It is only the enlightened ruler and the wise general who will use the highest intelligence of the army for the purposes of spying.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Night lay over Wapping, nearly silent, the sky wisped with a fog that twined like languid cats about the bare masts of the ships at anchor in the Pool of London. Despite the hour, the rhythmic slush-shush-slush of a receding tide was unmistakable as it washed over mud and gravel, the sliver of shore beneath as yet a mere speculation.
Atop the embankment, Lord Bessett ground the stub of a cheroot beneath his boot heel, then flicked up the collar of his greatcoat, a defense against the sharp, fetid breeze that sliced off the Thames. The gesture cut the wind, but did little to mitigate the stench of rot and raw effluent.
Thank God it was a chilly night.
The water slapped again, more violently, exposing for an instant the last step, slick with green algae. Just then Bessett’s well-trained ear caught a sound. He jerked his gaze up, scanning the Pool. There was nothing. Nothing save a few distant shipboard lanterns, misty yellow smears bobbing faintly with the tide, and the occasional spate of raucous laughter carried across on the wind.
Then, silent as the grave, a waterman slid from the gloom, cutting along the river’s edge until his hull rumbled slightly aground. A bony, tremulous finger pointed toward the stairs. His passenger—a great hulk of a man in a long, dark cloak—unfolded himself, tossed a few glittering coins into the air, then leapt with a heavy thud onto the last step.
The waterman slid back into the gloom, silent as he had come, looking rather as if he accounted himself fortunate to escape.
His every sense alert, Bessett leaned over the embankment and offered a hand as the visitor ascended into the pool of yellow lamplight. He took it, stepping up onto the paved surface with a grunt tinged with weariness.
Not a young man, then.
This assessment was proven accurate when the man turned his face toward the lamp that swung from the Prospect’s riverside balcony. His was a worn and weathered visage, with small, hard eyes, and a nose that hung from his face like a bulbous wad of sausage. To complete the disconcerting picture, a scar slashed from his chin up through his mouth, horribly twisting the bottom lip.
The waterman’s consternation was understandable.
“Fine weather tonight, is it not?” Bessett said.
“Oui, but I hear it is raining in Marseilles.” The voice was like gravel, the accent thick and decidedly French.
Bessett felt the tension inside him relax but an increment. The phrase was right, aye. But there could still be trouble—and he never entirely trusted the French.
“I’m Bessett,” he said simply. “Welcome to London.”
The man laid a heavy palm across Bessett’s right shoulder. “May your arm, brother, be as the right hand of God,” he said in flawless Latin. “And all your days given to the Fraternitas, and to His service.”
“And so may yours,” Bessett answered in the same.
Sensing no animosity, Bessett eased his left hand from his pocket, releasing the hilt of the dagger he’d instinctively clutched. “So you are DuPont,” he went on. “Your reputation, sir, precedes you.”
“My reputation was made long ago,” said the Frenchman. “In younger days.”
“I trust your journey was without incident?”
“Oui, a swift, easy crossing.” The visitor leaned into him. “So, I have heard much of this new safe house you keep here. Even we French cannot but admire your effort.”
“It is a good deal more than a safe house, DuPont.” Bessett motioned him down the narrow passageway that linked Pelican Stairs to Wapping High Street. “We are dedicated to rebuilding this sect. We live practically out in the open, in the guise of a sort of intellectual society.”
The visitor snorted with Gallic disdain. “Bonne chance, mon frère,” he said, stepping out into the gaslight. “As you know, we in France are not so bold—but then, we have good reason.”
Bessett smiled thinly. “I take your point, DuPont. One begins to wonder if the political upheaval in France will ever end.”
The Frenchman lifted one thick shoulder. “Non, not in my lifetime,” he answered evenly. “And all your fine efforts here in London will never change that fact.”
“Aye, sadly, you may be right,” said Bessett. “As to the house—the St. James Society, it is called—any brother of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis who passes through England is welcome to quarter with us—even those who do not support the unification.”
“Merci, but I must not linger.” The Frenchman rolled his shoulders uneasily. “So, my new Fraternitas brother, do we walk? Have you a carriage?”
Bessett jerked his head toward the public house adjacent. “The Society has come to you, DuPont. They wait within.”
Just then, the Prospect’s door flew open and a pair of garishly dressed nightingales burst out, laughing, a hapless young naval lieutenant hooked arm-in-arm between them. He looked wealthy, besotted, and thoroughly foxed—the prostitute’s holy trinity.
