by Robert Thier
‘Anglais, s’il vous plaît?’ Claudette told the assistant with an apologetic smile.
‘Of course, Madame.’ He bowed deeply. ‘We often get customers from the British Isles in our establishment. And for good reason. After all, our handiwork is famed throughout the world.’
‘A reputation which I’m sure is not undeserved.’
‘You’re too kind, Madame.’
‘Not at all, not at all. Now, if you would be so good as to show as some of your wares…’
‘Of course, Madame. What would you and your husband like to see?’
My eyes went wide. ‘Oh no, no, nononono! We’re not married.’
The shop assistant blinked owlishly. ‘You are not?’
‘No.’
‘Brother and sister, then, oui?’
‘No. No, definitely not.’
‘Oh. Well…err…’ For a moment or two, the poor man struggled for words. You could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he tried to figure out our connection. Young aunt and nephew? Lady and her chubby gigolo? The latter obviously didn’t suit his taste very well. He cleared his throat. ‘My apologies. It is none of my affair, Monsieur et Madame. What items would you like to see?’
I gave him a bright smile. ‘We’re going to the opera.’
‘Ah!’ The old shopkeeper’s face brightened at the sound of something so respectable and familiar. ‘Of course. How wonderful. What may I show you? Accessories only, or a whole wardrobe?’
‘We need everything, please. A beautiful dress fit for the best of society, up to and including royalty, and a tailcoat and trousers of the same quality.’
‘Royalty?’ The little man’s eyes went wide. ‘You don’t mean…?’
‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘We expect to be introduced to His Majesty in the course of the evening.’
Now the little tailor was beaming. Surely, if we were going to see royalty, we had to be respectable people, right?
‘Don’t you worry, Monsieur et Madame!’ He clapped his hands. ‘I shall make you a tailcoat that Jupiter himself would not be ashamed to wear. And for you, Madame, I shall make a dress the likes of which the world has never seen.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ I hurriedly clarified, my smile widening. ‘The dress is for me, and the tailcoat is for her.’
*~*~**~*~*
‘Aaah! Safe at last.’ With a sigh of bliss, I let the dress settle around me.
Behind me, Claudette chuckled and started buttoning up the back.
‘This is the first time I have heard that response to putting on a gown from Leclercq & Lacroix, mon amie. Stunning? Oui. Beautiful? Absolutely. But safe? What do you think it is? A plate armour?’ She sounded highly amused. ‘It will not protect you from bullets, you know.’
‘Not from bullets,’ I agreed, ‘but from Emilias.’
‘Ha! Oui, of course she will be the biggest danger you’ll encounter tonight.’
‘You think you’re joking.’
Making a derisive French noise at the back of her throat, Claudette closed the last button. ‘There. Tout est prêt.’
‘Hey! Why did you call me a prat?’
‘Because we still need to work on your French, I think.’
‘Hm.’ Ignoring her jibe, I tugged at my dress. ‘How do I look?’
She scrutinized me. ‘Utterly and completely non-male.’
‘Good. That was what I was going for.’
‘And also…’
‘Yes?’
‘Magnifique.’
A slow smile spread across my face.
Claudette patted me on the shoulder. ‘’e will be blown away.’
‘He?’ I fluttered my lashes. ‘Who could you possibly mean?’ Turning, I examined Claudette. ‘You clean up pretty nicely, too.’
‘Why, thank you.’ She bowed, the long tails of her tailcoat billowing behind her. Elegantly, she extended one arm to me. ‘May I escort you down the stairs, Mademoiselle?’
‘You may, Monsieur.’
Once we reached the landing, we saw Mr Ambrose standing down in the entrance hall of the opera, Karim and the pale figure of the saboteur beside him.
‘…was your meeting with Dalgliesh?’ Mr Ambrose was asking. ‘Did he seem suspicious?’
‘N-no, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Not at all.’
‘And you stored the items we discussed exactly where I told you to?’
If possible, the face of the little worm went even paler.
‘Y-yes. B-but what do you intend to do with—’
Mr Ambrose raised one finger.
