Secrets of a Lady (aka Daughter of the Game)

Mélanie forced another sip of lukewarm coffee down her throat. Her eyes smarted from peering through the smoke-stained glass of the coffeehouse window. She could just glimpse the south corner of the basket-hung railings of St. Paul’s. The man in the anonymous brown coat and hat, leaning against the railings reading a newspaper, was a Bow Street Patrol. So was the leather-aproned coster with the applecart. Roth and Edgar were in one of the paper-screened coffee stalls under the columns of the Piazza. Raoul and Addison were in a tavern on the opposite side of the square.

Covent Garden Market was a blaze of color. Morning sun limned the scene with russet and gold, burnishing booths and carts, sieves of vegetables and bunches of flowers, kerchiefs and aprons and hampers. An ideal place for a man to lose himself, but Roth had promised that his men knew how to track a quarry in a crowd.

Charles shifted his position in the chair across from her. “It’s early yet. If they only check the railings once or twice a day, they may wait until later.” He picked up his coffee and stared into the dregs.

“Darling?” She scanned his drawn face. “Is something…?”

“Wrong?” A bleak smile pulled at his mouth. “Just about everything, wouldn’t you say?”

“Granted.” She reached across the rough wood of the table, then stilled her hand, because such a gesture seemed to push beyond the boundaries that still lay between them. “But you look as though you’re brooding on something besides what’s in front of us.”

He shook his head and set down the cup. “No. There’s nothing else.” He laid his hand over her own. “At least nothing else that’s worth brooding on.”

A man in a dark green coat and shirt points that obscured half his face slipped between a donkey barrow and a bird-catcher’s stand, making for the railings. Every muscle in her body went still. The man moved on. Then she noticed the woman half-hidden behind him. A woman in a drab-colored gown with a shopping basket laden with cabbages and broccoli on her arm and a faded straw bonnet covering her apricot-colored hair. Another matron doing her marketing. And yet—

Mélanie clenched her husband’s hand. “Charles.”

“What?” His voice went sharp.

“I think Jack Evans’s partner may be a woman.”

The donkey reared up in its traces. Its owner grabbed the reins to calm it. The surge in the crowd round the barrow obscured the railings. When the press cleared, the woman was gone. It was impossible to tell about the letter at this distance. Mélanie pushed herself to her feet. Charles’s hand closed on her wrist. “We can’t do any good. And if we’re seen, we may do harm. Roth will find us.”

Mélanie subsided into her chair, hands gripped together in her lap. Each second tightened the knot in her throat and chest. The Bow Street Patrol in the brown hat and coat had gone, though the one with the applecart was still there. Perhaps it was her imagination, but his shoulders seemed to have a dejected droop. At last, Roth came into the coffeehouse, followed by Edgar, and by Raoul and Addison, whom he must have collected from across the square.

One look at Roth’s face told all they needed to know. “You lost her?” Charles asked.

Roth grimaced, then frowned. “How did you know it was a woman?”

“Mélanie spotted her. It was too late to do anything.”

Roth dropped into a chair. The others did likewise. “Hilton and Renford didn’t realize it until they saw the letter was gone. By that time she was lost in the crowd—I suspect she caused the commotion with the donkey, though I can’t be sure of it. Hilton and Renford were looking for a man. We all were. Even so, they should have been more watchful.” He struck his palm against the tabletop.

“It’s done.” Charles drew the frayed remnants of his self-command about him. “We proceed to the next part of the plan.”

On Roth’s suggestion, in the coded message they had instructed the people holding Colin to bring him to St. Albans Court, off Salisbury Street, near the docks, at midnight that night.

“It’s a good setting,” Roth now said. He had recovered from his burst of anger. He pulled his notebook and pencil from his pocket, tore out a sheet of paper, and spread it on the table. “There was a bad fire last summer, and it’s not a part of town where repairs are done quickly. The houses are unoccupied. The two at the front form a passageway. Their front doors open onto the street, their back doors onto the court.” He inched his paper toward the light from the window and drew a quick sketch. “Two more houses front on either side of the court, two at the back. Once we get them to bring the boy into the court, my men can close off the passageway and we’ll have them pinned.”

