Chapter 2 Leave Them Wanting More
Leave Them Wanting More
“Isn’t this an interesting magic trick?” Alice says in a decidedly German intonation, gripping the younger woman’s elbow.
“Levitating into our hostess’s private quarters. I don’t suppose you’ve received a personal invitation.”
“Whereas you got yourself a plum one,” the girl answers, a smart tilt to her chin and a smirk playing on her Gibson Girl lips.
“You can drop the accent, by the way. You may have others fooled, but I just heard plenty to suggest where you’re really from.
And it sure as heck isn’t Europe. Unless Upstate New York got annexed sometime in the past few years and I didn’t know about
it?”
Alice’s grip loosens ever so slightly. Upstate New York. This girl has a good ear. Too good.
“Aren’t you the clever one,” Alice retorts dryly, dropping the accent as requested. The girl rocks back onto her heels like
a precocious child who’s just won a spelling bee. “You’re not the one I took you for, are you? The magician’s assistant, up
there on the stage. But surely you’re not an invited guest. And in any case, I can’t let you waltz out of here with that.”
She nods to the side of the girl’s long skirt that she’s clearly gripping with the fingers of one hand. The girl feigns bewilderment, but that hand doesn’t budge.
“Don’t know what you mean,” the girl says. “I was just relieving myself, if you must know, in cleaner facilities than that
dank little cupboard in the servants’ wing. There. You got me. Haul me off to toilet jail!”
She tries to saunter off, but Alice blocks the way, arms crossed, unimpressed. “Go on. Let’s see it.”
The girl’s eyes flit here and there, as if to assess whether a physical scrap might get her out of this one. Alice is tall,
over five feet nine inches, and of a slim but formidable build. Even so, she knows it’s her expression of absolute intractable
marble that manages to dislodge the younger woman’s confidence.
The girl sighs in capitulation. Immodestly she digs into the skirts of her gaudy dress, her hand emerging with four slim diamond
pins. Iris Witt was wearing them earlier, wasn’t she, to affix that horrendous headdress? It’s a score so obvious that Alice
nearly laughs aloud at the foolishness of Iris making such a show of removing them from her head.
If this girl successfully absconds with the jewels, she’d create a ruckus that would, as a best-case scenario, merely distract
from the impact of Alice’s own introduction into society; at worst, she’d put these grandees on their guard for the rest of
the season. Unacceptable.
The easiest way to stop this little thief currently rests in a discreetly sewn pocket in Alice’s gown—the derringer pistol
she never leaves the house without. But perhaps there’s a more delicate way to approach this.
“They’re fakes,” Alice says with a pitying cock of her chin.
The girl’s eyes widen with surprise, but only for a blink. She’s suspicious now, as well she might be. “How can you—”
“Watch.” Alice leans close to the piled pins, enjoying the sight of the girl flinching, then breathes hot air into her hand.
“See all this fog? The stones caught and held the humidity. Diamonds don’t do that. This is crystal.”
The girl shuffles back with a scowl, having a look on her own. “I don’t see any fog.”
“It takes a practiced eye, especially in this light.” Alice raises her eyebrows. “It occurs to me that instead of giving you
trade secrets, I ought rather to turn you over to the police. This sneak-and-grab routine appears to be a well-honed trick.”
“You? Turn me over?” The girl laughs. “I’ll be out that window and gone before you can even shout ‘thief.’”
As if to test that theory, she edges closer to the far wall.
Good, Alice thinks, the conversation has moved on from the gemstones.
“An escape artist, are you?” Alice blinks. “I must have missed that part of the act. I’ll have to ask the magician for your
name.”
“He doesn’t know my real name,” the girl volleys back, chin lifting again—more with pride than defiance, Alice thinks. “But
I know your fake one. And if all goes south for me and I wind up in custody, I’m sure the boys in blue would love to hear
what I have to say about the upstanding member of European aristocracy who blew the whistle on me. Makes for quite an interesting story.”
They watch each other for another moment in tense silence.
Alice shrugs, motioning to Mrs. Witt’s bedroom door. “Put those fakes back where you found them and no harm done. If you heard as much as you claim to, then you’ll understand why I can’t have any kind of scandal arising while I’m here.”
“Yes, that’s all crystal clear,” the girl says, spinning the pin with a smirk. “Go on, then. I’ll put them back. Deal’s a deal.”
Alice shakes her head. “I think I’d prefer the evidence of my own eyes.”
“Touchy, touchy.”
