Page 59 of The Art of Theft
There wasn’t enough time for him to reach the trapdoor, get through,andput it back in place behind himself. He broke out in a cold sweat, shoved back the detective camera, and moved toward the eastern end of the passage, holding out an unsteady hand to feel for any more tripods.
His fingers touched one. He took care to go around it without making any sounds and continued his retreat. Light—too much light—spilled in from the secret door. He moved faster, praying that he would not pay for his speed by bumping into the next tripod.
But there were no more tripods; only the end of the tunnel. And luckily, there was a protuberance, built to accommodate either pipes or a chimney flue, with just enough space behind for him to hide.
He flattened himself against the wall as a bright lantern swung. His heart raced. He’d come to this level in clean clothes and his stockinged feet and shouldn’t have left any traces of dirt that would cause suspicion.
But one never knew in these situations.
The lantern swung a few more times before a woman said, in lilting French, “This way, please.”
Footsteps. The slight scrape of the tripod being lifted out of the way.
Then the woman spoke again. “You see, Madame, it is not that we are not treating you as an esteemed guest, it is only that the rooms in this château that qualify as estimable all have such peepholes. I do not know your preferences, but me, I cannot abide such intrusion into my privacy. Even if I cover up the peephole I will still know it’s there.”
The other woman—if those two were the same two people who had walked out of the room he was peeking into earlier—did not say anything.
But the first woman appeared satisfied. “Let us go,” she said. “I have something that will prove my sincerity much better.”
Perhaps the other woman made a questioning face. The first one went on to say, “Let’s just say it involves a syringe and a choice of injectable solutions.”
?If it weren’t for Mr. Marbleton’s steadying presence, and the Van Dyck that hung directly opposite her station, Livia would have gone completely out of her mind.
Well, maybe the Van Dyck was also a reason she was partly out of her mind. It was much bigger than she had thought it would be. Not the sort of painting that took up an entire wall, but still, much, much too big to carry. Much too big to even cut out of the frame without a solid five minutes, unless one wished to lessen its value considerably.
And how would anyone get five minutes alone with it, when there were at least twenty-five people in the gallery, guards, waiters, and maids combined, even without a single guest?
Wherewerethe guests? The servants had been told to take their stations at least an hour and a half ago. And not a single person had come through the still-closed doors.
Not even one who wandered in by mistake looking for the cloakroom.
What was everyone doing here, then? Why had they carried up all the heavy plates and glasses? Why had Livia bothered to crush so much ice—her back still hurt—for the oysters and the mousses? Were all those platters upon platters of hors d’oeuvres to be carted off at the end of the night, without even having been looked over?
And the worst part was that she couldn’t say anything or ask any questions. She could only stand quietly, as did everyone else, thegallery silent except for an occasional shuffle of feet and a clearing of throat—and even those got warning looks from the members of the permanent staff.
When the screams came she almost screamed, too, out of relief, if nothing else. At least now someone had to come and explain why the château sounded like an abattoir.
Still nothing happened. The temporary staff glanced at one another. The permanent staff seemed to have turned entirely mute.
Then screams subsided and footsteps approached. The doors were thrown open and guests poured in. They marveled at the pristine spread of food and rushed to be the first in line for wine and champagne. There was excitement, loud chatter, and even trills of overwrought laughter.
Livia at last saw Charlotte, in a masculine disguise reminiscent of the one she had deployed at Stern Hollow, but pared down and without unnecessary flourishes. They did not exchange any communication, not even a nod. Still, she was so happy to see her sister.
And to glean from the sometimes-incoherent conversations that the guests had been at the other gallery in the manor and that a trio of ferrets—though some insisted they were huge sewer rats—had sprung out of nowhere and run amok among the guests, causing many of the ladies to shriek and a cross section of the gentlemen to match them in both pitch and volume.
Guests shoved one another to get out of the way. Plates and champagne flutes shattered. Entire tables overturned, dumping ice and foie gras all over the marble floor. All of a sudden, like a herd of wildebeests that had caught the scent of a lion, everyone rushed toward the door in a near stampede.
But at just the right moment, the double doors were thrown wide, the guests drained out, and in the cordoned corridor, they were corralled by a smiling but firm Monsieur Plantier, along with a phalanx of footmen.
Monsieur Plantier extended his deep apologies to the guests butreminded them that his sister was indisposed and needed her rest. Wouldmesdamesandmessieursplease take a second to collect themselves and follow him?
And now here they were, thirsty for champagne and oh, why not have a few éclairs and petits fours to calm the jitters? Livia didn’t know how the atmosphere had been in the other gallery, but the gobbling, guzzling guests in front of her were becoming more convivial by the moment, and there was, whether natural or intentional, a rising sense of fellowship, of having experienced and survived a remarkable event together, even if that event was only an attack of rats.
Or ferrets.
Charlotte, as Mr. Hurst, flitted from group to group, talking to everyone, laughing merrily. But she seldom looked in Livia’s or Mr. Marbleton’s direction and most certainly never at the prominently displayed Van Dyck.
?Lord Ingram cursed himself.