“Won’t they be suspicious when they don’t see Carevalo in the court?” Edgar asked.

“They’ll think they do see him.” Mélanie looked at Raoul. “Let’s see if your Carevalo impersonation is as good as it used to be.”

Raoul turned to her, his voice slurred, his shoulders set with Carevalo’s swagger. “My dear Mrs. Fraser, I’d hardly call it an impersonation.”

“Good lord.” Surprise momentarily overcame Edgar’s distaste for Raoul. “That’s him to the life.”

Charles nodded. “Before dawn, with O’Roarke in a dark cloak, in the doorway of one of the burned-out houses, it should be enough to draw them into the court. He won’t have to keep it up for more than a minute or so. They won’t have weapons drawn. We’ll get Colin safely away.” He looked at Roth. “Then you can arrest them, though that’s the least of my concerns.”

Roth nodded. “It’s as foolproof a plan as we can devise.”

“Quite.” Charles’s gaze swept the five of them with the level intensity of a commander before a battle. “This is the night that makes us or fordoes us quite. We all know the parts we’re to play. There’s no room for error.”

St. Albans Court was a comforting mass of shadows, lit only by the cloud-shrouded moonlight that slipped between the tall, close-set buildings and shone against the cracked, grimy cobblestones. Mélanie shifted her shoulder against the charred wall and twisted her neck so she had a better view out the window. She and Charles were in the left-hand of the two houses that fronted on the street and backed onto the court. The interior was little more than a burned-out shell, half the first floor missing, fragments of wallpaper clinging to charred beams, floorboards rotted away to reveal gaping holes beneath. It was difficult to tell what the room they were in had once been, but it had a wide window that afforded a good view of the court. Half of one of the panes was gone, letting in the chill air and the creaks and stirrings of the night.

Raoul leaned in a doorjamb on the far side of the court, swathed in a hooded cloak, his posture aping Carevalo’s casual sprawl instead of his own catlike elegance. Roth and Edgar were in a house to the right. Addison and four of Roth’s men were scattered about the other buildings, while another Bow Street Patrol kept watch on the street at the mouth of the passageway.

A pigeon fluttered from the broken rafters, flapped its wings, and settled again. A gust of wind rattled through the window, ruffled the clouds over the moon, bit through the thin velvet of her cloak. It wasn’t possible to talk, let alone look at a watch, but surely it must be past midnight. She felt as if she were being pulled a dozen different directions at once.

Time dragged on, grating on her nerves, fraying the already frayed threads of her sanity. She felt the vibration of Charles’s breath on her neck, less regular than it had been a few minutes before.

And then a foot thudded on pavement, and a shadow and a flutter of cloak flashed into view at the far corner of the window. The breath froze in her throat.

Raoul turned his head. “Evans?”

“No, it’s me.” A woman’s voice, low and clear. She walked a few feet farther into the court, fully visible now from their vantage point. No small person stood beside her. Mélanie suppressed a stir of agony. Charles squeezed her shoulder, part comfort, part reassurance, part warning.

“I see.” Raoul’s voice had just Carevalo’s note of frustrated impatience. “I believe I asked for the boy. Where is he?”

“Jack’s waiting with him off yonder. We want our money.”

“But of course.” Raoul held up a bag.

The woman took a step forward.

“Not so fast, my dear.” Raoul’s voice stopped her, the lazy drawl giving way to sword-cut sharpness in a way that was pure Carevalo. “I don’t entirely trust those pretty hands of yours not to be armed. And if you think I have any intention of handing over this money before you deliver the boy, you’re very much mistaken.”

The woman stopped ten feet away from him. Her back was to them, but Mélanie could see her fold her arms over her chest. “It’s not so simple, your lordship. Seeing as how bloody much work we’ve been put to, the price’s gone up.”

