Devil May Care Part 10/?
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimers and notes see parts 1 - 9.
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"It is not enough that your designs, nay, that your actions, are intrinsically good; you must take care they shall appear so. If your inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair outside also. This must be constantly looked to, or malice and envy will take care to blacken it so that the sagacity and goodness of an Allworthy will not be able to see through it and discern the beauties within." ~ Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling
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Marguerite's Apartment, the East End Morning
Marguerite groggily awoke, squinting at the sunlight that managed to come through the dirty window. She started to prop herself up and felt pain up and down her left side, jolted into remembering the night before. She cursed aloud with her half opened eyes and turned away from the window only to painfully leap to a sitting position with a small yelp.
"Bloody hell, it's you," she said with an exasperated sigh, trying to regain her breath and normal resting heartbeat.
"Who else d'ya think it would be?" Tom asked with an impish grin, moving closer to the bed. "That cov Roxton?"
Marguerite's cheeks tinted ever so slightly red. "Ah no. But I did hear that you two did bond quite nicely. Why didn't you follow him home?" she managed, as she gritted her teeth to shift her weight and move closer to the edge of the bed.
"Ay'm so sorry, really! Aye didn't mean ta tell 'im, really! But there was a flasher an' "
"He fed you, right? Talked prettily to you, said he only wanted to help," she grunted as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
Tom's eyes were wide as saucers. "You can be very spooky sumtimes, you know dat?"
She just grinned and shook her head, lighting touching the bruise forming at the edge of her hair. She hoped it didn't show too much.
Tom gasped as he finally noticed the bandages on her left shoulder. "What 'appened? Mark get rough?"
"Something like that. Would you mind retiring to that corner again?" she shooed him off, ever so slowly attempting to get up.
Tom blushed and nodded his head, trotting off to the other side of the room.
Stifling swear words, she gingerly rose and walked to the closet. Only one dress left- the rest were sitting in a pile on the floor of her suite back at the Ritz. With a sigh, she slowly removed the remains of her blue dress and with care began to don the black one. As she did, she became more aware of the handiwork Roxton had done on her wounds. Not bad, she thought reluctantly. Must be from all that time in Africa- probably had to bind up tiger claw scratches, she mused idly.
Damn that man! Stubborn arrogance! To find her and search her safe haven, her bolt-hole, and then to take away all she had left: her dignity. And she couldn't even hate him for it. Oh yes, he had seen it all, hadn't he? Without a word, he had done as she asked, had made sure she was alright, watched over her while she, the helpless damsel, slept.
She ran her good hand through her hair, remembering the light touch of his fingertips on her bare skin. Bloody hell. I can't win, can I? Damn him, damn him, damn him! Remember Shanghai, girl, and get a hold of yourself. Stop blubbering like an idiot, use that brain of yours and fix this mess before it gets worse, she scolded herself.
Tom was beginning to get impatient and was fidgeting restlessly, tapping his feet in some rhythm unbeknownst to all save him. "You need any help?" he asked impishly, half turning his head around.
"You tear your eyes away from that wall and I'll tear them from your head," she replied nastily, hastily finishing buttoning up the front of her dress. "You can turn around now, brat."
Tom did as she asked and went straight to the bed, hopping upon its disarrayed sheets. He sat perched on the edge, swinging his feet back and forth as he watched Marguerite sit down and struggle with her hair. It was fully down and snared in tangles- a formidable task to master even with both arms in good working order.
Marguerite was cursing under her breath in a battle with a particularly pernicious knot when her brush was plucked from her hand. "Hey!"
"Aye's can help wit this, at least," Tom said before dragging the brush through her hair.
"Hey, hey, hey, not so rough!" she replied angrily as he pulled hard on the ends.
"Aye had a sister once, who had the wildest hair. 'Course, it wasn't as pretty as yours, red hair she 'ad, like me mum. Mum went out for lunch one day- never came back," he explained quietly. "Then it was just me and Sally- that was me sis- and dad. Sally couldn't do 'er hair 'erself so Aye got to 'elp. Got right good at it, Aye did Right before they took 'er," he said darkly.
Marguerite grimaced. Crushers did have a habit of relocating children to "better environments," especially if they were the likes of Tom, hanging about in the streets. Most were never seen again and she didn't doubt that Tom's sister was just a nameless face somewhere.
