Two hours went by, broken briefly when one of us would find an interesting news item—the ridiculous, the startling, or the peculiar. Someone had broken into a butcher shop in Bethnal Green, taken several shanks of meat, and left behind an old boot. A mud lark had found a battered shield that appeared centuries old, but it turned out to be a “Billy and Charley,” one of the fake medieval objects metal-cast by two confidence men in the 1850s. There had been an outbreak of cholera at the King’s Bench, the notorious debtor’s prison, not far from Elephant and Castle.
Then my eye caught a notice about a ball to be held at Lord Charleton’s house in St. James. In the third paragraph was a list of half a dozen titled people, including two of Queen Victoria’s daughters, Princess Alice and Princess Helena, with their respective husbands. I scanned the remainder of the article for other names but found none.
“James, look.” I turned the paper toward him. “What about this?”
He looked to where I pointed. “Aye, that’s likely. Let’s see if there’s a list of other people invited. Hand me some of the next few days, will you?”
We were silent, turning pages, seeking only news items related to the Charleton ball.
James let out a soft whistle and I looked up. “Found the list.”
I stood and went around the other side of the table to peer over his shoulder. There were perhaps two hundred names.
No doubt the people who weren’t listed would be mortified, their absence a sign that they were several rungs down society’s ladder.
Together we searched the small print, with me reading from the bottom and James from the top. Three inches down, James’s forefinger tapped, and there it was:The Marquess and Marchioness Hargrave.
“Oh.” I let out a breath.
He grinned. “There.”
I returned to my chair and sank into it.
His eyes were sparkling in the lamplight with satisfaction and something like relief. Relief for me, I realized. “A ball gives us options,” he said. “It’s much easier to slip in the house, with so much coming in.”
“Food and wine,” I said, recalling the delivery at the Willitses’ house.
“Not to mention musicians, furniture, flowers, tables, chairs, servants hired especially for the night. The servants’ entrance will be wide open, and no one will be suspicious of a new face.”
“But James, it’s in less than a fortnight.”
He shrugged. “At least we know.”
“I don’t suppose I can go in the front door,” I said, my mind ticking through possibilities. “Even with proper clothes.”
“Perhaps you could,” he allowed, though dubiously. “You’d give your name to the footman to announce you, but the guest list will be large enough no one will know everyone, not even Lady Charleton herself.”
“I’d be better going in as a hired servant. As a maid, I could circulate, bringing food or drink up to the dining room.”
He hesitated. “How adept are you at removing a necklace from a woman’s neck without her noticing?”
I shrugged. “I can practice. But could I go in as a servant, do you think? I’ve only ever acted the part for a dodge, and I don’t know how I’d go about being hired.”
“Emma does,” he said. “She was in service before Ma died.”
“She was?”
“Sarah can probably help you, too.”
I hesitated. “I’d rather not involve her.”
“All right.” He stood and brought our cups to the sink with its single tap at the bottom of a pipe. “You can look in the ‘Situations Vacant’ columns in the papers. But there’s also servants’ registries where you can enroll. Mrs. Massey’s and Mrs. Hunt’s are the two best. But give me a day or two to get a forged character for you, saying you’ve worked elsewhere, somewhere away from London they can’t readily check. Then you can see about being hired by the company that’s catering the event.”
I found myself staring at his broad back, bent over the sink.How does he know such things?
He returned to the table. “Seems you have a good option to present Maggie,” he said as he shuffled the newspapers back into an orderly pile. “Less complicated than Yale locks and safes, to be sure.”
I stepped around the table to face him. With his shirt open at the neck, I could see the broadVof his collarbone, the pulse in the notch, the shadow of whiskers darkening his jaw.