The saboteur shut his mouth.
‘Adequate. Now, if you have done everything you said, you might—emphasis on might—get out of this with your head attached to your body. If not…’ Mr Ambrose tapped his pocket. ‘I have your signed confession right here, and the other two copies are in the hands of capable people who know what to do with them. If the police get their hands on them, you’ll be spending a decade or two behind bars. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’
‘Adequate.’
Just then, Mr Ambrose looked up. His eyes swept over the stairs for a moment—then he saw me.
One of his eyebrows lifted about half a millimetre.
‘Ah. Miss Linton.’
‘Err…is this what his version of “blown away” looks like?’ Claudette whispered from behind me.
I grinned. ‘This is what his version of everything looks like.’
‘My poor dear. You ‘ave my condolences.’
I didn’t really hear her. I was already rushing down the stairs. Mr Ambrose had hardly enough time to fully turn towards me before I crashed into him, flinging my arms around him.
‘Miss Linton! What, pray, are you doing?’
‘Hugging you,’ I whispered into his chest. ‘It’s the first time in ages I’ve been able to without having to wonder if anyone is watching. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.’
For a moment, there was nothing but startled silence. Then his stiff form relaxed just a tiny little bit, and his arms slid around me. That was all the response I needed. I leaned into him, not giving a damn if anyone was staring. Finally, I relaxed my grip and looked up at him, a fierce grin spreading across my face.
‘Shall we go kick Dalgliesh’s arse?’
His eyes met mine and held them for a moment that felt like forever.
‘Let’s go, Miss Linton.’
Memorable Moments
‘I have to admit, his opera looks better than yours. Did you skimp on decorations?’
Mr Ambrose gave me a cool look, then turned back to the massive building in front of us. I had spoken the truth. It did look better than Mr Ambrose’s opera house—if you measured beauty in pomp and luxury. But at a second glance, you could see where Dalgliesh’s architect had used just a little bit too much decoration, just a little bit too much gilding and glitter. There might be less pomp at Mr Ambrose’s building, but there also was a lot more style.
And fewer murderous plots, probably, as well.
‘Well?’ I asked, slipping my arm into Mr Ambrose’s and smiling up at him. ‘Shall we go give His Lordship a nice surprise?’
‘We shall. Let’s go.’
‘Yes, let’s!’ came an excited voice from behind us. ‘Oh, sis is going to fun!’
Followed by Claudette, Mr Ambrose and I climbed the front steps to the arched entryway. The doorman at this place looked a whole lot bigger and more intimidating than the one Mr Ambrose had had the misfortune to employ.
‘Des billets, s’il vous plait?’
‘Do you speak English?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Read this.’
Mr Ambrose held out the king’s note.
‘Sat is not a ticket, Monsieur.’
‘Read it.’
Frowning, the doorman unfolded the note and started to skim it—when his face suddenly paled.
‘Mon dieu! Monsieur, you are truly here—’
‘—on the personal in
vitation of His Majesty King Louis Philippe? Yes. I am afraid his invitation arrived at too short a notice to procure tickets for ourselves. We can, of course, come back another time, if you would be so kind as to give His Majesty our apologies and explain to him why we could not—’
‘Oh, no! No, Monsieur! I wouldn’t dream of it. Please, come in. Guests of ‘is Majesty the king are always welcome. He ‘as the best box to himself, after all, and can do with it as he sees fit.’
‘Adequate.’ Tugging the royal note from the doorman’s motionless hands, Mr Ambrose pocketed it and strode inside. ‘We’ll find our own way.’
When we were inside and out of hearing distance, I squeezed his arm and beamed up at him.
‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. Even on a deadly mission with the fate of the entire world at stake, you still find time to cheat your enemies out of the price of three tickets. That’s what I call staying true to yourself.’
Claudette gave the two of us a look and shook her head. ‘One sing is for sure. Nobody will ever write an opera about se two of you. Nobody in the audience would be able to figure out when you’re flirting and when you’re insulting each other.’