The Frenchman watched them go assessingly, then gave his disdainful grunt again. “Ah, mon frère, life is the same the world over, non?”
“Aye, he’ll be pissing pain till All Saints’ Day with that pair,” Bessett muttered. “Come, DuPont. The brandy here at the Prospect is passable, and the fire is warm.”
Inside, the front taproom of the public house was abuzz, with every scarred and beaten table surrounded by men of the dockyards, with tavern maids swishing and weaving between them, trays and tankards hefted gracefully aloft. Lightermen, shipwrights, sailors of every nationality—even the occasional shipping magnate—all of them came, eventually, to the Prospect, where a hot meal and a fairly pulled pint might be had in companionable good spirits.
Bessett waded through the human morass, the man called DuPont on his heels, and made his way round the bar and into a quieter room where the tables sat along a row of small-paned windows overlooking the Pool.
His three colleagues rose at once, shaking DuPont’s hand with outward welcome. But Bessett knew them well, could see the tautness in every move of their muscles and sense—in an ordinary, human way—the age-old wariness each exuded. Even if DuPont was Fraternitas, he came as an agent of the Gallic Confederation, a stubborn and secretive sect.
“Welcome to England, monsieur.” Their Preost, the Reverend Mr. Sutherland, motioned toward the empty chair. “A pleasure to meet one of our brethren across the water. My associates, Ruthveyn and Lazonby.” Handshakes were exchanged, then Ruthveyn snapped his fingers at one of the girls, sending her scurrying for a bottle of brandy.
“So, DuPont, I hear from my Catholic compatriots in Paris that trouble is afoot,” Sutherland began once the bottle and glasses had been situated. “Is that what brings you?”
DuPont sipped at his brandy, his scarred mouth twisting even further at the taste. He set it down at once. “Oui, a child has fallen into the wrong hands,” he said. “We require your help.”
“A child?” Ruthveyn’s dark visage hardened. “A Gift, you mean?”
The Frenchman scrubbed his hand round what looked like a day’s growth of stubble. “It seems so,” he admitted. “Though the child is young—not yet nine years of age—the circumstances are . . . troubling.”
“Troubling how?” Lord Lazonby, an inelegant, broad-shouldered man, had thrown himself casually back into his chair, set his booted legs wide, and was absently turning his glass round and round on the scarred oak table. “Can the Guardians of Paris not keep up with their charges?”
DuPont bristled. “Ours is a nation in turmoil, you may recall,” he snapped. “Our King now resides here—in utter exile—and even in these modern times, we can barely keep the rabble from rolling out Madame la Guillotine again. No, my Lord Lazonby. We cannot always keep up with our charges. Indeed, we often fear for our heads.”
Ruthveyn planted his dark, long-fingered hands wide on the table. “Enough,” he commanded. “Let us be civil. Tell us, DuPont, what has happened. And be quick about it. We mightn’t have much time.”
“Aye, you are to be married, old boy, in a few days’ time,” said Lazonby dryly, entirely unperturbed by the scold. “And home to Calcutta thereafter. I believe Bessett and I can guess who will be charged with this task.”
“Precisely.” Ruthveyn’s voice was tight. “Now, what is the name of this child, and how strong is your certainty of the Gift?”
“The child is called Giselle Moreau. About the other, we are certain enough to fear for her. The Gift is strong in the father’s blood. Her mother, Charlotte, is English.”
“English?” said Ruthveyn sharply. “Who are her people?”
“Impoverished gentry near Colchester,” said the Frenchman. “They found enough money to send her to school in Paris and she thanked them by falling in love with a lowly clerk in the royal household—a bastard nephew of the Vicomte de Lezennes. She has had little contact with her family since.”
“They disowned her?”
“Oui, so it appears so.”
“Lezennes?” Lord Bessett exchanged uneasy glances with Mr. Sutherland. “I’ve heard the name. He’s often found near the center of court intrigue, isn’t he?”
DuPont nodded. “Always near, oui, but never close enough to be blamed,” he said bitterly. “He is a clever devil, our Lezennes. He has survived the fall of Louis-Philippe, and now endeared himself to the Bonapartists—even as it is whispered that he is in truth nothing but a Legitimist, secretly seeking to restore the Ancien Régime.”
