Chapter Three The Milkmaid Stratagem
It was Wednesday, near dawn. The study of Darcy House had witnessed many historic moments, but none quite so visually arresting as George Wickham attempting to squeeze his vanity into the cast-off garments of a laundry maid.
Mostyn had returned with a bundle of grey wool that smelled faintly of lye and despair. He placed it on the settee with the reverence of an undertaker presenting a shroud.
"The maid is named Agnes, sirs," Mostyn informed the room. "She is a woman of sturdy constitution. I believe the bodice will accommodate Mr Wickham's shoulders, provided he does not inhale deeply."
George, now squeaky clean, stared at the garment. He poked it with a trembling finger.
"It is wool," George whispered, horror dawning. "Coarse wool. It will chafe. My skin is very sensitive, Fitz. You know this. I require Egyptian cotton."
"The French Republic does not care about your epidermis, George." Robert hopped on the edge of the desk, swinging his legs. "Spies want silk. They want velvet. They do not want a woman who appears to have been dressed by a blind shepherd. It is your best chance."
"But the colour," George moaned. "It is barely a colour. It is the shade of a depressive cloud."
"Put it on," Richard barked from the fireplace. He checked the priming on a pistol—entirely theatrical, as it was unloaded—but the metallic click sent George scrambling for the buttons of his breeches.
The transformation was a struggle. George shed his torn finery, shivering in his smallclothes, before stepping into the grey dress. The fabric swallowed him. The skirt was too short, revealing a scandalous amount of hairy ankle, while the bodice strained threateningly across his chest.
"I cannot breathe," George gasped as Mostyn fastened the hooks at the back.
"Agnes has a narrower ribcage," the butler observed neutrally. "If you could perhaps retract your bones, sir?"
"I am retracting!" George wheezed. "It cuts! It binds!"
"Excellent," Robert applauded. "It forces you to hunch. A hunch suggests humility. Servants should always appear slightly beaten down by existence."
Mostyn produced the final piece: a mob cap, stained with soot and limp with age. He handed it to Darcy.
Darcy held the cap. He glanced at his childhood friend, now trussed up like a festive goose in grey wool. Guilt pricked at him. This was humiliation. This was absurd.
Then he remembered the five hundred guineas.
He jammed the cap onto George's head, pulling it low to obscure the famous Wickham curls.
"There," he said, stepping back.
The three cousins surveyed the result.
George stood in the centre of the room. The dress ended three inches above his boots. His broad shoulders threatened to burst the seams. The cap sat askew. He resembled less a laundry maid and more a bear that had been shaved and forced into servitude.
"Hideous," Robert declared, wiping a tear of pure joy from his eye. "Truly, deeply repulsive. No one will look at you twice, George. You are effectively invisible."
"I feel ridiculous," George muttered, tugging at the skirt.
"You feel alive," Richard reminded him, holstering the pistol. "Now, we move. The sun is rising. If the spies are watching the house, we need to leave before the streets fill."
"How do we leave?" George asked. "Through the front door?"
"Heavens no," Robert shuddered. "Servants leave through the scullery. We go out the back. Into the alley."
"The alley?" George recoiled. "But... the muck."
"The muck is your friend, George." Robert advised, hopping off the desk. "Embrace the grime. It is your camouflage."
The alley behind Grosvenor Square was a narrow, cobblestoned vein of the city, lined with ash heaps and smelling of coal smoke. A grey dawn bled into the sky, casting long shadows across the wet stones.
The back door of Darcy House creaked open.
Mostyn scanned the perimeter. "The coast is clear, gentlemen. Though the cat from Number 42 is watching with suspicion."
George stepped out. He immediately tried to stride forward with his usual confident gait, forgetting the restrictive circumference of his skirts.
Rip.
The sound of tearing wool echoed off the brick walls.
"Halt!" Robert hissed, grabbing George's arm. "You have the walk of a Dragoon. Women do not stride, George. They mince. They glide."
"I cannot glide in boots!" George whispered furiously, trying to check the damage to his hem.
"Then shuffle," Richard ordered, pushing him forward. "Keep your head down. Shoulders hunched. Imagine you are carrying a bucket of coal."
"I refuse to imagine that."
"Imagine a French sniper on the roof, then."
George hunched immediately.
They formed a strange procession. George, the oversized washerwoman, shuffled in the centre.
Richard walked a few paces ahead, hand on his sword hilt, scanning the rooftops for imaginary assassins.
Robert and Darcy flanked the rear, trying to appear casual while escorting a man in a dress through the backstreets of Mayfair.
