The Debutante's Code, page 13
Abashed and properly chastened, Juliette wanted to cringe. She had sounded like an outraged adolescent rather than an adult spy-in-training. The lines around her parents’ integrity were now blurred, but that didn’t mean their characters were besmirched, did it? Focus on the task at hand. Sort out feelings and thoughts later. She fell back on her self-defense pattern of compartmentalizing. Think about it later.
“So where do you start with this list?” She held up the lined invoice from an art dealer. Turner and Rathbone, Clerkenwell, with nine items, beginning with the Lotto. The list of pieces sent to England, which, according to Uncle Bertie, contained the coded names of international spies. A brown splotch of something marred the lower left corner of the page, but she didn’t think the stain covered any writing. What was it? Coffee? Ink?
“We’ll attempt to locate each piece.” Bertie picked up a letter opener and rotated it in his hands. The opener was fashioned like a medieval sword, and it caught the light. His hands were long fingered and dexterous as he toyed with it.
“We?” Juliette paused. “As in you and I?”
Bertie nodded. “Yes, we. As much as I wish I could keep you out of this, I cannot see a way to get my hands on all those pieces without help.” He held up his hand. “Before you get giddy and giggly, listen to me. You have no training. You have no experience. You must agree to do exactly as I say at all times, and if you are in danger, you must flee. Don’t look back for me. Your safety is paramount. When your parents return, I will not be responsible for telling them how I lost you by thrusting you into the fray before you were ready.”
His words both sobered and excited her. He would include her in the mission. “So help me get ready. Teach me.” She put the list on the desk and spread her arms. “You say I don’t know the first thing about spy craft. Well, what is the first thing?”
Bertie whirled, his coattails flying out, and threw the letter opener, whizzing it past Juliette’s head into the wall behind her. The blade hit with a thwack and quivered. She jerked away, stumbling and grabbing at the back of a chair to save herself from an undignified sprawl.
“The first thing to know about spy craft is that danger is everywhere and that anything can be a weapon.” Bertie tugged his waistcoat back into place, his voice calm. “You must be aware of your surroundings and keen to possible danger at all times. If you’re serious about training, let us begin. One of the skills you must perfect is that of the dead drop. Leaving information as inconspicuously as possible, allowing another agent to retrieve it, also inconspicuously.”
He walked past her to retrieve the letter opener. “Pick up the list.”
She turned to the desk, but the paper was gone. Not on the surface, not on the floor beneath the desk, not behind the chair.
When she straightened, Uncle Bertie held the paper before her nose. She hadn’t even noticed him taking it. “When you can abscond with something that is in plain view and deposit it out of sight in a public place, you’ll be ready for your first dead drop. It’s all about distraction and sleight of hand.”
For the next hour, Juliette practiced under her uncle’s critical eye. He demanded perfection, critiquing her movements, instructing, showing her again and again. At last he relented. “With practice you might be competent in a year or so.” His wink took the sting out of the comment, and she loosened her muscles enough to laugh.
“I shall endeavor to keep your high praise from going to my head.” She dropped a quick curtsy.
“Let’s move on to picking pockets.” Bertie rolled a dressmaker’s dummy from a corner to the center of the room. A woolen cloak hung from the form, complete with patch and slit pockets. Around the hem of the cloak dangled tiny brass bells on silk threads.
“Take the purse from the pocket without ringing the bells.” Bertie stood back, arms crossed.
Juliette inhaled deeply and forced herself to relax as she let out the breath. Flexing her fingers, she circled the form, looking for a telltale bulge that would indicate which pocket was her target.
All the while, she felt Bertie’s scrutiny. If she couldn’t master these basic skills to his satisfaction, would he refuse to let her partake in the mission? Would he end her training, call her hopeless, and strike out on his own?