“What do you think?” Bessett demanded.
The Frenchman shrugged. “I think he is a cockroach, and cockroaches always survive. His politics scarcely matter to me. But he has taken this Englishwoman under his wing in order to use her child, and that matters to me very much. And now he has removed them to Brussels, where he serves as an emissary to the court of King Leopold.”
Bessett’s hands fisted involuntarily. “From one political uncertainty to another,” he murmured. “I cannot like the sound of this. This is the very thing we wished to avoid, DuPont, with the Fraternitas’s unification.”
“I understand, but this is France we are talking about,” said DuPont calmly. “No one trusts anyone. The Fraternitas in Paris—such as we still exist—is uneasy. Lezennes is not known for his charitable nature. If he has taken this child, it is for a purpose—his own purpose, and a bad one. That is why they have sent me. You must get the child back.”
“Of course we wish to help,” said Sutherland gently. “But why us?”
“As I said, the mother is English,” said DuPont. “Your Queen wishes her subjects abroad to be protected, does she not? You have some rights in this, I think.”
“I . . . don’t know,” said Ruthveyn warily.
The Frenchman crooked a brow arrogantly. “You are not unknown to us, Lord Ruthveyn,” he said. “Nor is your work in Hindustan. You have your Queen’s ear, and your Queen’s favor. The King of the Belgians is her beloved uncle. You have influence. Would you truly punish the Gallic Confederation merely because we keep to ourselves, when all we ask is that you use your influence to save our Gift from being raised by a devil? From being used for nefarious purposes?”
“Of course not.” Ruthveyn’s voice was tight. “None of us wants that.”
“But what of this woman’s husband?” Bessett demanded.
DuPont pressed his misshapen lips together for a moment. “Moreau is dead,” he finally answered. “Killed but a fortnight after the King’s abdication. He was summoned late one night to his office near the palace—by whom, we are not sure—but somehow, the draperies caught fire. A terrible tragedy. And no one believes it was an accident.”
Lord Ruthveyn’s expression stiffened. “The dead man—he was a Guardian?”
“Oui.” The word was but a whisper. “A man of little Gift, but of good heart and much bravery. He has been sorely missed amongst our number these many months.”
“He was close to his uncle?”
DuPont’s bitter smile deepened. “Scarcely even acknowledged,” he said, “until rumor of little Giselle’s talent began to stir through the court.”
“Good God, she was discovered?” said Bessett.
The Frenchman sighed deeply. “What is your English expression?” he murmured. “Out of the mouths of babes? Little Giselle predicted Louis-Philippe’s abdication—blurted it out very innocently, but alas, very publicly—in front of half his courtiers.”
“Oh, dear.” Mr. Sutherland’s head fell into his hands. “How could such a thing happen?”
“A court picnic at the Grand Parc,” said the Frenchman. “All the royal household and their families were invited—commanded, really. The King, of course, came out for a few moments of noblesse oblige with the masses. Regrettably, he ran straight into Madame Moreau, and decided to catch Giselle’s chin in his hand. He looked her straight into the eyes, and would not look away.”
Bessett and Ruthveyn groaned in unison.
“It gets worse,” said DuPont, the truth spilling from him now. “He asked why her eyes were so sad on such a lovely day. When she did not reply, he teased her by saying he commanded her as King to speak. So little Giselle took him literally, and foretold not only the fall of the July Monarchy, but went on to say that his abdication would be followed by a second terrible loss—the death of his daughter, Louise-Marie.”
“Good God, the Queen of the Belgians?”
“Aye, and that was Louis-Philippe’s doing, too, ’tis whispered,” DuPont continued. “He wished his daughter to be made Leopold’s queen in exchange for France’s acceptance of Belgian independence.”
“I thought that was just a rumor,” Ruthveyn remarked.
“Eh, perhaps.” The Frenchman opened both hands expressively. “But the French army stood down, Leopold’s morganatic wife was cast aside, and Louise-Marie was ensconced on Belgium’s throne. But now ’tis said the Queen grows weaker by the day.”
“So the child’s prediction is again coming true,” Bessett murmured.
“Consumption, it is whispered,” said DuPont. “The Queen will not likely last the year, and already the King’s mistress is wielding some influence.”
But a sense of ice-cold dread was already creeping over Bessett. This was the very thing Guardians of the Fraternitas most feared: the exploitation of the weakest amongst the Vateis—their ancient sect of seers—most of whom were women and children.