"Yes, well, try not to rip it all out, okay?" she said in a less harsh tone. She found herself remembering Roxton's words from the night before. What the hell did he know? She knew this boy better than he ever would. His lot in life hit too close to home.
"You- um you have any sisters or brothers?" he asked in a tentative voice.
Surprising herself, she answered his question truthfully. "I have no family," she stated bluntly.
"Like me," Tom said, trying to be cheerful.
"Yeah. Like you," she added softly, almost in a whisper. Tom fell peculiarly silent and brushed only lightly at her tangles. Inexplicably worried, she began to blabber about her travels on the continent, heists she had pulled, interesting people she had met. She even told him about the near- disastrous affair at the casino in Monte Carlo when she met her late husband.
Tom guffawed and yanked all the while until finally he said with a laugh, "You are a 'orrible liar! Aye bet 'alf o' dat ain't true!"
Marguerite found her mouth half open as if to reply before she snapped it shut. The truth was she had spoken frankly on every point she had brought up, in a rush to placate him and lift his spirits. Good Gad! I really must be losing it- first the Old Man, then Roxton, now the brat! Playing hairdresser, spilling secrets maybe she had been hit on the head much harder than she thought.
She stayed his hand, wincing as her arm throbbed. "That's enough. I can manage." She only had the strength to endure putting up half of her hair; the rest trailed down her back in a cascade of curls. "That'll have to do," she muttered, cursing herself for losing another hat.
"Dat looks nice. Why don't you do dat more often- ya know, wit the hair" Tom made gestures suggestive of hair around his shoulders.
"Women's fashions is a topic I suggest we save for another day," she said sternly, rising from the bed.
"Where we goin'?"
"We are not going anywhere."
"Awww not again," Tom began to whine but Marguerite held up a stern finger.
"Look- I need you to do something for me. Something very, very important."
"Important huh? Like what?" Tom narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
"I need you to stay in this flat and be my lookout."
Tom pouted and stamped his feet, ready to complain vehemently but Marguerite continued passionately," And if you screw this up, I swear I'll kill you- if he doesn't first."
"Wha?" Tom asked, suddenly very intrigued with his assignment. Figures, Marguerite thought. Only when threatened with life and limb does he get interested. Kid's got a bloody suicide wish.
"Someone may it is very likely that someone will come here, looking for me today. A man. Not Roxton," she answered, before he could even ask. "He'll probably wear a brown coat and walk with a slight limp. He wears a ring on his right hand- large, ruby set in gold."
"An' if this cov shows? What then?" Tom asked eagerly, his eyes wide.
"Don't act foolish. Tell him that I am gone and you don't know where to- it'll be the truth. He'll either give you a note or tell you to remember a message for me. You need to do as he asks. Do you understand?"
"Yah, you can count on me Marguerite," he said with a wink.
Glaring at him and cursing Roxton for telling Tom her name, she left the flat, armed with the codebook and a list of errands to run.
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A Bookseller's Shoppe, the Strand
The bells on the door clanged loudly as Marguerite entered the shop. It was deserted save for one clerk, who was standing precariously on a wobbly stepladder trying to put away a large tome. It was odd, Marguerite thought, that most of the shops she visited never did any real, honest business and she almost rarely went out to actually purchase things anymore. Shaking off her musings, she approached the man, now climbing down from his ladder.
"Hello, there."
"Hello, miss. Anything I can help you with?"
"Yes, thank you, Mister ?"
"Hatter," Specter replied with a gleam in his eye, his spectacles resting lopsided on his nose. His hair stuck up in agitated tufts and ink stains blotted his shirt front. She did have to admit he did make a very convincing goop.
"I see you have regained your sense of humor," she replied in a low voice.
"And I see you have brought me a present," he answered in the same amused, low tone, eyeing the book in her hands. "I love presents."
"Do you now? That's amazing- so do I."
"Really?" he narrowed his eyes as his lips stretched out in a smile. "Well, then, I shall have to give you one better."
Going behind the counter, he pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Even exchange," he said, as he took the book she had placed on the counter.
"Not quite," she said, idly toying with the edge of the wrapping of her parcel. "I fear I shall need one more. If that's not too much trouble, Mister Hatter?" she batted her eyelashes winningly.
