St. Raven, page 13
“But what if there’s a chance to grab the statue for only a moment?”
“Tell me how to open it.” He glanced at the ticking clock. “Quickly.”
She gathered her wits. “It’s not easy, but the statues are carved on all surfaces except the base. On the man’s back, you have to slip something thin—a strong fingernail or a fine blade—at the base of his belt, right at the middle. At the same time, you pull down at his heels. When you get it right, you’ll feel a slight movement, but only slight. Then you slide the back of his legs to the left. That opens the door to the cavity.”
“It sounds as if it won’t open by mistake. How long a fingernail?”
She remembered fingernails against her skin and managed not to shiver. “Longer than yours, I think. Your blade?”
“Is probably too thick. What of the blade in the study?”
“Yes, one of the points will work. I used that when my father showed me.”
“Let’s hope it’s not already been filched. Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Not as long as you can detect the right one.”
“The hat and the belt. I remember.”
There seemed to be a smile in that, but it was still as if he was delaying. She stepped forward and pushed him. “Go!”
The touch shocked her. He seemed to be staring at her. . . .
He grasped her shoulders and kissed her—short, hard, and hot. And then he was gone.
Cressida hugged herself. Without him, the gloomy room no longer seemed warm and comforting, and what had happened here had spoiled something sweet. Even good. How could anything about this place be good?
It must be the potion still disordering her mind, making her want what she would never normally want. She focused on the matter in hand. She had to trust him with the business in the house, but in the meantime she had to be safe here.
What if someone came—another couple looking for a private spot? She was tempted to go out, to hurry after her experienced guide, but she never wanted to step inside Stokeley Manor again.
Instead, she opened a drawer in the sideboard and felt around until she found a large wooden rolling pin. Thus armed, she sat where she could see the clock and prepared to wait.
Chapter Twelve
Tris was astonished by his reluctance to return to the house. It was not the sort of event he enjoyed, but returning to it felt like jumping into a sewer. The noise had lessened, but it was probably stupor rather than calm.
A smell made him halt. Vomit. He detoured around it.
This disgusting affair was typical of Crofton. Excess as a substitute for excellence. But could he really say all his own parties had ended up more decorously?
Yes, but sometimes not by much. He didn’t serve the sort of brew Crofton had been ladling out, however. That had been a concoction designed to drive people to extremes as quickly as possible—a sure sign of a host uncertain of his success.
Tris wished Crofton to the devil he was impersonating, and regretted bringing Cressida here. He could have persuaded her to stay behind at Nun’s Chase, but it had seemed an amusing novelty at the time. He’d never given a thought to protecting her innocence of mind. He’d never thought that important. In fact, if asked, he’d have said that innocence was generally ignorance and dangerous.
It would seem he had overlooked questions of purity.
No, he thought, pausing by the door back into the house, that wasn’t the right word, either. It sounded so damn preachy.
Loveliness, perhaps. The loveliness of a flower at its peak, or a fresh summer morning, or a piece of fine, white linen. Something that should be treasured, not soiled.
He laughed at himself. Nature of itself faded the flower and wore out the morning, and linen was designed to be dirtied and then washed. It was all part of a natural order—but it shouldn’t be hastened by an event like this.
An event like this should never exist.
That was a strange thought, since it was probably his own successful events at Nun’s Chase that had put the idea into Crofton’s head. He shook away his wandering thoughts and went into the house.
Stink assailed him, and he almost tripped over the legs of a snoring gladiator. The gladiator was on top of an equally oblivious, half-naked, billowy fat woman. Tris heaved the man off her a bit to make sure she didn’t suffocate. He couldn’t see anything to cover her with. She was clearly a whore, so he didn’t suppose she’d care.
He made his way past other guests to the study. Unfortunately they weren’t all unconscious and, damnation, but some of the whores looked too young. It was enough to turn a man off rutting for life.
He opened the door to the study with relief—to find Jolly Roger copulating with the whore who’d wanted a prick earlier. She sprawled on the desk, knees up, looking either bored or exhausted. Neither seemed to notice when he retrieved the wisdom sword. It was an act of charity, since the blade looked likely to poke the girl’s buttocks at any moment.
“Come on,” she whined. “Get on with it or give over!”
Tris glanced and rolled his eyes. Jolly Roger wasn’t in a state to get on with it, and why he thought pounding would help Tris couldn’t imagine. None of his business, however. He was backing away when the girl kicked Tiverton away. “Get off me, you wilted pansy!”
“Shut your mouth!”
Tris acted on instinct. He caught Tiverton’s raised arm, swung it behind the pirate, and dragged him back. The girl scrambled to her feet. She did look young, but an ominous sore blossomed by her mouth. Tiverton wouldn’t have touched her when in his senses.
Tiverton wouldn’t hit a woman when in his senses.
Damn Crofton.
“Let her go,” Tris said as soothingly as he could.
“I’ll bloody murder her!” Tiverton howled, breaking Tris’s hold. “I’m no bloody pansy!”
He turned on Tris, swinging, but staggering with drink. No hope of talking sense to him. Tris knocked him out, then winced, rubbing knuckles still sore from his earlier fight.
