Page 82 of The Art of Theft

“You are very good at this,” Charlotte murmured.

“I’ve seen someone who can disarm multiple men at a distance while barely lifting her fingers—compared to that, I’m nothing.”

And you saw her in Chinese Turkestan?

She didn’t ask that, but only put her ear to the linen closet’s door.

Almost immediately someone spoke on the other side. “Why are you standing there?”

The tone was icy, the French a little stiff, but the voice was indisputably lovely. Lady Ingram.

“I’m here at Monsieur Plantier’s orders, Madame,” said Mr. Marbleton, in his capacity as the counterfeit guard.

“Step aside.”

“Alas, Madame, I can’t let anyone in unless Monsieur Plantier says so.”

Charlotte whispered in Lieutenant Atwood’s ear for him to move himself and the guard so that they wouldn’t be visible with the opening of the linen closet’s door. Then she slipped out, inclined her head at an astonished Mr. Marbleton, and said, “My lady, I was rather hoping to run into you. Shall we take a round?”

Lady Ingram stared at her in suspicious distaste. Charlotte smiled. Of course Lady Ingram would object to a man in a teal evening jacket and matching mask. She herself was in a deadening grey gown that absorbed light without giving anything back, and her mask was equally dull.

“You know me, my lady,” said Charlotte in her own voice. “A little promenade?”

Lady Ingram recoiled with shock. Her brow furrowed. But she eventually settled her hand on Charlotte’s arm.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

Charlotte walked her out of the corridor. “Long story. But you may be sure I didn’t come for you.”

Elsewhere on this floor, card rooms had been set up for the gentlemen and lounges for the ladies where they may rest on chaises or have seamstresses repair hems that had been damaged by vigorous dancing. As Charlotte and Lady Ingram moved away from the bedrooms, more guests milled about, chatting, some obviously flirting. A faint music floated in the air: In the ballroom below it was another energetic waltz.

Lady Ingram removed her hand from Charlotte’s arm. “Is my husband here?”

Charlotte raised a brow. In her exile, was Lady Ingram becoming somewhat fonder of the man about to divorce her? “Yes.”

Lady Ingram inhaled audibly. “Are you sleeping together?”

“Would he do that to you?” Charlotte retorted lightly.

Lady Ingram’s grimace was obvious, even with the mask covering half her face.

“But I didn’t come to speak of Lord Ingram, but of Moriarty,” continued Charlotte. “I take it you and he have reconciled?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are here at his château. Did he sacrifice de Lacy to win back your good favor?”

Lady Ingram smiled grimly. “De Lacy is dead. I emptied the syringe of absolute alcohol into him myself. But Moriarty had nothing to do with it. He has been deposed.”

Charlotte stopped in her tracks. “Deposed?”

“Madame Desrosiers is in charge of the organization now.” Lady Ingram almost sounded as if she was proud to know the woman.

Charlotte’s fingertips tingled. “Is she? Where is Moriarty then?”

Lady Ingram shrugged. “She never told me. Besides, he’s been deposed for months. So why does it matter anymore where he is?”

“It would matter if he were here,” said Charlotte, a chillslithering up her spine. “Have you not felt it? The château has been preparing for something.”