Devil May Care Part 7/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes, see parts 1 - 6.

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" ' but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had not the slightest idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but she thought they were nice grand words to say." ~ Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

"Elbow: What is't your worship's pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?

Escalus: Truly, Officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldest discover if thou couldest, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are." ~ Measure for Measure, William Shakespeare

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A Tea Shoppe, Later that Morning

Roxton finished the dregs of his second cup of tea before setting the porcelain cup down rather hard in its saucer, causing the old woman at the next table over to shoot him a disapproving glare. He missed this, however, because he was intent upon the window in front of him. Rather, the view from the window: the front doors of the Ritz Hotel.

He was determined to figure out the mystery behind Miss Marguerite Krux. She may not have stolen his mother's jewels (though he would not be surprised if she had her hands in it) but there was definitely something about her that smacked of untrustworthiness. She was up to something- those eyes of hers didn't miss much, he wagered- and whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

He hailed the waitress again and ordered another cup of tea. This was going to require strategy and cunning, he mused, absently rubbing his knuckles thoughtfully. He didn't doubt that if he was not careful, she would notice his presence. He only hoped he could stalk his prey with more success than that of their first meeting, which still rankled him. His thoughts flew back to the drawing room that night, of her svelte body draped with crimson silk, her black curls trailing down her back and those eyes never turning away from his.

The woman had guts, wits, and one hell of an aim. His kind of woman. And yet, here he was, conjuring up visions of treachery that she may have perpetrated throughout the English countryside when he should be doing everything that he could to woo her, to make her his bride. And yet there was that remark about those dead husbands

He nodded curtly as the waitress returned with his tea and scalded his mouth with a deep swallow. The whole situation was intolerable! If she wasn't bad enough, he had to remain in London until the situation with his mother was resolved, taking more time away from his hunting grounds at Avebury. If he had any sense, he thought sorely, he would just go to the Zoological Society, petition for an expedition, and get as far away from London and Miss Krux as humanly possible and return to hunting prey the way he was used to.

He raised the cup to his lips once more, but the tea never made it to his lips. In mere seconds, the cup was returned to its saucer, a few coins tossed unceremoniously onto the table, and Roxton was out the door.

Miss Krux had just left the hotel.

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Marguerite stole an upward glance at the sky as she hurried on to her destination. It was, as usual, overcast but she knew that it would rain later. She only hoped that by then, she was indoors. One of the things she truly detested about London was the lack of sunshine. It really could be a frightfully dreary city. Especially with the rain impending, she mused, aware of her predominately gray surroundings.

She was on her way to Hyde Park. By the time she had finished soaking, she had realized that the only person who could possibly inform her of the importance of an Alice In Wonderland book to the Germans was Specter. It infuriated her that she had to turn to him, of all people, because it practically assured that now she must help with his dirty work but it could not be helped.

It wasn't until she finished breakfast, though, that a sneaking suspicion fell upon her. It was possible that there was a chance, however slight, that both Specter and the Germans were after the same thing. Specter had mentioned papers- the Germans, a book. Not entirely disparate items. It would also explain why Specter had thought it necessary to route her, specifically, out, as the operative already known to the enemy, Baroness von Helsing.

She continued on, using a deceptively casual stride that covered more ground than it let on, and made her way into the park. She spotted him easily enough, sitting on the bench where they had met several times before, reading a newspaper with his half-glasses on. He had spotted her, of course and had acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head as he turned a page.

She slowed her steps, aware that the Lord following her had taken up occupancy behind some trees that lined the path. He was light on his feet, she'd give him that, but really! Some great hunter! She had spotted him barely two blocks away from the hotel. Oh well, she thought recklessly, let him think I'm indulging in some romantic affair with a married man or some such other rot. He'd believe me capable of such indiscretion anyhow.

She sat down on the bench next to Specter but did not look at him. Instead, she opened her purse and began to rummage through it as if she had stopped to look for something.