His eyes narrowed but this time not with amusement. "Dead men don't read novels."
Ah, so the boys at MI5 had heard about General Tregarth's death, Marguerite calculated. She only hoped that they had pulled a clean-up op or that was yet another thing to be running from. "True. But then again, generals aren't known for their brains, either."
Specter set his jaw and stared hard at the windows for a long moment. He looked at Marguerite, his lips set in a tight line, and then strode to the far bookcase. Running his fingers lightly along the spines, he finally extracted a book. Brushing off some dust, he looked down at it and then back at Marguerite. He returned to the counter and slid the book slowly in front of her.
Alice in Wonderland.
"I hope you know what you're doing. The Germans won't be happy when they find out," Specter said in a hushed voice. "I assume you know who this third party is?"
Marguerite shook her head slightly in the negative. "But I have a very strong feeling about who it could be. You're not going to like it."
"I don't have to," he said, expectant.
"Is Poldi in town?" she asked innocently.
He stared at her, his face hardening into stone like a victim of Medusa.
"I'll take that as a yes. Well, I'm off- places to go, people to deal with, doncha know?" she said in a louder voice laced with feigned cheerfulness.
The door's bells clanged once more, heralding her exit. Specter took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes wearily. "God. I hope she doesn't get herself killed." He took out the book she had handed him and began to flip through it. The codebook, fully intact and safe in his hands. His superiors would be thrilled- the mission as far as they were concerned was over and done with. However, he had a sinking feeling that for Marguerite the spider web was only halfway unfurled.
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The Elephant Pub
Marguerite sat at the counter, her parcel and the book resting on her lap, ignoring the bartender and his bad breath. It didn't take long before she saw a familiar face appear in the mirror behind the bar. He sat down next to her and she pushed the pint that sat in front of her in front of him.
"Have a drink, Schroeder, you look thirsty."
With a mumbled "danke," he greedily drank and wiped off a frothy mustache with his sleeve. "Do you have it?"
"Yes," she replied and placed the unwrapped book on the counter. Schroeder quickly grabbed it and stuffed it under his coat. He then extracted a small pouch from an inner pocket and handed it to her just under the bartop.
"Oh jolly good," commented Marguerite as she took the extended bag and hearing the coins jingle within.
"He would like a report," Schroeder said to his glass.
"He will just have to wait, won't he? Besides, he already has what he wants. And now," she said, tucking the pouch into a pocket, "I have what I want. Until next time." With a wink, she stood and left the pub.
She walked slowly back to the East End, swinging her parcel lightly in her right hand. Karl now would assume that he had what his superiors were looking for. He probably had found out by now that it was a codebook but he wouldn't be able to tell without assistance that the book she had passed along was simply an unaltered copy of Carroll's story. Karl was no codebreaker- he wasn't even a very good spy. It would probably get all the way to Berlin by the time the idiots realized that they'd been snookered and the beauty of the plan was that she could play it innocent the whole way through. The mission statement mentioned no codebook, did it? She smirked to herself.
As she rounded the corner and came onto her street, she saw Tom pacing about and scowled. Unbeknownst to him, she made her way closer to where he was fidgeting on top of an abandoned crate. Grabbing his collar from behind, she dragged him into the alley directly behind him, Tom sputtering indignantly.
"Mind the collar, eh? Everyone grabs the collar"
"What part of 'stay in the flat' was unclear to you?" she hissed angrily, letting him go.
Tom rearranged his shirt and glared up at her. "Aye know wot ya said, but 'siderin' the circumstances, Aye thought Aye'd betta come out and look for ya."
"Oh yes, it's all so much clearer now," she said nastily. "Look, I told you to wait in the flat for a reason"
" 'e came," Tom interrupted her. "Just like you said. You are spooky, you know dat? Scariest lady Aye've ever met."
"I'd thank you if I was sure if it was a compliment. What did he say?" she asked impatiently.
" 'e bade me give you this- even paid me for delivery. Then left straightaways," Tom reported, handing her a small folded note.
It was the same type of paper that the note the Old Man had given her had been written on. Unfolding it, like before, all it contained was an address, one that she knew from years ago. "Poldi," she murmured.
"Wha?" Tom asked curious.