‘We do both at the same time,’ I told her, grinning up at Mr Ambrose. ‘Knowledge is power is time is money, right?’
I felt his fingers give my arms a gentle squeeze.
‘Indeed.’
The entrance hall was brightly lit and filled with excited chatter—about tonight’s performance, and much more besides. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones to know that His Royal Majesty the King would be present tonight. Gentlemen were walking extra stiffly and correctly, and ladies were checking and re-checking their hair and clothes in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors
The three of us proceeded in a tight group towards the grand stairs that obviously led to the upper levels and the best boxes in the opera, our heads lowered. It wouldn’t be smart to be recognized too soon, in case any of Dalgliesh’s goons were here. Once we reached the top of the stairs, Mr Ambrose nodded to Claudette in her male costume.
‘You’ll find the items you need in the third bin down the hall in the west corridor. If that little snake of a saboteur didn’t do as told and they aren’t there, signal us by coming to the royal box and knocking on the door three times short, one time long. Understood?’
‘Oui, Monsieur!’ Grinning, Claudette gave a mock salute. She was obviously having the time of her life. ‘Do I get a bonus for this?’
‘Yes. A bonus of one tailcoat and one pair of trousers from Paris’s foremost fashion designer, completely free of charge.’
‘Sacre bleu! How generous. You take my breath away.’
‘I’m in a generous mood, so you can keep it. Get to work.’
Hand in hand, we stood there and watched Claudette bustle away.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have involved her in this,’ I murmured.
‘Why not, pray, Mr Linton?’
‘Because she could get shot or arrested!’
‘Do you know another Parisian with sufficient acting skills we can trust to keep their mouth shut afterwards?’
‘Well, I don’t think we can trust her to keep her mouth shut entirely—’
‘Except for when she’s singing.’
‘Oh. Well, in that case, no I can’t think of anybody else. But still—’
‘Adequate. Then that is settled.’
Taking a tighter hold of my arm, he started to steer me down the corridor, and I let him, because, honestly, I had no bloody clue where we were supposed to be going. We took a turn, and then another one, climbing another set of stairs. The farther we went, the more luxurious our surroundings became, and the more guards were everywhere. I had to keep myself from jerking back the first time I saw a soldier in the uniform of the presidency armies.[34] Lord Dalgliesh’s personal lackeys were everywhere, and they made my skin crawl. Another one was just coming around the corner, and I felt my mouth twist in disgust—until I saw his face.
‘Crap!’ The word escaped me as a hiss.
Mr Ambrose froze. ‘What is it, Mr Linton?’
‘I’ve met him! He knows my face!’
Mr Ambrose froze. ‘Are you certain he will remember?’
‘The way I smashed the butt of my gun into his ugly mug was pretty memorable!’
‘I see.’
He was on me before I could even blink. Grabbing my shoulders, he whirled me around into an alcove, blocking out the light from the corridor.
‘What the heck are you doing?’ I hissed. ‘Don’t you realize we’ll only attract more attention if we try to hide and—mmmmph…’
My words were abruptly cut off when his hands slid up to take hold of my face, and his mouth came down on mine.
Holy…
Thank God for violent criminal kidnapping thugs in the service of megalomaniacal evil masterminds! You are fabulous! The world needs more of you!
‘Are you satisfied with my deception techniques?’ he murmured against my lips. ‘Or do I need to get more inventive?’
No! No, please, or I’ll have a heart attack.
‘Yes!’ I breathed. ‘Do! Now!’
What do you know? My mouth was getting emancipated.
‘Indeed?’
That was all he said. Just that one word. His one hand tightened its grip on my face, while his others moved down over my cheek, splayed fingers caressing my face, my neck, my…
Oh my.
Somewhere very, very far away, footsteps passed by. I didn’t really pay any attention.
Mr Ambrose renewed his attack on my mouth. He was merciless. Without the slightest hint of pity. My knees started to tremble below me, and one strong arm came around my waist to pull me against him, so close the heat of his skin almost burned me and—
And then he let go.