Had that only been this morning? Highway robbery, forcing himself on a woman, drunken brawls. A fine career for the Duke of St. Raven . . .
A gong jerked him from his thoughts. Then he heard the clock chiming. Midnight.
Tiverton was snoring, and the whore had slid away. Tris tucked the wisdom sword into his belt and headed for the drawing room. Perhaps he would take the sword when he left. He needed wisdom, and Crofton was beyond hope.
If he hadn’t known where the event was taking place, the noise would have drawn him. Screeching, laughing, howling—Crofton’s guests sounded like wild animals in a pit.
And not, after all, in the drawing room. The event had moved into the hall so that people could use the dogleg stairs and the landing above as a gallery. More candles had been brought to cut the fiery red gloom, and Tris wondered if Stokeley Manor would become a true inferno before this night was through.
Maybe it would need fire to cleanse it. The floor was sticky beneath his feet with spilled drink and other things.
Crofton the red devil was presiding from the lower stairs, eyes glittering as he egged his guests on. At least the drinking seemed to have stopped, which explained why so many were still conscious. Probably more a case of the supply running out than of Crofton having any sense of judgment or good management.
The statuettes were there, however, on a small table at the base of the stairs.
Tris blocked the cacophony and ignored the cavorting already going on in the central space, concentrating on that table. This might be a lot easier than he’d hoped.
The statues were no longer in a neat line. He might be able to slip one off there long enough to empty it with no one the wiser. He began to move that way, easing through the drunken crowd, exchanging a word here and there when he had to, but making as little contact as possible.
Then a body pressed against him. He looked down into the heavily kohled eyes of Violet Vane, Queen of the Night, as usual stinking of sickening poudre de violettes.
She walked her fingers up his chest. “Where’s your little bit of Turkish delight, St. Raven? Need something stronger now?”
He caught her hand. “She wore me out. For now.”
She chuckled. “Not you. I’ve heard stories about you, my lord duke. You need a real woman. One who’s up to your strength . . .”
The sickly perfume was in danger of turning his stomach. And why the hell was he acting the gentleman with a woman like this?
“Not tonight,” he said, turning her and pushing her into the arms of a Roman senator. He ignored her screamed insults and moved on toward the table, but now, dammit, all eyes were on him.
“Ah, St. Raven,” said Crofton. “Come to participate after all?”
“Merely to observe,” Tris replied, leaning against the stairs, armed crossed, within reaching distance of the table, praying all attention would return to the three couples attempting a horizontal pose.
Cheers indicated that someone had at least connected. Tris glanced around. Attention seemed to be off him. Crofton was avidly watching the competition. Time to make his move.
He studied the statues on the table. Right leg raised. Hat and belt . . .
It wasn’t there!
Heart racing, he looked again.
It wasn’t there.
He counted.
Eight.
Hell and perdition. Had the contest started early? If so, by what foul luck had that statue gone first, and who had won it?
Ignoring a sudden burst of applause, he looked around the hall and stairs, seeking a person holding the trophy.
He didn’t see it.
But his eye caught a man in a fool’s costume leaning against the wall near the front door. Dan Gilchrist. A decent enough man and a friend. He wondered why he was here, but thanked heavens for it. Suppressing something close to panic, Tris worked his way around to him.
“A wild affair,” he said when he arrived.
Dan grimaced. “Too wild by half.” He was an amiable, plump young man who was also a clever and hard-working official in the Home Office. Tonight he’d chosen a fool’s costume, but he seemed sober, and if anything, bored.
“Why are you still here, then?” Tris asked, not wanting to go straight to the matter in hand.
“Came with Tiverton and some others. I don’t suppose they’ll want to leave until this is over.”
Tris thought of Tiverton—unconscious in the study still?—and almost offered Dan a ride away from here. Then he remembered that he’d have Cressida with him. The fewer people who had a long look at her, the better.
Oh, Lord—Cressida. How was he going to tell her he’d let the statue get away? It was because he’d been late, and that was because he’d lost control and tried to seduce her, because he’d misread her, because he’d not watched her closely enough, so she’d drunk that damn potion.
He’d never felt such a failure in his life.
He wasn’t a complete failure yet. He could still execute their plan. “Has the contest been going on for long?”
“Started at the witching hour.” Gilchrist smiled and jingled his belled stick. “I admit, I’m looking forward to seeing someone try that headstand one.”
Tris looked across at the table again, but even from here he could count. There were still eight.
“Seems to me one of the statues is missing. I could have sworn there were nine.”
“Miranda Coop talked Crofton out of one. Or did something for it.” Gilchrist jangled his bells again.
Tris struggled not to show any reaction. “One does wonder what. He seemed set on his contest.”
“It was one of the more ordinary ones. I’m sure La Coop could come up with something interesting enough to change any man’s mind.”
“So am I.” Tris indulged in some mental curses. Miranda wouldn’t be as easy as some to deal with, but he could do it.
If worst came to worst, he could come up with something interesting enough to persuade her. She’d been trying to get her claws into him for months. The idea of pandering to any woman turned his stomach, but this was his mess to correct.