"At last. I expected you an hour ago," he said quietly, also not looking at her, his face hid behind his paper.

She did not respond immediately, but rather took stock of her surroundings and her sometimes superior. The park had not changed much since their first meeting there but they had. She studied his profile from her peripheral view and couldn't remember a time she had seen him look every inch of his age. More gray intermingled with his black hair, an addition which she had previously thought gave him a more distinguished look, today made him appear more tired and wizened. Yes, quite a change. She wondered idly if the same principle could apply to her before plunging into the business at hand.

"The Baroness had callers yesterday," she said bluntly, in the same quiet voice. She extracted her cigarette case and a lighter from her purse. She noticed the hands holding the paper clenched ever so slightly at this comment. "Looking for a book," she added, placing a thin cigarette between her lips.

He turned the page with such alacrity that it tore. Hmmm he has to know what this is about if he's so riled up about it, Marguerite thought. She lit her cigarette as calmly as she could, her pent-up curiosity burning on her lips. Instead, she wittily remarked, "Careful. I've got a suitor who's watching all this with interest."

The paper resumed its previous casual and upright position. "Yes. Lord Roxton, I see. Did you take his mother's jewels?"

"No."

"Pity." He had replied in the same flat tone as before, with only a slight tremor to his voice. Though slight, it was enough to let Marguerite know he was sufficiently rattled. Specter was known for being cool as ice. Something of great import was definitely going on. For him to not take part in their typical idle bantering, it would have to be. "What book?"

"Alice in Wonderland," she replied, taking a drag of her cigarette.

A muttered oath came from behind the newspaper.

"I take it it's not just because they can't find a suitable translation?" Marguerite said, unable to control her sharp tongue. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she knew he was glaring at her for this comment. Then she continued in a more neutral tone, "I also take it that the book is bound with the missing papers?"

He did not respond. He didn't have to. As soon as she had spoken the words, she knew she was right.

They sat in silence for a few moments more, Marguerite watching the end of her cigarette slowly burn away, all too well aware that a Lord was watching her every move from behind an oak tree not a fifty yards away, and Specter carefully hidden behind the London Times.

After clearing his throat loudly, he continued in his inaudible, soft voice. "During the war, the office developed a cipher for communications, one that the Germans couldn't break."

"A cipher? You mean a, a code?" she asked rather breathlessly. No wonder he was so out of sorts.

He nodded imperceptibly. "Most ciphers up to that point had been based on the sundial or wheel-"

"Like a key?" She had remembered seeing translators work out the codes, turning handmade circles where the letters matched up to rework into jumbles of nonsense.

Again the barely noticeable nod. "Also rather simple ones that involved the regular substitution of letters."

"Anagrams. But they're certainly not unbreakable, I mean, school children can play word games equal to that."

"Exactly. Which is why we came up with a different cipher. Alice is a story every Englishman knows, a bestseller, a great distraction from war"

"It's a codebook?" she hissed incredulously. "You lost a codebook!"

"Well, we didn't exactly hand it over to with the compliments of His Majesty!" he hissed back, this time his temper clearly evident. He took a deep breath and flipped another page of his paper, shaking out the wrinkles with two short, harsh flicks of the wrist. "The cipher was based on the book. Certain underlined words on specified pages, confused grammar, puns on puns, fantastical names, multiple keywords-- it was the perfect ruse." His tone had become almost reverent as he spoke of it.

"Underlining it was annotated, you mean? So they don't just need a copy of the text- they need one of our copies to decode it?" she ventured.

"We have the other ones in a secure location. This one managed to disappear before we got it there. And if the Baroness' friends are looking for it, the only consolation the War Office has is that the Germans don't have it."

"Yet. Not much of a consolation- a free agent," she pursed her lips distastefully.

"Whoever pulled it had clearance, rank. We're looking at a triad of very influential and highly decorated generals. Not exactly a walk in the park for the investigative committee."

She grimaced but remained silent, listening carefully to his information.