Throughout history, evil men had sought to control the Gift for all manner of selfish gain. Indeed, it was the very reason for the organization’s continued existence. Whatever the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis had been at its shadowy, Druidic inception, over the centuries it had evolved into an almost monastic militia, devoted to guarding their own. But modernity had worn away their edges—and their structure. This child—this Gift—was at great risk.
It was as though DuPont read his mind. “There are a thousand dangerous things Lezennes could do, mon frères, to gain power and influence for himself,” he said, his voice pitched lower still. “Conspire with the old Bourbons, fan the flames of further revolution on the Continent, perhaps even drive a wedge between England and Leopold—ah, the mind boggles! And it will be all the easier if he can divine the future—or have it done for him by some unsuspecting innocent.”
“You think he killed his nephew.” The ice-cold dread hardened in the pit of Bessett’s stomach until it felt more like an icy rage.
“I know he did,” said the Frenchman grimly. “He wanted possession of Giselle. Now she lives beneath his roof, subsisting on his charity. Our man in Rotterdam has sent his spies about, of course, but no one inside as yet. Still, Lezennes is grooming the child, depend upon it.”
“You are working with van de Velde?” asked Sutherland. “He’s an old hand.”
“Most dependable,” the Frenchman agreed. “And, according to his spies, it looks as if Lezennes is courting his nephew’s wife.”
“Good Lord, he thinks to marry the English widow?” said Ruthveyn. “But . . . what of affinity and canon law? What does your Church say?”
Again, the Gallic shrug. “Lezennes will care little for the Church’s opinion,” he returned. “Besides, Moreau was illegitimate. What papers exist that cannot be burnt or forged? Who really knows the truth of his birth? Perhaps not even his wife.”
“Worse and worse,” said Sutherland. The Preost sighed deeply and looked about the table. “Gentlemen? What do you propose?”
“Kidnap the bairn, and be done with it,” Lord Lazonby suggested, his eye following the swaying hips of a nearby barmaid. “Bring her to England—with the Queen’s permission, of course.”
“Expedient—but extremely foolish,” said Ruthveyn. “Moreover, the Queen cannot sanction such a blatant breach of diplomacy. Not even for one of the Vateis.”
“It won’t matter if we aren’t caught, will it, old chap?” But Lazonby’s voice was distant, his gaze fixed somewhere near the front door. Abruptly, he shoved back his chair. “Your pardon, gentlemen. I fear I must leave you.”
“Good God, man.” Bessett cut his friend a dark look. “This child matters rather more than the sway of some barmaid’s arse—fine though it admittedly is.”
Seated at the end of the table, Lazonby set a hand on Bessett’s shoulder and leaned nearer. “Actually, it now appears I was followed here,” he said quietly, “and not by a willing wench. You have my proxy. I’d best go lead the hound from our scent.”
With that, Lazonby skulked from the room, and melted into the sea of crowded tables.
“What the devil?” Bessett looked across the table at Ruthveyn.
“Bloody hell.” Ruthveyn watched only from one corner of his eye. “Don’t turn around. It’s that infernal newspaper chap.”
Even Mr. Sutherland cursed beneath his breath.
“From the Chronicle?” Bessett’s voice was low and incredulous. “How can he have learned about DuPont?”
“He didn’t, I daresay.” Eyes flashing with irritation, Ruthveyn turned his face deliberately away. “But he has become entirely too curious about the St. James Society for my liking.”
“And too curious about Rance by half,” Bessett complained. “For Rance’s part, I often wonder he hasn’t begun to enjoy this game a little too well. What must we do?”
“Nothing, for the nonce,” said Ruthveyn. “Rance has insinuated himself into a game of dice by the fire, and dragged one of the wenches onto his knee. Coldwater is still quizzing the tapster. He has not seen any of us.”
“Let Rance lead him a merry chase, and ensure he does not,” Sutherland suggested. “Back to the crisis at hand—DuPont, tell us what, precisely, you would have us do?”
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed. “Send a Guardian to Brussels to fetch the girl,” he said. “None of you are known to Lezennes. We have taken the liberty of leasing a house not far from the Royal Palace—very near Lezennes—and put it about that an English family is soon to take up residence. Servants have been put in place—trusted servants from our own households in Rotterdam and Paris.”