"Nothing. Hold out your hand," she ordered.
Tom eyed her suspiciously and clasped his hands behind his back. Marguerite glared. "Oh for heaven's sake, I'm not going to drop snakes in it, just hold out your hand."
Warily, he extended his hand and she dropped into it several coins, causing his eyes to widen.
"Get yourself something to eat, clean yourself up. Then I want you to take this," she extracted a couple bills from the pouch Schroeder gave her, "and buy something special." She told him what she expected and he giggled triumphantly.
"Aye tol' ya Aye could 'elp!"
"Yes, well, keep your nose out of trouble- and when I get back, you better be snug and tucked in that flat room or I'll skin your hide."
He just grinned and ran off, hooting triumphantly as he rounded the corner out into the street.
Shaking her head and feeling the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile, she turned the other way and headed toward the Ritz. It was time to don the red dress. She had to visit to perform.
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Audley Square
Marguerite stepped out of the hansom cab with the assistance of the butler and was promptly led towards the grand entrance hall of the imposing townhouse. She silently removed her cloak and hat and stood expectantly as the butler appropriated a place for them. She maintained her hold on her parcel and was not questioned about it. He then returned and led her to the main parlor. With a slight bow, the butler left the room, silently closing the door behind her leaving her alone with her host who had risen as she entered, holding a cigarette in an ebony holder elegantly with one hand.
"Count von Berchtold," she said matter-of-factly, crossing the room and extending her hand.
He took it and kissed it gallantly, his mustache skimming the black lace and his eyes focused on the dipping neckline of her dress. "Miss Smith."
They stood in silence for a short moment contemplating one another for a second, both clad in crimson- her in lace trimmed dress, he in a velvet dressing gown. "Should I feel mortified that we have such similar taste in clothes?" he commented dryly, moving to the sideboard.
"No- you should feel mortified that I wear it better," she replied in the same tone, taking a seat on the plush sofa.
He chuckled half to himself as he set the holder down in order to pour drinks. "Still managing to convince people you're an heiress?" he asked over his shoulder.
She pursed her lips, determined not to break her façade of serenity. Poldi always played dirty, a master of the scathing comment. He lived well, as he always had and was always pleased to remind people of their place, especially her.
"Oh, same old luck as always. And you? Still innocent of all those dreadful things in Sarejevo?" He didn't flinch; he was too much of a professional for that. In reality the whole business just served to show that both of them were equally dirty and above petty blackmail concerning the past. He knew that she had acquired her wealth in more interesting ways than inheritance and she knew that he had more than a finger in causing the assassination that caused the Great War. It wasn't like he wasn't paying for it already, having lost his status as the Austrian Foreign Minister, though he always was a dreadful snob.
He turned and handed her a glass, a grin on his face. "You know, you really are quite amusing. It's a shame you're you, we could have had so much fun together."
"Yes, well, I suppose that's something one can't really help, is it?" she sipped her drink politely.
He took up his cigarette holder again and settled into a large leather armchair, looking very pleased with himself, puffing away merrily while swishing his port idly in his glass. "My current paramour is so deadly dull- must get it from her father, ghastly fellow, rich as the hills though. Practically worships the ground I tread on. Can't blame her- it's her only charm really."
"Doesn't take a whole lot to amuse you, does it?" she said wryly.
"Oh no, just doglike devotion and a pocket book that's larger than mine. Rather hard feats to manage, when you think of it." He stubbed out the cigarette and leaned over to pat her on her crossed knee. "But then, there are other things that do amuse."
"I'm sure," she added warningly and flashing a grin at her, he removed his hand.
"My dear, dear Marguerite. Here I've been, spewing about all this tripe about dotty little Helena- that's her name, did I mention it? And all the while, you haven't said a solitary word about why you've come. Patience on her monument, do climb down from there and tell me why I have been so honored to have you come visit poor little old me."
She struggled not to make a face during his painfully patronizing speech and instead managed a sweet smile and cooed prettily to him. "Why Poldi, you don't want to hear about my troubles. They're not worth the telling. Why else should I come to visit but to bask in your reflective glory?"
He guffawed out loud and took a hearty swig from his glass. He set about refilling it as he spoke. "That's an infuriating trait of yours, my dear. Intelligence in women, horrid thing. Should be outlawed." He took his newly filled glass back over to his seat and peered at her over the glass' rim. "I suppose you want to know about the Roxton jewels."