"Is it far?" George whispered, stumbling over a loose cobble.
"Not very far," Richard replied. "It is only three streets away. We stick to the shadows."
They turned a corner and nearly collided with a genuine milkmaid. She carried a yoke with two heavy pails, her cheeks ruddy with the morning chill.
She stopped. She stared at George. She took in the hulking shoulders, the hairy ankles visible above the boots, and the shadow already darkening his jaw beneath the mob cap.
George froze. Panic flared in his eyes. He opened his mouth—to scream or beg for mercy, possibly both.
Richard stepped in.
"Morning, love." He flashed a charming, dangerous smile at the girl. "Ignore my aunt. She has the dropsy. And a touch of the madness. Taking her to Bedlam."
The milkmaid blinked. "She's big, isn't she?"
"Huge," Richard agreed. "Built like a shire horse. Terrible temper. Best move along."
He tossed a coin into her apron. It got swallowed in the front pocket.
The girl curtsied, cast one last curious glance at George, and hurried away, her pails swinging.
"Aunt?" George hissed, once she was out of earshot. "Built like a shire horse?"
"You are welcome," Richard growled. "Now move. Before she tells the Watch there is an ogre in the alley."
Darcy walked beside Robert. He kept his eyes on the ground, his face burning.
"This is insanity," he murmured. "We are committing fraud in broad daylight."
"We are conducting a tactical exercise," Robert corrected, adjusting his cuffs. "And admit it, Darcy. You are enjoying this slightly."
"I am terrified."
"Yes. But you are not bored. And George is learning humility. Look at him."
Darcy looked. George had stepped in a puddle of dubious origin. He did not curse. He did not complain. He merely whimpered softly and kept shuffling.
"He shall certainly learn to avoid puddles," Darcy conceded.
"We are nearly there." Richard pointed towards a black service door at the end of the mews. "Sanctuary awaits."
Captain Lindon's townhouse was strictly utilitarian.
The quartet slipped through the rear entrance, entering a scullery that smelled of beeswax and lemons. Richard waved away a startled kitchen maid with a single gesture that sent her scurrying into the pantry.
"In," he pointed to a heavy wooden door set into the wall.
George hesitated. "In there?"
"The wine cellar," Richard nodded. "Or rather, the space adjacent to the wine cellar. The coal store. It is the most secure room in the house. Thick stone. One door. No windows."
He opened the door. A draft of cold, earthy air rushed out to meet them. Darkness yawned inside, broken only by the faint gleam of coal.
"It is very dark." George clutched his skirts.
"Darkness hides you." Richard took a lantern from the wall, lit it, and handed it to George. "Take this. There should be a cot. A blanket. And a bucket."
"A bucket?"
"Nature calls, George. Even for fugitives."
George stared into the abyss. "How long?"
"Until we remove the threat." Darcy stepped forward, his conscience warring with the necessity of the lesson. "We are going to find the Butcher. We will retrieve the box. But until we return, you must not make a sound. If the French know you are here..."
"They will burn the house down," Robert supplied helpfully.
George swallowed hard. He looked at his friends, at his grey woollen dress, and then at the dark cellar.
"You will come back?" he asked, his voice small. "You will not leave me with the coal?"
"We shall return," Richard promised. "When the campaign is complete."
George took a breath. He adjusted his mob cap with a tragic dignity.
"Very well," he said. "For the box. For Mr Darcy."
He entered. His boots clomped on the stone floor. The light of the lantern barely lit the piles of coal.
Richard closed the door and threw the heavy iron bolt.
Thunk.
The sound was final.
Robert let out a long, loud exhalation and sagged against the wall.
"I need a drink," he announced. "A large one. That was the finest performance of my life. The 'French Spy' narrative held together by a thread."
"He is terrified." Darcy glanced at the bolted door. "Is it too much, Robert? The coal cellar? It is cold."
"He has a wool dress," Richard shrugged. "He will be warm enough. And he has time to think. Time to consider the consequences of pawning family heirlooms."
"Come," Robert pushed himself off the wall. "We have deposited the package. Phase One is complete. Now comes the difficult part."
"The Butcher," Darcy said.
"The heist," Robert corrected. He led them out of the scullery, towards the main stairs and the promise of Lindon's brandy. "George is in his box. Now we must go and get yours."
Darcy followed his cousins. He felt a strange vibration in his chest. His heart was racing. His palms were sweating. He was a Darcy. He was a scholar.
And tonight, he was going to rob a gaming hell.
He realised, with a shock that nearly stopped him on the stairs, that Robert was right.
He was not bored.