“And then what?” demanded Bessett. “Lazonby’s suggestion aside, we cannot very well snatch a child from its mother. Even we are not so heartless as that.”
“Non, non, persuade the mother.” The Frenchman’s voice was suddenly smooth as silk. “Befriend her. Remind her of England, and of the happy life she might live here. Suggest a reconciliation with her family is possible. Then, if all else fails—if she is already too far under Lezennes’ thumb—kidnap them both.”
“Kidnap them?” Sutherland echoed.
DuPont leaned across the table. “Already my private clipper goes to anchor at Ramsgate, armed with a crew of good, strong men. It will take you to Ostend in utter secrecy, and await your escape.”
“This is madness,” said Bessett. “Besides, if Lezennes means to marry the woman—and if he is as conniving as you suggest—then he won’t let one of us befriend her.”
“Not one of you,” the Frenchman said wearily. “Your wife, perhaps? Someone who can—”
“But none of us is married,” Bessett protested. “That is to say, Ruthveyn here will be shortly, but he is leaving.”
“A sister, then. A mother.” DuPont waved his hand with dismissive impatience. “Mon Dieu, what does it matter? A female to gain her trust, that is all we need.”
“Out of the question,” said Ruthveyn. “Bessett’s sister is little more than a child. Mine scarcely passes for English and has two small children. Lazonby is a soldier, and hasn’t the subtlety for such a mission. We only use him when someone needs to be beaten into submission.”
“What about hiring an actress?” Mr. Sutherland interjected. “Or perhaps Maggie Sloane? She’s a bit of a—well, a businesswoman, isn’t she?”
Bessett and Ruthveyn exchanged glances. “Trust a padre to suggest hiring a high-flyer,” Bessett said dryly. “But it’s true Maggie sometimes does a spot of acting.”
“Yes, every time Quartermaine beds her, I don’t doubt,” said Ruthveyn sardonically.
“Damn, Adrian, that’s cold.” Bessett flashed a grin. “Even Ned Quartermaine doesn’t deserve that, even if he does run a gaming hell at our front doorstep. And he won’t loan us Maggie. But yes, someone like Maggie . . . how hard can it be?”
“Ah, tant mieux!” DuPont, looking relieved, thrust one of his big paws to an inside coat pocket, then withdrew a thick fold of papers. “Here is all the information you will require, mon frères. The address of the house. The list of servants. Details of the story we have put about. Complete dossiers on both Lezennes and Madame Moreau. Even sketches.”
Bessett took the fold and shuffled through the papers, Ruthveyn and Sutherland looking over his shoulder. It was thoroughly done, he would give the Guardians of Paris that much.
“The art and architecture of Belgium?” he muttered, reading aloud. “That, ostensibly, is your Englishman’s purpose in going to Brussels?”
The Frenchman shrugged. “Are not many of the English dilettantes?” he said. “Politics would have been too complicated—and too threatening. A man of business? Bah, too bourgeois for Lezennes. Alors, what could seem more harmless than a rich, bored aristocrat who comes to look about and make a few pretty sketches, eh?”
“Sounds like a job for you, old chap.” Ruthveyn looked at Bessett with what passed for a smile. “Bessett here is our resident architect, DuPont. Indeed, he has traveled all over Italy, France, and North Africa drawing pretty sketches—then actually building them.”
Sutherland was rubbing his chin. “It does appear this assignment will fall to you, Geoff,” the Preost murmured. “Once we’ve read through all this, we’ll put it to vote.”
“You’ve an initiation ceremony to prepare for,” Ruthveyn reminded him. “Here, pass it to me. I shall read it tonight.”
With mixed emotions, Bessett shoved back his chair. Though he did not know Brussels well, he wondered if some time away from London mightn’t suit him. He had been plagued of late by a burning sense of restlessness—and more than occasionally, by a wistful longing for his old vocation. For his old life, really.
There had been a time not so many years ago—before his brother’s death bollixed everything up—when Bessett had been obliged to earn his own living. Nowadays he did little real work, living instead off his land, and the oft-bitter fruit of other men’s labor. Though he had known of the Fraternitas since boyhood—had learned its purpose and its principles, quite literally, at his grandmother’s knee—he had not fully devoted himself to its noble goals until Alvin’s tragic passing.
Perhaps he had become a rich, bored aristocrat?
Dear God. That was too distasteful to contemplate.