"Yes, as a matter of fact. Call me silly, but I rather would like to see what I've been accused of stealing. I hope it's up to my reputation's standards," she finished archly.
Cocking an eyebrow, he rose again and retrieved a thick black velvet pouch from a writing desk in a corner of the room. "Since I knew you'd be coming," he explained, concerning the lack of safeguards. He handed her the pouch which she outlaid on a low table by the couch. There, safely shrouded by the crushed velvet, was a ruby brooch, a pair of diamond earrings, a peridot ring and a sapphire necklace.
She delicately grasped the ends of the necklace and held it up to the light. The stones dazzled her as they sparkled in their silver setting.
"Are you put to shame?" Poldi inquired, sipping his port.
She returned the necklace to its place and wiped her awe filled expression off her face. "I'll manage I suppose."
"It was actually rather too easy to pin it on you, old girl. You shouldn't have shot at the man- though I must confess, I would have paid considerably to see his face. Roxton is truly a horrible sort of fellow. Devoted to his mother, generous to his servants and all together lacking taste in acquaintances. Can you believe he actually made friends in such a desolate place as Peru? I mean, really!"
Poldi stopped short in his rant and looked critically at Marguerite. "I haven't offended you, have I, dearest?" A sly smile crept onto his face as he came closer to where she sat, tightlipped. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I seem to have hit a sore spot." He controlled a giggle and then sat down next to her, taking her hand. "You do realize of course that he is a Lord. Of the peerage. With a family that has been rotting here for ages. Do you really think that you have even a speck of a chance with no family, no name, aand no money? They'd eat you alive, pretty curls and all," he patted her hand sympathetically.
Marguerite was desperately trying to control the urge to throttle him right then and there. She had been training her eyes on a singularly ugly knickknack across the room and finally believing herself to be under control, she allowed herself a glare at Poldi.
"I'm insulted that you would even consider such a thing."
He grinned even more and removed himself from her side to retrieve his glass of port.
"Of course you are. Now then. Obviously you've figured it out, otherwise why should you have come? By the by, what gave me away?"
"Tregarth."
"Ah, yes. I had hoped that you would mention some arcane triviality- 'I recognized the note paper' or some such rot- one does get all sorts of mad ideas from novels these days, doesn't one? - but alas, no. Not up to the usual standards, poor boy. Saw the papers. Viciously murdered in his own home, chills the blood and all that. Rather an incompetent lackey for a general."
"Oh, I don't know. He did manage to kill the original man in MI5," she hazarded a guess. She was beginning to tread on dangerous ground. She had most of it figured out- but she couldn't afford to slip up now.
"Only because he was a greedy fat thing who wanted it for himself," Poldi said nastily, like a little boy rankling over a stolen toy. "You really saved me quite a lot of trouble by dispatching him so efficiently," he recovered.
"But wasn't that the plan in the first place? To have me steal it? Otherwise why do it under Specter's nose? And then, after I refused, to leak it to your good old friend Conrad who sent his insane son to order the Baroness' involvement?"
"Well, it's your own fault, you know. If you hadn't been so stubborn, Karl could have stayed in Berlin, torturing his pets. You think you had it hard? I had to dine with the lunatic one evening. Eats like a savage- hasn't quite mastered the fork and the spoon," he said disdainfully. Then an evil gleam came into his eyes when he added, "He's mastered the knife bloody well though."
Marguerite twisted her lips together to show what she thought of that comment. "So hard to find good help these days."
"You seem to have found it in spades. Interesting characters you've been surrounding yourself with- old men and young boys. The gamut has been rung, I see."
"Is that how Tregarth figured out it was worth more than you were telling? Because Karl came to visit?" Marguerite asked, trying to regain hold of the conversation's direction.
"Of course. Bloody twit wanted more money for it. Good thing I never 'spected him to give it to me anyway. And speaking of that where's my little treat of the evening- you haven't given it away yet, have you?"
"I have it," she replied, settling the brown parcel onto her lap.
"Oh goody," he said and extended his hand for it. "Fair trade, doncha think?"