Forcing such thoughts from her mind, she called upon all the hours she had spent perfecting card tricks while at school. Her pianoforte teacher had instructed her to play with whist cards for an hour each day to make her fingers dexterous and supple. She could cut a deck and shuffle with one hand, pull a single card from the center of the stack without disturbing the rest, and deal from the bottom of the deck without detection. Concentrating fully, she dipped into the right hand seam pocket and withdrew a fat leather purse. Not a chime to be heard.
With a grin, she brandished the pouch. “Well?”
Bertie shrugged. “Beginner’s luck?” He took the purse and put it into the inside breast pocket of the cloak. “Try again.”
This was more of a challenge, and if the dressmaker’s form had been a person, there was no way she wouldn’t have been noticed, but by slow stealth, she removed the purse, again without a sound.
Bertie tapped his lips with his finger. “You have unplumbed depths, young lady.”
Flushed with success, she turned a pirouette. “What’s next?”
“What’s next is, I suppose, your first lesson in disguises.” Bertie shoved the dressmaker’s dummy out of the way with his toe, setting all the bells jingling. “The item on the list that we’re going after next is the maquette.”
“What is a maquette? I’ve never heard the word.”
Bertie leaned against the edge of the desk. “When a sculptor begins work on a new piece, they often cast or carve a small model of the design, to test proportions and scale and the like. The model is known as a maquette. Most are destroyed once the final sculpture is finished, but if the maquette remains, and it is of a famous statue, it can be very valuable.”
“What is this particular maquette depicting?”
“A statue of Saint Mark by the Italian sculptor Donatello. The finished sculpture is nearly eight feet tall, but the maquette is only about twenty inches, and it was cast in bronze, so it’s heavy. The maquette differs from the sculpture in that it is a finished piece. The statue sits in an alcove high on the exterior of a church in Florence, and because it wasn’t intended to be seen from the back, only the front of the statue was carved in detail.”
“How did you learn this?”
“Your father’s extensive library is a very handy resource.” He tapped a stack of books beside him on the table. “I—we—need to know as much as possible about each of those items in order to plan for their retrieval.”
Retrieval. Not theft. Did his calling it something else salve the conscience?
“What will happen to the stolen pieces after we are finished with them?”
“We’ll obliterate the code and return them to their rightful owners.”
“How? We cannot just arrive by coach, pop out and say ‘Thank you. Sorry. Here you are.’ And hand them the pieces.”
Bertie shook his head. “Don’t be absurd. It will take creativity, ingenuity, and a fair bit of stealth to acquire the pieces, but returning them will require no effort at all. We’ll arrange for a message to be channeled to that young Bow Street detective looking for the painting that a cache of stolen goods can be found at a certain location, and”—he snapped his fingers—“case closed.”
In the meantime, they would need to avoid attracting the attentions of that detective lest they be caught and bunged into Newgate to await trial for theft.
What had she gotten herself into? This was all a far cry from debut dances and new ball gowns.
She picked up the paper once more. The inventory that held the key to her parents’ and Uncle Bertie’s safety would dominate the next few weeks, and possibly longer. “Where is the maquette now?”
“It was purchased in Italy for Lord and Lady Bickford. I understand that Saint Mark is the patron saint of the linen guild or weaver’s guild or some such, and since Lord Bickford has made his fortune in the textile industry, he fancied owning the piece when it came up for sale.”
“Lord and Lady Bickford are hosting a ball tomorrow night. The invitation is on Mother’s writing desk, and the acceptance has been sent.”
“That’s correct. The maquette will be in their house.”
“And you propose to steal the statuette during the party? Like the painting? While everyone is distracted?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I cannot repeat my falling-down-drunk routine. Two art thefts carried out in an identical manner only a few days apart will be difficult enough. If I make another spectacle of myself in order to leave early, even the thickest Bow Street detective will make the connection, and our Mr. Swann does not appear to be stupid. I propose that we attend the ball, and I will not pretend to be drunk, and we will find some way to either examine the maquette or remove it once we arrive. I can’t say exactly how we will accomplish this, because I’ve never been in the Bickford house before, nor do I know exactly where they’re keeping the maquette. This will be in the nature of a reconnaissance mission.”