But whatever it was that nagged at him, Sutherland was offering a way to escape it for a time. This assignment in Brussels was, perhaps, a means of doing good for the Fraternitas—for society—while escaping the shackling role of Lord Bessett for a time. A chance to be, fleetingly, just plain old Geoff Archard again.
Ruthveyn had extracted his gold watch. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I must leave you,” he said. “Lady Anisha is expecting me home for dinner.”
“And we mustn’t keep your sister waiting.” Bessett set his hands flat to the table with an air of finality. “Very well, DuPont, we have your direction. Should we have any questions, we’ll send a man to Paris using the same pass phrase as tonight.”
“Then I beg you will waste no time in doing it,” DuPont advised. “The Jolie Marie will lie at anchor in Ramsgate harbor for a sennight. I encourage you to make swift use of her.”
“Indeed, indeed!” Sutherland managed a benevolent smile. “Well, gentlemen, I fear I must take my leave. We’ll be initiating a new acolyte soon, Monsieur DuPont. If you should like to remain a couple of days, I can give you the loan of a robe.”
But the Frenchman shook his head, and rose to go. “Merci, but I go at once to St. Katherine’s to meet a friend, and thence to Le Havre.” Then he turned, and offered his huge paw to Bessett once again. “Bon voyage, Lord Bessett,” he added, “et bonne chance.”
“Thank you,” said Geoff quietly. Then, on impulse, he set a hand between the man’s broad shoulder blades. “Come, DuPont. The streets hereabouts are not the safest. I’ll walk you up to the docks.”
But the Frenchman merely flashed another of his grim, misshapen smiles. “Très bien, mon frère,” he said evenly, “if you think my looks are not enough to put your English footpads off?”
Maria Vittorio rumbled into the Docklands well after dark in a monstrous old town coach so heavy half a battalion could have ridden atop it. Alas, she did not have half a battalion for her journey into London’s netherworld; merely a footman and a coachman, both nearly as ancient as she. But like old shoes, they had grown worn and comfortable together through the years, and Signora Vittorio was known to be deeply suspicious of change.
Near the foot of Nightingale Lane, the coach rocked to a halt, harnesses jingling. A few shouts were exchanged in the street, then Putnam, the footman, clambered slowly down and threw open the signora’s door.
“They say the Sarah Jane’s offloading on the Burr Street side, ma’am,” he said in his creaky voice. “We’ve got almost down to the King George, but the turn is choked with drays and whatnot.”
Signora Vittorio hefted herself wearily off the banquette. “Circle back to the top of the lane, then, and wait. I’ll send a porter through with the baggage.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The footman tugged his forelock. “If you’re sure? ’Tis a chilly evening, and a fog coming in.”
“Sì, sì, go,” she said, waving a gloved hand. “My knees are not as arthritic as yours.”
Signora Vittorio climbed out on short, stout legs, Putnam supporting her at the elbow. As her carriage clattered away, the old woman stood to one side of the pavement, just a few yards from the King George, taking in all the bustle and shouting that spilled from the well-lit yard beyond.
As she set off past the pub’s entrance, however, a small, wiry man in a tatty green coat burst from the door, almost bowling her over in the gloom. His gait hitching but an instant, he begged her pardon mockingly, his breath sour and reeking of gin.
Signora Vittorio lifted her nose a notch higher, one hand going instinctively to the pearls at her throat as she moved past. But she could still feel his gaze burning into her.
“Wot, yer fat, black-eyed bitch?” he shouted after her.
Signora Vittorio did not look back.
She made her way through the morass of humanity and horses into St. Katherine’s proper to see that the Sarah Jane was indeed moored in the east basin. And she carried an urgent cargo. Despite the evening hour, crates, sacks, and barrels were being offloaded at a prodigious rate and stacked hither and yon upon the docks, much of it being seized up again by chains and hooks, and hoisted directly into the modern warehouses above.
Signora Vittorio turned up her nose even higher at the sight. She who had grown up in the lush beauty of Tuscany’s vineyards could never grow accustomed to these grim, teeming docks, or the taverns and warehouses and stevedores that went with them. Indeed, even the smell of the Thames made her stomach turn.
Some days it seemed perverse to have married into a family destined to make its living by both land and water, for some of the crates—most of them, actually—were marked with the symbol of Castelli’s; a large, elaborate C burnt deep into the wood, and above it a crown of grape leaves. But one glance at the crates told Signora Vittorio this cargo was special.