She said nothing but raised an eyebrow and shrugged indifferently. He tore at the paper like a child on Christmas morning and sighed with pleasure when its contents were revealed.
"Alice in Wonderland," he read off the cover. "A classic. What I always wanted for my birthday."
"Your birthday is four months away."
"Then Early Birthday to me. Or should I say, Happy Un-Birthday?"
"Whichever you like. I however, must be going," she said, rising and gathering up the velvet parcel with the jewels inside.
"So soon? No victory drink? No more veiled snipes? And things were just starting to get fun," he pouted.
"Poor Poldi," she playfully pitied him.
"Won't you stay and trade insults with me awhile longer, Lady Roxton?"
"Leopold, do not make me shoot you. It has been a very long day," she said wearily, finding belatedly that she meant every word.
"Fine. Go," he ordered feigning hurt. Then with a sly smile, he placed the book on a table and approached her, now by the door, and took both of her hands in hers. "Darling, it's been a pleasure, as usual. Try not to shoot your lover next time you see him, you don't need another murder on your hands." He released her and she promptly left.
He chuckled to himself. She really was quite an amazing woman. Dreadfully low and common, painfully easy to anger but always amusing, he did give her that. And his plan to use her like the effective tool she was worked beautifully. It really was a shame that he could not pat himself on the back.
He chuckled again and he picked up his glass while flipping idly through the book with his other hand. After a drink, he looked down at its pages closer and then with a powerful stroke of his arm threw his half filled glass to the floor. It shattered loudly, the glass tinkling on the polished wood floor, its sounds mingling with his shouted curses.
He had received for his pains one genuine forgery.
Furious, he yelled for his butler. He had a phone call to make and revenge to take, and he knew exactly how he was going to make Miss Smith wish she was never born.
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Marguerite's Flat, Early Morning
Marguerite watched Tom sleep, looking very content as he burrowed further into her pillow as the sunlight grew ever stronger in the window. She finished the last of her cigarette, stubbing it out on the floor before moving over to the bed and shaking his shoulder.
"Wake up, Tom. It's time to get up."
"Hmmffph," he murmured into the pillow.
"Tom. Up. Now," she ordered but in vain. Finally, she whisked the covers off of him and stole the pillow out from underneath his head, causing him to roll precariously to the edge of the bed. He tottered, tried to groggily recover himself, and then hit the floor with a thud.
"Ow," he managed, rubbing his arm.
"Good morning," she said, looking down on him and throwing the bedclothes back onto the bed. "We have work to do."
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An hour later a plainly clothed governess, dressed in dour black, was seen escorting a young lady in an ill fitting pink dress and lopsided curls from an undescript flat in the East End. Not soon after, two individuals of the same description were seen hailing a hansom cab that took them to the townhouse of Lady Beatrice Roxton.
The kitchenmaid of the Lady of the house was much later heard to gossip at the baker's that a governess had appeared that very day with her charge, an ugly sort of girl with uneven flaxen curls and dirty knees. Apparently, the governess had indulged the vile thing in coming to the Lady's party without her parents' permission in exchange for completing her Latin lesson without whining. The girl then disobeyed her tutor, gone off on her own- the governess having been remiss in her duty to watch the child, having been settled down to the dinner, which she complimented the Lady, was very good- and had come across a safe in the library that had not been locked properly. The girl, as any girl would, had decided to play dress up and had taken the Lady's things to borrow for her tea party with her playmates, which took place the day before. The party being over, she proudly confessed to her governess what she had done and was duly taken back to the scene of the crime, as it were, to apologize for unnecessarily worrying the Lady about the safety of her possessions.
Lady Beatrice, ever a generous and forgiving sort of Lady, gratefully acknowledged the receipt of her jewelry and promised secrecy on behalf of the child. The governess, however, was severely upbraided and did inform the Lady of her impending unemployment, to which the Lady could only approve. They left rather quickly after that, the child having eaten almost an entire tray of tea cakes all by herself.
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Roxton entered his mother's favorite parlor where he found her at her writing desk, as usual. Flopping down on the couch, exhausted after his night's vigil, he spied the empty tea tray and arched an eyebrow. "Visitors already?"
His mother, now alerted to his presence, turned around and smiled brightly. "Oh John, you will never guess what just happened"
TBC
Part Eleven, coming soon!!