Why had I never considered the possibility that an arms dealer might wield actual arms?
I’d probably assumed that a man who dealt in deadly munitions was only dangerous in the abstract and large-scale—like a battlefield commander incapable of euthanising the family pet.
No: naturally a person like this would have a gun to hand. And no ordinary old weapon, but the sleekest, most modern of automatic pistols. Not that the model made any difference at this range, not when it was pointed directly at my heart.
A child could not miss.
A moment of cold silence washed over me, followed by an absurd tumble of questions. Would it hurt? Yes, it was bound to hurt—but would my mind register the pain, or even the muzzle flash, before flickering out? Did the man have any idea who I was? Could he know that pulling the trigger would bring down the wrath of the British government? Did he have any clue that the young woman before him was wife and partner to none other than Sherlock Holmes? Was he really prepared to ruin this spectacular carpet?
—and then I wrenched my thoughts away from idiocy and my eyes off the mesmerising black circle, looking past it into the old monster’s dead eyes.
I cleared my throat. “I wonder if we might have a little talk? Preferably before you shoot me.”
APRIL, 1877—LONDON
The warm air smelled of honey.
The air outside had been sharp with the usual London stinks of horse dung and coal-smoke and rain, making the Duke’s townhouse a welcoming refuge. Granted, by the end of the night the pleasure would be reversed, with exhausted, footsore dancers stumbling away from the smell of sweat and the stifling miasma of women’s perfumes and men’s hair-oil. But for now, drifting from portico to cloak-room, hallway to the ballroom itself, all was promise and sparkle and the sweet aroma of beeswax candles.
Clarissa, whose escort was bent in some confusion over her dance-card, caught the apricot colour of silk in a slice of mirror and took a half-step forward to admire the dress. It was new and expensive—very à la mode, the result of many hours of poring over sketches with the dressmaker. The fashion for a long, well-corseted torso suited her, and the lightly bustled train at the back emphasised a woman’s front in a way that would have been judged indecent just a few years ago. The nakedness of her shoulders, front and back, was both innocent and tantalising, and the curve of her hips would, she had learned, tempt a dance partner’s hands into a drift downward as the evening progressed and the golden candles began to gutter and wink out, one by one.
She reminded herself to be wary of men who had shed their gloves—and not only because of the stains their palms left on silk.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a figure in black, coming towards her in the looking glass. She turned, pleased that here was one acquaintance who might turn into a friend—an actual friend, rather than a useful name or camouflage. (It helped that she was married, and therefore out of the competition.) “Dear thing, I was wondering if you’d come. Though how you manage to look so festive and delicious in black, I cannot know.”
The two exchanged near-kisses, and the newcomer shook her head in appreciation of Clarissa’s apricot silk. “Speaking of delicious! Oh, I do look forward to getting out of mourning and being permitted to dance again.”
“When you do, the rest of us will have to work twice as hard to be noticed.”
“That is not something you need to worry about, my dear Miss Hudson. So what mischief have you got up to, since I saw you last?”
“Mischief? Me?”
The two laughed, and then Clara’s gentleman claimed his dance, and they were away.
* * *
—
The two young women met up again over supper, when Clarissa’s favoured partner and the other woman’s rather boring husband parked them in seats, presented them with full glasses, then went off to load plates with tempting morsels.
Clarissa tried to cool her face with a fan the same colour as her dress. “A night this warm, I’m a bit envious of your getting to sit at the sidelines. My face must be horrid and red.”
“Just nicely pink. I’m impressed that you haven’t yet lost bits of your train to some careless set of shoes.”
“I was stepped on twice, but neither time fatally.”
“Trains are not the most practical things for the dance floor. So tell me, before the men come back, is there anyone you’re hoping for an introduction to?”
Clarissa Hudson eyed her possible, would-be friend, wondering just how much the woman knew, or had guessed. A married acquaintance could be an asset, since the rules binding women’s behaviour were relaxed the moment a ring went on. She’d even seen some of them smoking! But this one, married or not, was both new to London and an amateur in the sport of playing men. It was hard to judge how far her amusement would go before it turned suddenly to shock—or disdain. Either could be fatal to someone in Clarissa’s position.
Still, even the most innocent of girls would be forgiven a degree of curiosity towards the opposite sex. After all, wasn’t that what the Season was for? And she was twenty years old: at the height of her powers when it came to feminine games. “I don’t suppose you know that tall gentleman with the striking eyes, speaking with the Earl of Shrewsbury?” The man was older than they, perhaps thirty, and impeccably clothed from his gleaming blond head to his polished black shoes. There was an air of vitality about him that promised, at the very least, an interesting conversation.
Plus, everything about him spoke of money.
“You mean Zedzed? We haven’t been formally introduced, but from what I hear, I’m not sure he’s someone you need to know.”
“Whyever not? And surely that’s not his actual name?”
“No, it’s from all the zeds in his name—he’s Russian, or was it Greek?”
“How exotic. But why mustn’t I meet him?”
“He has some rather dubious antecedents. An embezzlement trial, among other things, a few years ago.”
“He couldn’t be too bad of an egg, not if the Duchess invited him.”
It was the sort of remark a naïve young thing would make—but then, naïve was the rôle Clarissa Hudson was playing these days. Her friend-to-be gave a little shrug.
“If you think so. I’m pretty sure my husband knows the Earl—I’ll have him bring the two men over for an introduction. Once he’s finished deciding whether I want salmon mayonnaise or chicken.”
While the woman in mourning craned her head in hopes of catching her husband’s eye, Clara gazed over her fan at the Earl and his companion. Mr “Zedzed” was really quite good-looking. She was not in the least surprised when he felt her scrutiny and turned those intense, pale eyes on her. But she was surprised at her own reaction.