Shana Abé - The Smoke Thief

. .

Perhaps, perhaps, if Ambrose kept drinking tonight . . .

“Not for the world would I tatter Your Grace's reputation. It is as precious to me as my own.”

“You presume much, sir.”

“By your gracious word, madame, I will depart.”

The comte looked up at her again, a corner of his mouth faintly quirked. Letty brought her fan to her lips. It would not do to let the boy gain too much confidence. He was a comte, yes, but she, after all, was a duchess.

“By all means, stay you here. It is I who shall depart.” And with that, she rose in a magnificent stir of hoops and skirts, footmen bowing after her. When she tossed the comte one last, coy glance from over her shoulder, he was still smiling.

“Prime bit of flesh, that.”

The comte spared a look at the gallant who had come to idle next to him, quizzing glass in one hand and port in the other.

He stood, straightening his cuffs. “If you say so.”

“I?” drawled the gallant, lifting his glass to inspect the comte. “Why, my dear fellow, you've only to open your eyes, or at least your ears, to catch the shower of compliments that fall upon Her most de- lect -able Grace.”

The comte had a new smile, razor thin. “I assure you, sir. My eyes and ears are well open.”

From across the room the duchess turned, finding the two men together, observing her. Her fan twitched up, and she pirouetted away.

“You know,” laughed the gallant, clapping a hand upon the other's shoulder, “I do believe they are. Good show. Nice dab of flash on her too.”

Lalonde did not respond. The gallant removed his hand and tried the port.

“Bit brazen of her, though, I daresay. What with all this nonsense of the Smoke Thief racing about.”

Now the comte looked up. “Do you think it nonsense, my lord?”

“What? A man turned to smoke? Now, a thief, aye, there's a certain truth for you. But all the other prattle—he walks through walls, he vanishes into thin air—damme! I'd hire the fellow m'self, if it were true! Get me a good bit of blunt from m' father!” He chuckled into his port. “No, mark my words, fellow's just a common bandit. Probably even a servant. Footman, that sort.”

“Probably,” said the comte.

The duchess had made half a circle around the room, surrounded by beaux, drawing slowly closer to the main doors. From behind her fan she sent the comte another lingering look.

“I do believe that's your cue, old boy.” The gallant swirled his drink. “Ain't polite to keep a lady waiting.”

Letty was not, after all, allowed a rendezvous with the comte that night. He had managed to disappear just after the final dessert course, and despite her discreet inquiries, no one seemed to know where or when he went. Most vexing. But it was the only flaw in an otherwise flawless evening, and overall she remained well pleased.

Ambrose was snoring in his chamber adjoining hers. Lud, the walls clattered with it already.

She dismissed the maid, whose sleepy yawns began to overtake Letty's own, shook back her hair, and sank into the opulence of her bed. After a brief moment she rose again, crossed to both her doors, and locked them.

Ambrose might wake with any sort of bothersome idea in the middle of the night. She needed her rest.

Quiet fell upon the home of the Duke and Duchess of Monfield, broken only by the deep, snuffling snores emitting occasionally from the master chambers. The duchess's polished guests had all departed, and as the Queen Anne clock in the main hall struck two and a quarter hours, even the lowest servants were at last abed.

It was only then, from the darkest depths of the linen pantry, that a pair of brilliant golden eyes winked open.

The pantry door made no sound upon its hinges. From the dark stepped the Comte du Lalonde, divested of his wig and ornate heeled shoes. He moved on stocking feet, utterly silent, only the sheen of his waistcoat and the strange glow of his eyes revealing him.

A pair of mice watched, paralyzed, from a corner baseboard, then scurried the other way.

The oiled maple floors reflected moonlight back at him, and the comte's shadow slipped and stretched as he passed window after window. He had taken good care to memorize the layout of the mansion, but the truth was, he didn't need memory to find the duchess's chamber. The cloying scent of her perfume practically begged him along.

At her door he paused, testing the handle lightly. Locked. His lips formed that faint, droll smile that Letty would have instantly recognized.

The keyhole was empty. The comte peered through it to be completely certain, then stepped back into the hall. He began, piece by piece, to remove his clothing.

Long dark hair, a slim torso, bound breasts and ivory skin: the comte was a woman.

A tremendous snort rattled the air. The woman stopped folding her breeches, alert, but after a moment the duke settled back into his usual chirrup of snores.

With great care, she placed the pile of her clothing to the side of the door. She moved back to the keyhole and took a deep breath.

Letty slept very well. She had but one dream, and it was of smoke and mist, and how it felt so cool against her face. At first she feared she was lost, but it wasn't that sort of mist. It was gentle, peaceful. She moved through it quite tranquilly, and when she reached the end of it, it coalesced into the shape of a woman. A beautiful woman, familiar, smiling at her.

“Sleep,” said the woman, and Letty did.

The sun was sinking to a horizon threaded with clouds, sending warm lazy rays to gild the trees and demure paths that formed the southern boundary of Vauxhall Gardens. Carriages rolled by with sweating horses and clinging footmen; flower girls carried their baskets over one arm, singing songs of damsels and posies. On a corner of the green a band of chimney sweeps had a rough game of trap-ball going that resulted in more than one bloody nose, and someone, somewhere nearby, was baking pork pies.

“Shocking,” said one of a pair of fashionable young ladies seated upon a bench. She lifted her newspaper closer to her nose, scanning the print by the waning light.

The spectacular loss of the Monfield gemstones was included in all five evening editions of the London papers.

“Indeed,” agreed the other, smoothing the pleats of her petticoat. “They didn't even mention the bracelet. And it is particularly fine.”

The first woman lowered her paper. “You know that wasn't what I meant, Rue.”

“Wasn't it? Oh. I suppose then you were referring to the midnight duel in which the valiant duke fought off the thief before being overcome by the fellow's kick to his nether regions. That is rather shocking, I concur. I can't imagine how anyone could reach past that royal belly for a good kick.”

“Rue,” said the other woman, but her gray eyes were narrowed with mirth.

“Plus, it was well after midnight. My legs were beginning to cramp in that minuscule closet.”

“Rue.”

“Yes?”

“A lady does not gloat.”

Rue spread her fan open across her lap, webbed lace dyed the precise shade of summer apricots. She spoke more softly. “I am no lady, Mim, as you know.”

“You are. In your heart, you are. I know plenty who do what you do, and spill blood to do it. You don't. Or won't.”

Rue closed the fan again and smiled. “What a romantic you've turned out to be. The truth is, you're far more of a lady than I.”

“I?” Mim glanced around them, then lowered her voice. “Oi'm jest a simple lass from th' East End, Oi am. Dontcha calls me no loidy.”

“Charming. Mim from East End. It nearly rhymes.”

Mim straightened. “And Rue from . . . nowhere at all, it seems.”