"Names will be in the cigarette pack," he said, and tapped his foot. Looking down, she saw a crumpled box on the ground. "Find out who has it and get it back- by whatever means necessary. We can't afford to have anyone break that code. Names, locations, dates. If they got it to proper translators"

"I get it, alright?" she said, slowly swallowing the bad taste in her mouth. "Look- getting you information, forwarding you what I was given is one thing but deliberately planning to stage a burglary of this sort"

"Wasn't in the brochure? Sorry," he said unrepentantly. "Unfortunately, you're the only one we can trust. Everyone else is demobbed or possibly working under a general's influence. Besides, someone with your extracurricular activities should find it within their capabilities." He cleared his throat before continuing. "You will, of course, be appropriately compensated."

"Bloody well better, or I'll be reading Karl bedtime stories about the Knave of Hearts who stole the tarts."

The paper shook violently again. "Calm down. You're starting to frighten away the birds. Not to mention peak a certain individual's interest," she said, rolling her eyes towards Roxton's hiding place.

The paper slowly lowered, revealing his slightly amused features. He leveled a serious look at the path, over his half-glasses. "You didn't take his mother's jewels?" he asked again, his amusement evident in his tone.

"Not for lack of trying."

"That's my girl. Calculating to the last," he said as a quick smile graced his features. He surreptitiously glanced over at Roxton who was watching the whole scene with great interest. As he began to fold up the newspaper, he continued with a slight nod at their onlooker, "When I am to wish you joy?"

"If you mean me, whenever you wish. If you mean to that insufferable-" Marguerite began, her voice slowly becoming audible as her anger grew.

He interrupted her smoothly, "Now who needs to calm down?" With a half-hidden wink, he tucked the paper under his arm and proceeded to stroll down the path she had just come up, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

She watched him go with idle interest, and continued to sit complacently. Noticing the sad state of her temporarily forgotten cigarette, she threw it to the ground and snubbed it out with a twist of her foot. Nudging the crumpled box with the same foot, she inconspicuously bent over, and picked it up, concealing it within her purse as she brushed imaginary lint off of her dress with the other hand that was conspicuously in view of Roxton.

Rising slowly, she set off further in the direction in which she had been going, determined to lose him by the time she reached the East End.

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Marguerite entered the apartment building feeling rather pleased with herself. She had gotten leads out of Specter, had managed to lose Roxton, and all before tea time. I should get an early start more often, she thought to herself. Rounding the stairs, she stopped short. Sitting there on the landing was Tom.

"What are you doing here?" she asked grumpily and pushed her way around him.

"You said you'd teach me. So I'm 'ere and ready ta learn."

"I'm busy, brat," she said with a sigh, stopping at her door.

"Ya gonna pick it?" he asked eagerly, looking back and forth between her and the lock. "The landlady done tol' me that no one lives in that there room- but noises, like creaks, she 'ears it all the time. Ghosts, she says."

"Hmm," she said, raising an eyebrow at her protégé, while digging around in her bag for her picks.

"Aw, come 'un! You promised!" he whined, stamping his feet.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" she muttered, throwing her head back and tossing a 'why me?' glare to the heavens. "Fine. Come over here and watch."

He studied her hands intently as they maneuvered the lock with two thin pieces of steel. It clicked and the door opened.

"Coo," he breathed and followed her inside. He surveyed the plain room and pounced on the bed, causing the mattress to creak in protest. "So."

"So," she replied non-committedly.

"What's your name- you never told me," he said, watching her extract her widow's attire from the bureau.

"I never did- and I never will, brat."

"Aw, come 'un, I dun tol' ya mine!" he whined.

"That you did."

She began laying out her clothes, and began to carefully take off her hat and coat.

He looked at her, then to the black dress and back to her again. His eyes lit up and he bounced again on the bed. "You're the Lady! Aren' ya? The Old Man's Lady!"

