair scrubbed his hands through his hair. Women could certainly take an age at their toilette, but surely Charlotte would not want to linger in the water closet of a gaming hell? Especially knowing that Toussaint was on the premises.
Perhaps he’d missed her when he had climbed the stairs, and she was even now awaiting him in the taproom, impatiently tapping her toe. Fending off unwanted advances. He strode toward that end of the hall, and collided with a man just exiting the gaming room.
He was as tall as Alistair and a couple decades older, but with a heavier build, an enormous nose, and a ruddiness in his cheeks that could have come from too much alcohol or from physical exercise. Though large, he was certainly not fat.
“Beg pardon,” they both muttered at the same time, and stepped apart.
Alistair took another step to the side, dodging the three-chinned man who barreled out of the gaming room next—Jennison.
“But, Monsieur Toussaint, I have already paid that French tart what the fan was worth.”
Alistair froze.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he clenched his fists.
“I don’t care,” Toussaint said with a dismissive wave, continuing down the hall. He stopped with his hand on the doorknob to the office. “Pay her more.” He slammed the door behind him, and Jennison returned to the gaming room, muttering under his breath.
His heart racing, Alistair glanced into each of the open doorways on his way out to the taproom, anxious for a glimpse of Charlotte’s scarlet cloak.
The taproom was even more crowded than before, a sea of unwashed bodies in various states of inebriation and undress, with the scent of burnt mutton wafting over it all, drifting out from the kitchen.
No Charlotte.
To hell with the niceties, he was going to barge into the ladies’ water closet.
He had just taken a step when he heard a roar of outrage, quickly followed by a crash and a slammed door, then a string of colorful French oaths bellowed by a healthy set of lungs, barely muffled behind a closed door.
Several people pushed at him to get out into the hall, to see the source of the outcry. Alistair shoved back, pushing his way to the front of the pack.
“Allez au diable, Parnell! I should have drowned you in the Seine when I had the chance!”
Alistair turned the corner just in time to see the edge of a black cloak disappearing at the top of the stairs. His blood froze at the sight of Toussaint raisi
ng a pistol, aimed at a retreating woman’s back. Clad in a scarlet cloak.
“No!” he screamed, surging forward.
Toussaint fired.
The explosion of the pistol in such a confined space was deafening, and shattered Alistair’s world.
She pitched forward, the red stain darkening her scarlet cloak, spreading from between her shoulders, and was still.
Chapter 18
“Putain,” Toussaint muttered, glaring at the body. “Should have drowned you in the river, like a sack of kittens, instead of wasting powder and shot.” He finally noticed the crowd in the hallway. “She was a thief! No one steals from me and gets away with it. She—”
Alistair smashed his fist into Toussaint’s nose.
The Frenchman staggered, blood spurting, staining the walls and Alistair’s cravat, but did not go down.
He wouldn’t give the whoreson a chance to fire again. Putting all of his weight behind it, all of his fury and pain, Alistair hit him again, an uppercut to the jaw that whipped Toussaint’s head back. Toussaint slammed into the door frame and crumpled to the floor. Unconscious or dead, Alistair didn’t much care.
In the hush that fell over the assembled crowd, he dropped to his knees beside Charlotte’s motionless form. The scarlet cloak covered her scandalous dress, the hood drawn up to conceal her dark wig.
The bloodstain on her back had stopped spreading.
No heartbeat to pump the blood.
He stretched out one hand to her shoulder, surprised that it did not tremble. He remembered her mischievous blue eyes, her distracting freckle, her stubborn streak. He wanted to throw his head back and howl.
Howl to vocalize the pain of his lost dreams of his life with Charlotte, the life they were supposed to share. All the hopes he’d only just begun to harbor for their future. Gone.
He’d failed to protect her.
All of his strength, his determination, wealth and power, vaunted lineage—it meant nothing. He’d failed to protect the woman he loved.
As a helpless child, he couldn’t save his mother and siblings.
He was a mature adult now, far from helpless, and still he’d failed.
He pulled off his gloves and rested his hand on her shoulder, as he had done so often. She lay still, as though peacefully sleeping, but the warm, sticky blood on his fingers shattered the illusion. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, he leaned across to caress her downy soft cheek one last, final time. Whisper in her ear what he should have said while she still lived.
The curve of her jaw was different.
This wasn’t Charlotte.
He jerked back as though burned, then pulled down the hood of the cloak.
Melisande.
This wasn’t Charlotte. Charlotte wasn’t dead.
He lurched to his feet, scrubbing his hands through his hair, oblivious to the blood on his fingers.
Charlotte was alive.
He started breathing again. He sagged against the wall, weak with relief. Poor unfortunate Melisande, but Charlotte was alive.
Where was she?
The crowd had started chattering, discussing whether they should send for the Watch or not. Perhaps they should just throw the thief’s body into the river?
Alistair searched their faces, looking for Charlotte’s familiar gamine features among them, her blue eyes and rouged lips. Not there.
He pushed his way through the crowd until he could open the door to the ladies’ water closet and step inside, ignoring the shocked gasps.
“He’s gone daft,” one woman muttered.
“Oi, mate, the gent’s room is down that way,” a gruff voice offered.