“Damnation,” said Raoul, though they had in fact anticipated such an eventuality.

“Seems to me the boy’s worth a king’s ransom, given the fuss you’ve made.”

“Seven hundred pounds.” It was a guess, rounding up from what they thought Evans and his partner might have been offered. Raoul had a thousand with him, procured that afternoon from their startled banker.

“Two thousand.”

Fear and anger washed over Mélanie like a cold sweat.

“That’s outrageous.” She felt Raoul funneling his outrage through Carevalo’s personality.

“And hacking off that kid’s finger wasn’t?” The woman’s voice had a sting of anger.

“That’s my business.”

“And the money is ours.”

Charles squeezed Mélanie’s shoulder again. They could not risk speech, but the message was clear. Stay here. I’ll see if I can discover where Evans is with Colin. He moved soundlessly toward the remnants of the doorway to the room that fronted on Salisbury Street.

“You bloody bitch.” Raoul sounded on the edge of losing control. Mélanie suspected it was not entirely an act. “I don’t have that much with me.”

“Get it.”

Mélanie held herself immobile. She heard the faint scrape of the door behind her. Charles had gone into the street.

“You give me the boy.” Raoul’s words sounded as though they came from between clenched teeth. “I’ll give you a thousand tonight and get the rest tomorrow.”

The woman gave a harsh laugh. “Do you think I’m a blithering idiot, your lordship?”

“I don’t see your options.”

“Go to your precious banker and get the rest of the blunt. Meet us here tomorrow night. We’ll bring the brat.”

“That does not suit my plans, madam.”

“Too bloody bad, your lordship.”

Raoul took a menacing step forward. An effective gesture, but the wind whipped up at the same moment, tugging back the hood of his cloak and parting the clouds over the moon. The light fell full across his face.

“Look here—” The woman peered at him, then gave a scream followed by a piercing whistle. “Run, Jack. It’s a trap.”

Raoul lunged at her. Mélanie turned and flung herself across the burned-out building, through the ruined doorway, and across the next room to the front door that gave onto Salisbury Street. The courtyard was irrelevant now. Jack Evans was somewhere in the streets beyond with her son.

Salisbury Street was thick with shadows, but nothing moved. The Bow Street Patrol must have run into the passageway at the eruption of noise in the court. Mélanie scanned the street and saw what Charles must have remembered from their earlier scouting of the area. Almost directly opposite the passageway was a dark, seemingly empty house. She could make out boards nailed over the lower windows, but one of the attic casements gaped open. A perfect place to wait concealed with a six-year-old boy for a summons or a signal for flight from the court beyond.

She ran to the door. It was unlatched. She pushed it open and stepped into a musty, unlit hall. A silent musty, unlit hall. No whisper of breathing, no footsteps, no telltale creaks. She moved toward the dark outline of a staircase, then saw the door at the back of the hall. That must be how Evans had brought Colin in. If they’d used the front door, the Bow Street Patrol would have seen them. Perhaps he had fled through that same door. If a struggle was in progress above, surely she would hear it.

She went the length of the hall in a handful of steps and pushed the door open onto a narrow alley that stank of mildew and rotting food and stale urine. Shafts of moonlight pierced the slabs of shadow and gave the grimy cobblestones the sheen of marble. A clatter from above pulled her out into the alley and drew her gaze upward. The house next to the one she had just left was slightly lower and its roof slanted up to a peak with a towering brick chimney at one end. A bent figure was inching up the slope of the roof. He seemed to be wearing a pack on his back. And then she realized that the pack was her son.

She forced down the scream that rose up in her throat.

“Give it up, Evans.” Her husband’s voice echoed down into the alley. He was half out of the attic window through which Evans must have escaped, hauling himself onto the roof where Evans crawled with Colin. “Carevalo’s dead. Hand Colin over and it will go easy with you.”

At the sound of Charles’s voice, Colin jerked, loosed his hold on Evans, and went slithering across the roof at a diagonal, toward the alley.