Alice watches the girl sulkily glide back through the pocket door and into Mrs. Witt’s dressing chambers, placing the pins
back inside the lacquered jewelry box, shutting its compartment up tight with visible reluctance.
She’s got a restless mind, Alice observes. For her, it’s as much about winning as the winnings themselves.
She can certainly relate to that.
“We square?” the girl whispers as she slides the pocket door shut behind her.
“Indeed,” Alice answers, with her German cadence back in place. “I wish you better luck in the future than what you’ve found
tonight. And here’s something more for your trouble.”
She hands the thief a shiny coin.
“A fiver?” The girl squints. “I’d think my silence was worth something more like—”
“Don’t press your luck.”
The thief sinks like a tethered balloon, the bare regret in her expression making Alice wonder if she was right in her assessment
of the girl—perhaps she really does need the money. But then, with a blink, the girl slides smartly away, turning the coin
over in her hand with a neat spin to make it disappear. A well-practiced act. She’s underutilized in that troupe of hers.
With perfected wariness, Alice watches the girl sidle out of the sitting room and back down the hall.
She lingers for a minute before rejoining the party, where Ward waits inside the game room with a group of male chums, all
laughing at some quip she suspects she should be glad she hasn’t heard. Ward straightens smartly and hastens from the room
at the sight of her.
“Shall we away, Your Grace?” he offers. “I’m sure this has all been taxing.”
“And I have some correspondence to reply to,” Alice says quietly.
“To your brother, no doubt,” Mrs. Witt loudly whispers, faux-conspiratorial as she takes Alice’s arm in the corridor. “Tell
me, is it really true that Prince Wilhelm’s been corresponding with Arabella Ames, that little mouse? If he’s looking for
an American debutante, surely he can do better. Not that I’m offering up my Bonnie. She’s got more suitors than she can juggle
at the moment.”
Alice affects a disarmed laugh at this crude performance. She must make Iris Witt believe that her particular brand of boastful
vulgarity is a balm to the duchess’s troubled mind.
“I’m afraid I’m writing back on more somber matters,” Alice answers. “There have been raids by our supposed allies at our
nation’s southern border . . . But I really must say no more. I’m sure all your fine guests are beyond reproach, but I cannot
risk any wisp of information reaching the ears of our Austrian oppressors.”
Her eyes dip low before rising through the game room’s doorway to meet the gathered men’s curious and appreciative glances—in particular, Brett Ogden’s arrogant gaze.
He cuts the handsomest figure at this party, even in middle age, but he wears his beauty like a threat.
Alice takes pains to fight off a shudder at his curling smile, especially while her sharp-eyed hostess is also watching.
“The truth is, I always reply promptly to my brother so that he will not worry about me.” Alice laughs softly. “It is ironic,
is it not, given the state of affairs in Württemberg and my safety here, but oh, he does fret, thinking of me alone on foreign shores. Thanks to your aid, dear Mrs. Witt, I’ll have much needed artillery funds
to convey to the resistance along with my letter. And your continued prayers for Württemberg’s freedom will help us greatly.”
“And now let us allow the duchess some rest.” Ward turns to Mrs. Witt with a gallant bow and a wink. “A triumph, as always,
dear Iris. I’ll be sure to say as much to Mrs. Astor.”
At that promise, Mrs. Witt draws a deep, exultant breath. No one in this sphere, not even one so apparently disaffected as
their hostess, is immune to the power the name “Mrs. Astor” carries.
With that adieu duly delivered, Ward and Alice turn together to sweep down the grand corridor and out of the party, knowing
all eyes will remain fixed upon them until they step out of the front doorway, into their carriage, and away.
Inside the lacquered car, Alice’s shoulders drop. Her breath steadies. A postmortem drink at Ward’s and then back to her own
home, and sleep. Nearly done tonight.
It’s a relatively brief ride south to the McAllisters’ townhome on Thirty-First Street, offering just enough time for Alice’s mind to wander, to adjust as needed, to plan further, but as Ward keeps up a monologue of wry observations for most of the ride, mainly recounting the series of events that led to Mrs. Witt’s falling-out with Mrs. Astor a month prior, Alice’s musings haven’t slipped dangerously into the realm of needless anxieties.
Ward’s right. This evening went well. She achieved what she needed to, stepping alluringly onto the public stage and then
away again, letting the gossip that will inevitably ensue in her absence do much of the work for her.
The only glitch came at the end. That girl, the magician’s assistant, or so Alice assumes.
But that was resolved neatly enough. Didn’t even have to use her gun. Five dollars is far less than those pins were worth,