She whirled around to look at him, her eyes wide. What the hell? Then she took a deep breath and told herself to calm down- he's just a street urchin, he knows the street chatter, nothing else.

"They say ya killed ya husband somethin' terrible. Kitchen knife slashed 'im through n' through. Ruined all yer clothes with the blood so ya only has the one dress left," he chattered on merrily, very pleased with his discovery.

She allowed herself a slight smile and nodded her head. Whatever will they come up with next? The last rumor she had heard concerning her favored persona was that her lover had poisoned her late husband and then disappeared, leaving her to constantly search for him. People's willingness to twist reality into their own favored account of "the facts" would never cease to amaze her, and never cease to be a handy asset.

"You are going to need to stand in that corner," she said archly, pointing across the room.

Tom smirked and obediently did as he was told. Facing the wall, he shook his head, muttering under his breath. "The Lady dun't believe it me and the Lady!"

Marguerite quickly donned her outfit and coughed loudly as a signal for him to turn around, which of course, he did fast as lightning.

"So what ya gonna teach me next? Huh? Where we going?"

She was tucking in her gloves and sighed heavily. How did I ever get stuck with babysitting duty? "You are not going anywhere with me," she said firmly.

"Oh come 'UN, please? I promise not to get into any trubble, I swear on a stack of bloody Bibles! Pleeeease?"

"You want a lesson? Fine. Lesson One: Never underestimate the value of having people believe the worse of you. If they think you're an idiot, or a lowlife, or a harlot- let them. It's better than them knowing the truth."

"You mean, like if you had just tol' me that you was a starcher than you wudn't have to teach me?"

She glared at him. Damn brat was right. Learned fast for a street rat. Could end up being useful. But not tonight.

He rocked back on his heels confidently, a smug smile on his grimy face. "Dun tol' ya I'm no flimp."

She faced the window and looked out to the street below through the small circle she had cleaned earlier that day. And then she cursed underneath her breath in lurid Mittelhocdeutsch. It was him! John Bloody Roxton, pretending to buy a handkerchief from a vendor across the street.

"You want something to do?" she asked abstractedly, turning from the window to face the half cracked mirror on her bureau so she could adjust her hat properly.

Tom nodded vigorously.

"Go to the window." As he pressed his nose up to the glass, she continued. "See that man down there, bowler hat, tan suit?"

"Yeah- who's dat? A 'tective?"

"No- just someone I'd rather not meet for the next few days. I need you to steal his wallet. It'll be in the upper left pocket."

"Coo- sure! I've been practicing too- got it real smooth and I can do it without trippin' over me feet now!" he babbled proudly.

"No, no, no," she waved her hands in protest. "I need you to make sure he knows you took it."

"Wha?" Tom's nose wrinkled with confusion.

"I don't see what's so hard to understand. Take his wallet, make sure that he chases you for a while, then lose him. Fast." She quickly lowered the veil, upset that she had let concern tender those last remarks. Why should she give two figs about the brat? Let him get caught, why should she care?

"What about 'is wallet?" Tom asked, narrowing his eyes and stroking his chin as if he were considering a deal of monumental proportions.

"Take it, chuck it, I don't care!" she said impatiently, moving to the door. Motioning him to follow.

"You want me to distract 'im, huh?"

Gritting her teeth, she replied curtly, "Yes." The lad was too perceptive for his own good.

He nodded thoughtfully, as if he considered it worthy of his effort and flexing his fingers ostentatiously, exited the room.

Marguerite watched from the window as Tom walked out onto the street and sidled up to the cart without drawing Roxton's attention. And then it happened. Like a dance she alone choreographed. Tom pinched his wallet, stumbling over the wheel of the handkerchief cart, Roxton was jarred, realized he'd been marked and went off in hot pursuit as Tom began a mad dash through the street-walkers.

Smiling to herself for a job well done, she left the room and walked quickly in the opposite direction, to the Old Man's shop, forgetting to relock the flat door.

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TBC