“The ball is fancy dress. What costumes will we wear?”
“Your mother saw to all of that when she accepted the invitation. The costumes will arrive this afternoon, I believe. Remember, if anyone asks, your parents have been called away to Heild and will return as soon as they are able. In the meantime, they wished you to carry on under the watchful eye of the dowager, and you are quite pleased to do so.”
Juliette picked up the letter opener. “You do believe my parents will return, don’t you?”
“Until we know otherwise, we will operate on that premise.” He pushed off the desk, taking the letter opener and the list from her hand. He stabbed the point of the opener through the paper and into a support post.
Chapter 7
WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT THE Bickfords’ home Monday night, Juliette felt she was smothering in her heavy dress. Mother had chosen a Tudor gown with a high white lace collar, stomacher, and heavy velvet skirts sewn with pearl beads. She could hardly move quickly in this cloth cage.
Yet the costume helped her feel as if she truly were someone else, which gave her confidence in playing her role as debutante. After all, how hard could it be to locate the statue, find the code, and if necessary, get the statue out of the house?
Uncle Bertie followed her up the steps to the front door, his saber rattling at his side. Dressed in the green uniform of the 95th Rifles, his pewter buttons caught the light from the coach lamps beside the entrance, and his boots gleamed.
“Remember,” he whispered. “Act naturally, but make your way around the house and see if you can find the maquette. Though it’s possible you won’t need to hunt. If it’s here and Bickford’s proud of it, the statue might have pride of place somewhere.”
“And I am to let you know when I find it?” They stood in the crowded foyer, noise swirling around them as party guests took off their wraps and exclaimed over costumes. “Where will you be?”
“I’ll be around, probably searching rooms you cannot get into. The smoking room, for instance. If you don’t see me, don’t worry. It’s possible I can get out of the house with the statue, and if that is the case, don’t look for me. We’ll meet up at home. Just enjoy the party, check in often with the dowager, and don’t fret. Above all, don’t do anything to jeopardize yourself or call attention to your actions. Better to fail at tonight’s mission than scuttle the whole works.”
Uncle Bertie, once they had delivered their cloaks to the attendant, escorted her to the dowager’s side and tendered her into the older woman’s care.
The dowager studied Bertie from boots to immaculately combed hair, and her mouth tightened. She’d obviously heard of his proclivity for drink, and she was not inclined to be indulgent.
He bowed. “Your Grace, I am most grateful. Juliette, enjoy yourself and listen to the dowager. She will steer you right.” He nodded to Juliette and disappeared into the crowd.
“We’ll present you to your host and hostess and then see about finding you a dance partner.” The dowager squared her shoulders, as if launching a military campaign, determination exploding from her every movement. “Where is Miss Montgomery? She was here a moment ago.”
They wended their way through the growing press of people. A hand snaked through the crowd and clutched her arm. Juliette stifled a squeal.
“There you are. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. Would you ever have thought?” Agatha squeezed her arm again. “We’re at a fancy-dress ball.” She glittered in a gown covered in turquoise paillettes. Her red hair glowed, and her eyes shone. She looked like the mermaids of lore, waiting to sing her siren song.
“You look wonderful.”
The dowager, who was dressed as … a dowager … predictably puckered. “I wish I had undertaken your chaperonage in time to advise you as to acceptable costumes. You’re drawing too much attention to yourself for a debutante. I know it’s the accepted thing to be allowed to wear colorful garments at a fancy-dress ball, but that might be a tad too far.”
Agatha’s inner light dimmed, but Juliette turned to the dowager. “I think she looks beautiful and striking and interesting. Her costume was chosen and designed by my mother, and I think it’s perfect.”