‘Wbldb?’
I blinked in the sudden light. Mr Ambrose had stepped out of the alcove and was peering around the corner.
‘He is gone,’ he announced coolly. ‘We can proceed.’
Proceed? Hell yes, I wanted to proceed! I wanted to proceed all night and into the small hours of the morning, preferably on a comfortable bed!
‘Miss Linton?’ He snapped his fingers in front of my face. ‘King? Minister? Assassination, remember?’
Lifting my nose into the air, I slapped his fingers away. ‘Of course I remember! I was just considering our strategy.’
‘Of course.’
In a very gentle and loving way, I stomped on his foot.
‘Drop that smug tone, mister!’
‘I have not the slightest clue what you could possibly mean, Miss Linton.’
‘Of course you don’t.’
He offered me his arm, and I took it as the peace offering it was. Arm in arm, we continued down the corridor.
‘So, Miss Linton—what exactly in regard to our strategy was it that you were considering?’
I thought quickly—or as quickly as I was capable of at the moment, with my mind still fogged. What to say? Well…there was actually one point I had meant to ask about, a daunting possibility that had preyed on my mind for some time.
‘What if the assassination is already planned for tonight?’ I whispered.
‘Assassinating the King of the French on the very first night after inviting him to his private opera house? I don’t think even Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh would be so bold. If there is anything that man prizes more than power, it is his public image. He would not risk suspicion falling on him for such an inane reason as haste.’
I smirked up at him. ‘You would. You’d want to get it over with as quickly as possible.’
‘True.’ He looked over at me, and his eyes were so cold it sent a delicious shiver down my back. ‘But if I wanted to start a war between two countries, I wouldn’t have to kill to do it.’
I wasn’t quite sure which was worse—the fact that I believed him, or the fact that his words, horrifying though they might be, ma
de me want to grab him and kiss him senseless.
‘Monsieur? Madame?’ At the sound of the strange voice, I glanced up and saw a man in uniform. My heart filled with ice-cold fear—until I realized it wasn’t a uniform of the presidency armies. It was a French uniform. Sagging against the wall, I gave a sigh of relief, probably the first any English man or woman had uttered at the sight of a French soldier since that little matter with Napoleon.
‘Yes?’ Mr Ambrose cocked his head at the soldier.
‘Oh. Vous etes…English? Anglais, oui? I am sorry, Monsieur. But I cannot let you pass ‘ere. This ‘allway leads to se royal box of ‘is Majesty. I cannot let anyone srough.’
‘Maybe you’ll make an exception for us,’ Mr Ambrose told him, handing him the note. The soldier’s eyes flicked over it, and quickly, he bowed. ‘Yes of course. Pardon me, Monsieur. I was unaware you had been invited. Jaques!’
He snapped his fingers and another soldier appeared around the corner, this one with fewer stripes on his uniform and more pimples on his face.
‘Jaques, conduct sis lady and gentleman to ‘is Majesty se king immediately, please.’
The young man saluted. ‘Immediatement, mon colonel!’
‘My thanks, colonel.’ Mr Ambrose nodded at the officer. ‘A young associate of mine may drop by to deliver an important memo sometime during the evening. Monsieur Claude is his name. Would you mind letting him through?’
‘Well…’ The Frenchmen hesitated. ‘Is sis memorandum of interest to the king? Otherwise, I would not very much like to disturb him unnecessarily.’
‘Trust me,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as deadpan as a whole collection of suicidal cooking pots. ‘My business here tonight is of great interest to His Majesty.’
‘Very well, sen. I shall send him srough se minute he arrives.’
The colonel stepped aside and we proceeded farther down the corridor, past several more soldiers, until we finally reached an ornate door. The soldier beside it snapped his heels together.
‘Names, please?’
Mr Ambrose pulled out a card and silently extended it.
‘Very well, Sir. And your companion?’
‘Miss Lillian Linton.’
The soldier knocked against the door. ‘Monsieur Rikkard Ambrose and Mademoiselle Lillian Linton to see ‘is Majesty se King.’