This was the latest shipment of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, the wine on which the foundation of the Castelli empire had been built. And though the company had widely diversified these past forty years, this ancient vintage of which poets and gods had sung was still distributed to Castelli’s international warehouses directly from the docks at Livorno, and transported in special crates, and only in Castelli’s chartered vessels.
Just then, her young cousin shouted at her through the bustle. “Maria! Maria, up here!”
Anaïs was standing on the foredeck, waving madly.
Signora Vittorio lifted her skirts and picked her way through the tumult, swishing gingerly around the crates, cranes, and grubby urchins awaiting an errand to run or a pocket to pick, for the Docklands were not known for their salubrious atmosphere.
By the time she reached her young cousin, Anaïs was standing on the dock beside a growing pile of baggage, a leather folio tucked under one arm.
“Maria!” she cried, throwing an arm about her neck.
Signora Vittorio kissed both her cheeks. “Welcome home, cara!”
“Thank you for coming down,” said Anaïs. “I didn’t want to hire a cab this time of night, and I have too much baggage to walk.”
“Out of the question!” said Signora Vittorio. “And the Sarah Jane? Surely, cara, you did not come all this way by ship? You are not nearly green enough to have done so.”
“No?” Anaïs laughed and kissed her again. “How green am I, then?”
The signora drew back and studied her. “Merely a sort of gray-green, like that mold one sees on trees.”
Anaïs laughed again. “It’s lichen, Maria,” she said, settling a hand over her belly. “And actually, I came across France, the last bit by train. But I met Captain Clarke in Le Havre, for I swore to Trumbull I’d see this shipment offloaded. It is precious, you know—and already sold.”
“And your brother Armand’s job to deal with,” added Signora Vittorio sourly. “Instead, he’s chasing a new mistress at some country house party.”
Anaïs shrugged. “In any case, the river was not so bad, and one must cross the channel somehow,” she said, craning her head to look about. “Besides, I haven’t heaved up my innards since Gravesend.”
“Don’t speak so bluntly, cara,” the signora gently chided. “What would your mother say? Catherine is an elegant lady. And what have you there under your arm?”
Anaïs extracted the folio. “Paperwork for Trumbull from the Livorno office,” she said. “Letters, bills of lading, overdue accounts from some bankrupt vintner in Paris. Clarke just handed it to me.” She paused to look about. “Where is the carriage? Have you a key to the office? I want to leave this.”
“I have a key, sì,” said Signora Vittorio hesitantly. “But Burr Street was blocked. I sent the carriage round back to load your baggage.”
“Well, I’ll just walk down.” Anaïs snatched up a small leather portmanteau from the top of the luggage heap, and stuffed the folio inside.
“Not alone,” said Signora Vittorio.
“Silly goose,” said Anaïs, smiling. “Very well, then. Bear me company. Clarke will send the trunks on to Wellclose Square tomorrow. If Putnam could just manage the three smaller bags?”
With a few swift orders, Signora Vittorio arranged to have them carried through the dockyards to their carriage beyond. Anaïs was still holding the portmanteau just as two large men pushed past them, conversing as they made their way toward the Sarah Jane.
Anaïs turned, her gaze following. “My God, that is the ugliest Frenchman I ever saw,” she whispered.
“Sì,” said the signora dryly, “but the other—the tall one—ah, che bell’uomo!”
“Really?” Anaïs turned, but she could see nothing save their backs now. “I didn’t get a good look.”
“And a pity for you,” said the signora in a low, appreciative voice. “For I saw him. And I am old, cara, but not dead.”
Anaïs laughed. “Ah, but I have learnt my lesson, Maria, have I not? That lesson one so often learns about handsome, dashing men? I don’t bother to look anymore.”
At that, Maria’s face fell, all humor fleeing her eyes.
Anaïs laughed again. “Oh, Maria, don’t,” she pleaded. “Giovanni would be ashamed to see these long faces were he still alive. Come on, let’s hurry. I want to go home.”
Maria’s smile returned. Arms linked, nattering like magpies, they set off together at a surprisingly brisk clip, weaving through the remaining crates and barrels, and going out the back of St. Katherine’s quagmire and into the streets of East London.