There were mirrors and wall sconces, curtains and stools, wall hooks and dressing tables—everything one would expect in a ladies’ water closet, but no ladies.
No Charlotte.
Damn it, where was she? His stomach clenched anew.
He pushed his way out into the hall and searched the crowd again.
His gaze fell on Melisande, still lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Wearing a scarlet cloak.
Charlotte’s cloak.
When he’d noted Melisande in the gaming room before, she’d been wearing a black cloak.
From the corner of his eye he’d seen someone in a black cloak scampering up the stairs just before Toussaint fired. Before that, he’d seen a black cloak entering Jennison’s office.
Charlotte must have switched cloaks while Melisande was occupied in the water closet.
Damn Charlotte’s impetuous, impatient hide.
Upstairs, he opened every door, poked inside every room, ignoring the outraged complaints from the occupants.
Still no Charlotte.
But there was an open window at the end of the hall.
He leaned out. No one in their right mind would willingly go out onto the steep, tiled roof in the dark, made slick from the steady drizzle falling from the sky.
No one but an astronomer. Or a female spy.
He banged his hand against the window casing, adding to the throbbing pain from when he’d hit Toussaint.
At least now he knew how she had made her exit.
He went back downstairs, stepped over Toussaint’s prone form into the office, and checked the bust of Julius Caesar.
The glass case stood open and Caesar’s head was shattered on the floor, revealing the bust’s hollow neck. Empty.
No snuffbox.
Alistair slammed the cabinet door shut, and the glass splintered into a thousand shards.
She’d agreed. He’d said they were here to look. It was too dangerous for them to remove the snuffbox. They would let Lord Q send somebody else to get it.
But Charlotte had taken the box anyway, and now Melisande was dead.
He hung his head in defeat.
Charlotte hadn’t actually agreed with him. She’d kept silent.
He lifted his head, stared around the room.
What now?
She had the snuffbox. Would she rush home, in a hurry to show it off to Steven, rub his nose in the fact that she’d been right, he was wrong, and she’d succeeded where he and Gauthier had failed?
As Alistair stepped through the doorway, Toussaint groaned and struggled to sit up. Alistair plucked the pistol from his limp grip, smashed the butt into Toussaint’s jaw, and strode down the still crowded hall.
Everyone scrambled out of his way.
Halfway to the town house Charlotte shared with her aunt and half brother, Alistair reconsidered, and shouted different directions to the driver.
The coach dropped him at the requested address, and Alistair marched up to the front door of an elegant town house in Mayfair.
What if Sir William was not at home? Or worse, what if he had company?
It was after midnight. Would Charlotte wait until tomorrow, deliver her prize during respectable calling hours?
Certainly propriety would force her to wait until morning. He snorted. Charlotte, wait? That would be like a rooster trying to hold back the dawn.
He raised his hand to lift the knocker. Behind him, the jingle of a harness alerted him to the arrival of another coach.
Charlotte hopped out of the coach, paid the driver, and trotted up the path toward Lord Q’s front door.
She’d done it! She’d successfully retrieved the box and the letter. Lord Q couldn’t help but be impressed with her skills. Now he’d offer her continued employment, with or without Steven. She would be able to fend for herself, and not be reliant on a husband, father, or brother. She wasn’t condemned to the life of a social butterfly like her mother, silly and useless. Like her father, she’d serve the crown, save lives. Make a difference. Do the work she loved. Be independent.
Live life exactly the way she wanted. On her terms.
She’d had a moment of panic when Toussaint surprised her by entering the office. She’d crouched down and hidden behind a painting. When his back had been turned, going to his desk, she’d jumped up and darted out. He saw he
r just as she went out the door, and bellowed her name in rage.
Her heart still beat wildly at the memory. She’d never ascended a flight of stairs so quickly. The back of her neck prickled, but he’d shot wide of the mark and missed her entirely.
She hadn’t even torn Melisande’s borrowed cloak when she climbed out the window, skittered down the roof and drain pipe, and jumped to the ground. Hailing a hackney several blocks away had proven to be the most difficult part of retrieving the snuffbox.
But she’d succeeded!
A shadow near the town house door detached itself from the wall, stepped into the puddle of light cast by the lantern beside the door frame, and revealed itself to be Alistair.
He’d no doubt be upset she had gone against his wishes, and miffed that she’d left Lost Wages without him, but surely he would bear no grudge when he realized she’d succeeded? She offered a smile in greeting. “I knew you’d figure out where to meet me.”
His fingers were stiff at his sides, as though he was forcing himself not to curl them into fists. “How could you?”
She recoiled from the controlled fury in his voice.
Oh, what a wealth of meanings to which that question could refer. There were tight lines around his mouth and a particularly deep furrow between his eyes. Tension rolled off him in palpable waves.
Her grin faltered. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”
“We were going to wait. Let Q send somebody else to actually retrieve the snuffbox. You would have still been given credit for locating it.” He stepped so close she had to tilt her head back to an uncomfortable angle to still see his face.
She swallowed. “I couldn’t take the chance Toussaint would move it. The last time I just waited and watched, like you wanted, I watched someone else make off with the box right out from under my nose. I couldn’t let that happen again.”
Shirley Kerr Page 26