“Where is she now? I’d like to find out what she came up with.”
“Then you’ll have to pursue her to London. She left.”
Tris looked at the ridiculous contestants as blankly as possible. “Wise woman. I think I’ll do the same.”
He moved away before Gilchrist thought to ask for a ride, and headed back to the bakehouse. He’d predicted that nothing about this would be simple, and it seemed he’d been damnably right. What mad freak of fate had made La Coop take a fancy to that statue? And what was he going to tell Cressida?
A plan. He had to present her with a new plan. He paused by the stables to come up with one—and thank God, he did. It should work, too, and if it pushed him to doing things he’d rather not, that was suitable penance for a string of stupidities.
He turned to the stables and pushed open a door, finding himself in a tack room strewn with drunk or sleeping servants. However, one young lad was rolling dice on the floor and looking more-or-less sober. He jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir?”
A smart one. He’d figured out that some guests might want their rigs and would be generous to anyone able to help them.
“Ride down to the village and tell the Duke of St. Raven’s men to bring the coach to the end of the drive. And tell my man to give you a crown.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Yes, Your Grace!” Then he was off into the stables to find a horse.
Pleasant to still impress someone. Tris headed for the bakehouse. He hesitated outside the door, trying to come up with happier news, but of course there was nothing to tell her but the truth.
“It’s me,” he said as he opened the door. That proved to be wise, since his houri had a large rolling pin in her hands and looked ready to use it.
“You have it already!” she exclaimed in delight.
“No. It had already gone.” He closed the door behind himself and took the rolling pin from her hands, though she seemed more likely to drop it than hit him with it. “I’m sorry. It seems Miranda Coop struck a private bargain with Crofton before the contest began. We couldn’t have prevented it if we’d been there.”
It was true, but it sounded like an excuse.
“Then we have to get it off her. Where is she?”
He broke the news. “On her way back to London.”
He felt her dismay, even if he couldn’t see it. “Le Corbeau?” she suggested faintly.
“I would if I could, but she’s ahead of us. By the time I made it to Nun’s Chase and into the costume, she’d be home. But all is not lost. We know where it is. Unless La Coop knows the secret, the jewels are in no danger. We can get it back.”
“Are you sure?”
Such a piteous plea. She’d come so far, done so much, gallant Miss Mandeville of Matlock, but now her voice trembled.
“I’m sure.” By Hades, he’d make it sure. “At least now we can leave here. I’ve ordered the carriage to meet us at the gates. Come on.”
She seemed stunned, so he put his arm around her to lead her out into the night, only realizing a moment too late that she might reject his touch. She didn’t, but perhaps only because of her shock and disappointment.
Why the devil couldn’t he wave a magic wand and make everything right for her? What use being a duke if he couldn’t straighten out the lives of his . . . friends?
In fact he could and would. If they didn’t get the jewels, he’d find a way to give her money, a way that she and her parents could accept. He thought of somebody he knew who’d won a lottery. Was it possible to fix them?
“I’m sorry for bringing you here,” he said.
Every step away from the house seemed a blessing.
“No, I thank you. It might have worked, and it has certainly been an education.”
“There are many lessons best unlearned.”
Unwise words. It was doubtless thought of lessons yet unlearned that made her pull away from his side. He let her go, but felt absurdly relieved when she took his crooked arm.
Like a lady and gentleman strolling, they moved onto the short drive that led toward the open gates. Clouds veiled the full moon, but it still gave light enough for walking. As the sounds faded and the world became more peaceful, this could almost be an ordinary occasion.
Except for their clothing. The silk of his shirt seemed inadequate protection from her bare arm. . . .
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
He had to scramble for the subject. Ah yes. Learning.
“Knowledge is always useful,” she carried on, “even if only in telling us what to avoid.”
Men like him, if she had any sense.
“And what to change,” she added. “I’ve been thinking—”
He suppressed a groan.
“—I don’t believe those whores were older women acting the part of girls.”
He could say nothing but, “Perhaps not.”
“And they weren’t only doing those poses. In the corridor . . .”
“Yes. But no one was forcing them to it.”
“Except poverty.”
“Perhaps.” Thank heavens they’d gone nowhere near the catamites. “Cressida, there’s nothing to be done. The world’s a brutal place, and people survive as best they can. Which is why I’m trying so hard to restore your fortunes.”
“I am not in such danger!” The way she went silent showed she remembered that she had been. And perhaps that he had saved at least one lamb from the butcher.
“I still have the wisdom sword,” he said. “Do you want it?”
“Not particularly.”
He’d meant it only as distraction, but she’d clearly taken it as a rebuke. As well. The two of them were acid and milk and could only create a curdled brew.
“Then perhaps I can pay your father the value of it. I would like to keep it, but I don’t care to be a thief.” And it would be a small amount in their coffers.
“Take it as a gift, Your Grace. A reward for noble service.”
Your Grace.
It stung, but he bit back a protest. They were almost at the road, the road back to reality, where milk and acid could flow in safely separate channels.