This time Mélanie could not contain her scream. She ran to catch her son. Colin slid to the edge of the roof overhanging the alley and stuck there, his coat caught on some blessedly placed nail. He gripped the coping with both hands, his upper body on the roof, his legs swinging free.

The force of Colin’s action had knocked Evans’s legs out from under him. He flung his arms round the corner of the chimney to stop his slide and lay sprawled, legs flailing for a purchase on the roof tiles.

Charles, halfway up the slope of the roof, began to crawl sideways toward the outer edge where Colin clung. Evans kicked out and struck Charles in the face. Mélanie heard the thud of a heavy boot connecting with flesh and bone.

Charles slid down the slope of the roof, feet and hands scraping over the tiles. Evans pulled himself upright, clinging to one of the clay chimney pots, recovered his balance, and took a step down the roof toward Charles’s prone figure. Mélanie saw the glint of a knife in Evans’s hand. She shouted a warning to her husband.

Charles sprang to his feet and launched himself at Evans. Evans drew back his knife hand. Charles caught Evans by the wrist. The two men grappled together midway up the slope of the roof, Evans trying to turn the knife on Charles, Charles trying to wrest it away from him.

Colin was clinging to the edge of the roof in terrible silence. She couldn’t see his face, but he must be gagged. “It’s all right, darling,” she called, over the groans and thuds from above. “Just hold on.”

She was standing where she could catch him or at least break his fall. She had her pistol out of her reticule, but she couldn’t shoot at Evans without risking Charles.

Evans went for Charles’s throat with his free hand. Charles fell back, throwing Evans off balance, tightened his grip on Evans’s right wrist, which held the knife, and twisted. Evans gave a grunt of pain. The knife flew in a glittering arc, bounced off the roof, and clattered to the cobblestones in the street below.

Evans clawed at Charles’s eyes. Charles ducked. Evans kicked Charles in the shins, then screamed as his foot slipped out from under him. He slid beyond Charles’s grasp and tumbled to the edge of the roof, lower down the slope than the point where Colin clung. His fingers scrabbled against the tiles for a moment. His legs swung wildly. Then the coping gave way in his hand. He fell with a cry that echoed through the alley, slammed into the cobblestones not a dozen feet from Mélanie, and lay still.

“Colin.” Charles’s voice was level and conversational. Mélanie nearly sobbed in relief. “It’s all right. He can’t hurt you anymore. All you have to do is hold still. I’m coming to get you.”

It looked as though Colin nodded his head. Mélanie glanced at Evans, but he had plainly broken his neck in the fall. “Charles?” she called. “Shall I come up?”

“Stay there until I have Colin. Then meet us at the attic window.” Charles lowered himself to his hands and knees again and crept down the sloping roof, his bad leg dragging awkwardly, his hands sure and steady. The short expanse of roof tiles seemed to stretch endlessly, like a chessboard with the black and white of the squares blurred to gray.

A wrench of fabric sounded through the night air. Colin’s coat had given way, but Colin still lay half sprawled on the roof, clinging to the coping.

Charles stretched out his hand. “Colin? Don’t move quickly, but can you reach out to me?”

Colin put up one hand. Charles closed his fingers round Colin’s own.

Mélanie released her breath and clamped her jaw to hold back the press of tears. Footsteps sounded in the alley. She tore her gaze from Charles and Colin to warn the new arrival to be still, but he had already stopped. It was Edgar, his hat gone, his hair golden in the moonlight, his gaze trained on the roof where Charles was pulling Colin to safety. He didn’t seem to see her in the shadows of the overhang. She turned her gaze back to the scene on the roof. As she did so, Charles dropped flat against the roof tiles, holding Colin against him. He shouted his brother’s name, not a warning but an anguished plea.

Mélanie looked at Edgar and saw the gleam of a pistol in his hand. He leveled his arm and took aim at the roof, his intention written in the lines of his body.

She had no time to think or plan. She raised her own pistol and shot her brother-in-law in the chest.