This was familiar territory to them both, but rarely at night. Still, as the bustle of the docks fell away and darkness settled in, neither woman was especially concerned. The fog had not obscured all the moonlight, and Maria knew Anaïs never went into the East End unprepared—or the West End, come to that.
They soon turned into the high, narrow lane that led to Castelli’s side entrance. But they had scarcely stepped off another dozen paces when running steps pounded after them from behind. In an instant, everything became a blur. On a loud oof! Maria went hurtling sideways, slammed against an adjacent doorway, hitting so hard the doorbell within jangled.
“Take that, yer haughty bitch!” In a flash, a hand lashed out at the old woman.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” Anaïs threw back the portmanteau and sent it slamming against the side of his head.
Sent reeling, the assailant cursed, and set off running, turning down a pitch-dark passageway.
“My pearls!” Maria’s hand clutched at her throat. “Sofia’s pearls!”
But Anaïs was already off, hurtling the portmanteau aside as she went. “Stop, thief!” she shouted, moving so fast she was scarcely aware of the second set of footfalls in the distance behind.
She caught the man in a dozen long strides, seizing him by the collar and slamming him against the front of a sailmaker’s shop. He fought hard, but she fought smart, putting her elbows and height to good use. In an instant, she had his face flat against the shop, one arm wrenched behind, a knee against his knackers, and a stiletto whipped from the sheath in her sleeve.
“Drop the pearls,” she said grimly.
“Bugger off, yer bleedin’ Amazon!” said the man, thrashing.
Anaïs pressed the blade to his throat and felt him quiver. “Drop the pearls,” she said again. “Or I will cheerfully draw your blood.”
In the gloom, she felt rather than saw his fist open. The necklace fell, two or three beads skittering away as it struck the pavement.
“Your name, you cowardly dog,” she said, lips pressed to his ear.
“None o’ yer bleedin’ business, that’s me name.”
He jerked again, and she lifted her knee, slamming it up hard where it counted.
The man cried out, and managed to twist slightly in her grip, turning his once-empty hand. She heard the soft snick! of a flick-knife, then caught the faint glint of moonlight as the blade thrust back.
In a split second, she tightened her grip and steeled herself to the strike. But the blade never found flesh. A long arm whipped out of the darkness, catching the man’s wrist and wrenching it until he screamed.
Startled, Anaïs must have loosened her grip. The flick-knife clattered to the pavement. But the villain dropped, slipped from her grasp, and bolted into the gloom.
“Maledizione!” she uttered, watching him go.
“Are you unhurt, ma’am?” A deep, masculine voice came from her right.
Anaïs whirled about, still clutching the stiletto, blade up. A tall, lean figure leapt back in the dark, a mere shadow as he threw up both hands. “Just trying to help,” he said.
“Damn it!” she said, angry at herself and at him.
The man let his hands fall. The night fell utterly silent. Anaïs felt the rush subside and her senses return to something near normal. “Thank you,” she added, “but I had him.”
“What you had—almost—was a blade in your thigh,” he calmly corrected. She felt his gaze fall upon the glint of her knife. “On the other hand, you appear to have been well prepared for it.”
“A blade to the thigh, a blade to the throat,” she said coolly. “Which of us do you think would have lived to tell the tale?”
“Hmm,” he said. “Would you have cut him, then?”
Anaïs drew in a deep breath. Though she couldn’t make out the man’s face, she could sense his movements, his presence—and the warm, rich scent of tobacco smoke and expensive cologne told her just who he was. A wealthy man, the sort rarely seen traversing these mean, meandering streets. And he was tall, far taller than she—and that was no small feat.
“No, I wouldn’t have cut him,” she finally answered. “Not unless I had to.”
“And now,” said the man quietly, “you don’t have to.”
He was right, she realized. He had not saved her from danger. He had saved her from herself. She was running short of sleep, dead tired from days of travel, and still queasy from the crossing. Neither her judgment nor her intuition was at its best.
“Thank you,” she said, a little humbled.
In a flat high above, someone shoved a casement wide, and thrust out a lamp. Still, the feeble light scarcely reached them. But it was enough, apparently, to allow him to bend down, sweep up her great-grandmother’s pearls, and press them into her hand.
“Thank you, sir,” she said again, the pearls warm and heavy in her palm. “You were very brave.”
But the tall man said no more. Instead, still deep in shadow, he swept off his top hat, made an elegant bow, then strode off into the darkness.