The dowager sputtered and backtracked. The Countess of Thorndike was known for her impeccable taste, and if she thought the dress the right choice, it would do the dowager no favors to disparage it to others. “Of course. I only meant … that is … It’s time to meet the Bickfords. Come along.”
Juliette’s dress brushed the floor, her skirts full, taking up more room than any dress she’d worn before. It flared from her waist, and the tight corseted bodice kept her back straight. She had to turn to see around the edges of the high lace collar that stood up along the sides and back of the neckline.
She had not been in the ballroom two minutes before she saw it. The maquette stood on a marble pedestal between the two French doors that led out into the garden. There it was, in plain sight of all the party guests.
Before she could notify Uncle Bertie, the dowager partnered her with a man dressed as a cavalier. He gave her an appraising glance, and she had to resist rolling her eyes. Thankfully, he wasn’t a talker, and she could be alone with her thoughts as they went through the dance patterns.
How was she supposed to get close enough to examine the maquette, or if necessary, to steal it, when fifty people reeled and quardrilled their evening away within steps? They would have to abort the mission, and Uncle Bertie would have to use stealth and the cover of darkness to get into the house and make off with the bronze man.
Agatha danced with Viscount Coatsworth, and she looked blissful. The viscount, dressed as a cavalry officer, looked elegant and sure of himself. By dancing with Agatha yet again, was he openly declaring his intent to pursue her?
Juliette turned a small circle in the dance, catching sight of the statue again. It was impressive, a dull bronze, but with such detail. How much did it weigh?
The dance ended, and she curtsied to her partner and allowed him to lead her back to the dowager’s side. Agatha joined them, flushing prettily as the viscount bowed to her and took his leave.
“Viscount Coatsworth—he asked me to call him Alonzo, isn’t that wonderful?—said I made the most beautiful water sprite he’d ever seen. I didn’t even have to explain my costume. He guessed it right off. He’s most clever, you know.”
“Your Grace, may we go to the refreshment room?” Juliette asked after waiting for a break in the dowager’s conversation. “I’m parched.”
The dowager turned from the woman to whom she had been speaking. The refreshment room door was within eyesight of the divan where she sat. “Yes, but don’t be gone long.”
“May we bring you anything?”
“I’ll wander in there later. Mind your manners, girls.” She eyed them sternly before turning to her companion. “It’s such a responsibility, bringing out girls, isn’t it?”
They walked arm in arm across the ballroom. With so many people and lamps and fires in every fireplace, the house had grown quite warm. As they passed the maquette, one of the footmen was discreetly opening the French doors to allow for air to circulate. Uncle Bertie stood a few feet away from the little statue, and he smiled at her benignly as she went by.
Agatha paused in the doorway of the refreshment room, clearly awed. A table ran the length of the far wall, laden with delicacies. Salmon, and cold tongue, and Scotch eggs, and aspic jelly. Cakes and biscuits and trifles. At one end, a footman stood ready with a silver ladle beside an ornate punch bowl.
Juliette accepted a cup of punch from a footman and made her way to a small table.
Agatha followed, chattering away. “I couldn’t think where Alonzo—did I mention he asked me to call him Alonzo? That surely has significance, doesn’t it?—anyway, I couldn’t think where he had gotten to, and then up he popped and asked to partner me for the first dance.”
Did Uncle Bertie have a plan in place now that he knew where the maquette was in the house?
“He even whispered in my ear that he hoped I would be attending the opera tomorrow night.”
Would he give her a signal when he was ready to make his move?
“I assured him I would, since Father has already made arrangements. Which is what I wanted to ask you about. I don’t know if your mother already made plans for you, but I hope you can come.” Agatha leaned close and put her hand on Juliette’s arm. “To the opera, I mean, as our guest? Father’s making up a party, and Duke von Lowe himself has agreed to come. It seems he and Father have some business dealings, and he came to the house this afternoon for a meeting. He’s just the thing right now, so sought after, and he’s coming to the opera with us. Isn’t that wonderful? I made certain Father asked Alonzo too.”
