Page 86 of The Art of Theft
“Maybe,” said her old friend. “But it was also from your perspective and I’ve always enjoyed your perspective.”
Mrs. Watson unclenched somewhere inside. “Thank you.”
Sita Devi inclined her head. She looked like a very regal, very beautiful bird, with her gleaming black gown, golden mask, and tall purple plumes rising from that mask. Mrs. Watson gave an inner sigh of sheer aesthetic appreciation.
“I—” she began, and stopped.
“Yes?”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Watson, a little embarrassed. “Just that when I was in India I remembered you often.”
She’d been happily married, but she’d worried, especially when she was happy, about Sita Devi.
“I—” She looked as embarrassed as Mrs. Watson felt. “I used to have violent thoughts about your duke.”
She meant the late Duke of Wycliffe, the first person Mrs. Watson took up with after the maharani returned to India—and also her very last protector.
Mrs. Watson’s eyes widened in surprise. She couldn’t help giggling a little. “You did?”
Sita Devi sat cross-legged, one elbow on her knee, her chin in her palm. She turned her face to gaze into the flames leaping in the fireplace. “I loved to imagine him walking into doors. And then I would imagine you feeling a terrible revulsion for that clumsy dolt—and missing me very desperately.”
“I did miss you desperately—I tormented myself with thoughts of the life we could have had, especially in the early years.” Mrs. Watson’s fingers knotted together. “Did... did you ever find anyone?”
She’d prayed fervently for Sita Devi’s happiness. But she foundherself growing ambivalent even as she asked the question. If there was no one in Sita Devi’s heart now, if...
“It took many years but”—her lips curved with a smile—“she did at last come into my life.”
Disappointment stung Mrs. Watson. But it was a flash as brief as it was ferocious. A great big grin on her face, she leaned forward and took Sita Devi’s hands. “Tell me all about her. Who is she, and how did you meet?”
Sita Devi drew back her hands, but only to cover her mouth as she laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Then tell me faster.”
“She is my daughter-in-law’s aunt. She raised the girl so I’ve taken up with the woman who is more or less my son’s mother-in-law!”
Mrs. Watson laughed, too. “Strengthening family ties, are we?”
“I try. Oh, that woman. What a temper.” She shook her head, but the smile on her face was fondly indulgent.
“I’m so happy for you,” said Mrs. Watson, meaning every word even as her heart again pinched a little.
“Thank you.” This time, it was Sita Devi who took her hands. “Whatever happens tonight, Joanna, thank you for everything.”
?“Will these women do something? All they do is talk and talk,” grumbled Poulaine.
When no one answered him, he grumbled some more and moved to the camera set up for what Charlotte thought of as room 5, one farther away from room 4, where Mrs. Watson and the maharani were.
“Now look at these two,” he said with long-denied satisfaction. “They’ve just closed the door and already he’s got her skirts up.”
Charlotte exhaled and hoped that would hold his attention solidly.
“Shhh,” hissed Barre from the far end.
Charlotte gave thanks for the blessed silence and turned the well-oiled dial. The final pin tumbled into place. She wiped away a bead of perspiration from the tip of her nose and opened the safe door.
A stack of gold bullions greeted her, so bright she was afraid they’d magnify the light from her cigarette tenfold. Above the bullions were pouches of gems. Charlotte enjoyed a good bauble, but alas, she was not that sort of thief, even though this must be misbegotten wealth.
A number of envelopes crowded the top rack. She put back those filled with currencies and deeds. At last she came to three padded envelopes filled with photographic plates. Next to it, another envelope bulging with what appeared to be letters. There were two other envelopes, both dark in color, the contents of which she couldn’t immediately judge. She removed another blanket, a pocket lantern, and a bobby’s nightstick from her false stomach and stuffed all the envelopes in, cinching tight the belts that held the stomach shell in place.
