Read Online The Lure of the Moonflower by Lauren Willig - Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Willig
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before.
“—spavined jade.” Instinct—and the raised voice of one of the dragoons—prompted Jack to glance up from beneath his hat.
His younger siblings’ mother used to say that one’s misdeeds always caught up with one, if not now, then later.
In Jack’s experience, it was usually now.
Unless he was much mistaken, that dragoon had bought a horse off him the previous week, in his role as Rodrigo the itinerant horse trader. Jack had also, in the process, lifted some rather interesting dispatches out of the man’s saddlebags, combined with some rather less interesting bills and billet-doux. The man had a taste for expensive tobacco, and his mistress couldn’t spell.
Without hurrying or making eye contact, Jack rose casually from his bench, swaying a bit for effect. With any luck, the dragoon wouldn’t make the connection between Rodrigo the horse seller and Alarico the drunk.
But, just in case, now seemed like a rather good time to answer the call of nature. Particularly as nature was, indeed, calling.
Taking care to stay in his role, Jack lurched and swayed across the room, making sure to wave to acquaintances and step on the odd foot along the way, all the while calculating the distance to the door and from the door to the alley. One yard, two . . .
And he was in the alley.
But he wasn’t alone. One of the dragoons had followed him out. Not the irate one with the illiterate mistress, but the stripling, the one who looked barely old enough to hold his musket, only the shadow of a mustache above his lip, and a weak, pale look to him beneath the regulation hat. He moved tentatively along the wall, as if unsure of the exact etiquette of finding a place to relieve himself.
Jack could have told him that. There was no etiquette. But he moved aside all the same, making room for the boy.
And he nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard the voice of the Pink Carnation say, “There’s about to be trouble.”
Chapter Four
J ack pulled up his breeches in record time.
“What in the blazes are you doing here?” he hissed, his fingers clumsy as he tied his laces.
“Watching your back,” said the Pink Carnation equably, which Jack found rather disingenuous, given that his back had not been the part of his anatomy in view.
How in the devil hadn’t he realized it was she? Grudgingly, he could see how it had been done. He might have suspected a man or woman alone, but she had entered as part of a group—a group already so inebriated that the addition of an extra to their party had occasioned no comment, in that stage of drunkenness where people came and went and scenes shifted in dizzying ways. The uniform jacket hid a multitude of details; one’s eye skated over it, seeing just another French dragoon. The uniform was convincingly battered, as though it had been put through a rough march and then unsuccessfully repaired.
And her face . . . Somehow she’d altered even that. The pure lines of her face were broken, changed by that wispy little mustache and the high stock she wore, pushing her chin at an odd angle. Even her eyes looked different, smaller, darker. Makeup, he could see, now that he looked closely. So skillfully applied that only another master of the trade would know it was there.
She’d gammoned him. Skillfully and thoroughly.
Jack jerked his jacket back into place. “Get an eyeful, princess?”
“Don’t be childish.” The Carnation dropped her voice, speaking softly in French. “One of the dragoons knows you.”
“You mean he knows Rodrigo, the trader of horses,” Jack corrected her.
“He says you sold him a lame mare.” Even as she spoke, she was going through the appropriate motions, pretending to unbutton her breeches, wiggling her posterior in those tight, uniform pants. If anyone emerged, they would see only two men, each looking straight ahead, answering nature’s call.
Jack pulled his hat down over his eyes. “The mare wasn’t lame when I sold it to
“—spavined jade.” Instinct—and the raised voice of one of the dragoons—prompted Jack to glance up from beneath his hat.
His younger siblings’ mother used to say that one’s misdeeds always caught up with one, if not now, then later.
In Jack’s experience, it was usually now.
Unless he was much mistaken, that dragoon had bought a horse off him the previous week, in his role as Rodrigo the itinerant horse trader. Jack had also, in the process, lifted some rather interesting dispatches out of the man’s saddlebags, combined with some rather less interesting bills and billet-doux. The man had a taste for expensive tobacco, and his mistress couldn’t spell.
Without hurrying or making eye contact, Jack rose casually from his bench, swaying a bit for effect. With any luck, the dragoon wouldn’t make the connection between Rodrigo the horse seller and Alarico the drunk.
But, just in case, now seemed like a rather good time to answer the call of nature. Particularly as nature was, indeed, calling.
Taking care to stay in his role, Jack lurched and swayed across the room, making sure to wave to acquaintances and step on the odd foot along the way, all the while calculating the distance to the door and from the door to the alley. One yard, two . . .
And he was in the alley.
But he wasn’t alone. One of the dragoons had followed him out. Not the irate one with the illiterate mistress, but the stripling, the one who looked barely old enough to hold his musket, only the shadow of a mustache above his lip, and a weak, pale look to him beneath the regulation hat. He moved tentatively along the wall, as if unsure of the exact etiquette of finding a place to relieve himself.
Jack could have told him that. There was no etiquette. But he moved aside all the same, making room for the boy.
And he nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard the voice of the Pink Carnation say, “There’s about to be trouble.”
Chapter Four
J ack pulled up his breeches in record time.
“What in the blazes are you doing here?” he hissed, his fingers clumsy as he tied his laces.
“Watching your back,” said the Pink Carnation equably, which Jack found rather disingenuous, given that his back had not been the part of his anatomy in view.
How in the devil hadn’t he realized it was she? Grudgingly, he could see how it had been done. He might have suspected a man or woman alone, but she had entered as part of a group—a group already so inebriated that the addition of an extra to their party had occasioned no comment, in that stage of drunkenness where people came and went and scenes shifted in dizzying ways. The uniform jacket hid a multitude of details; one’s eye skated over it, seeing just another French dragoon. The uniform was convincingly battered, as though it had been put through a rough march and then unsuccessfully repaired.
And her face . . . Somehow she’d altered even that. The pure lines of her face were broken, changed by that wispy little mustache and the high stock she wore, pushing her chin at an odd angle. Even her eyes looked different, smaller, darker. Makeup, he could see, now that he looked closely. So skillfully applied that only another master of the trade would know it was there.
She’d gammoned him. Skillfully and thoroughly.
Jack jerked his jacket back into place. “Get an eyeful, princess?”
“Don’t be childish.” The Carnation dropped her voice, speaking softly in French. “One of the dragoons knows you.”
“You mean he knows Rodrigo, the trader of horses,” Jack corrected her.
“He says you sold him a lame mare.” Even as she spoke, she was going through the appropriate motions, pretending to unbutton her breeches, wiggling her posterior in those tight, uniform pants. If anyone emerged, they would see only two men, each looking straight ahead, answering nature’s call.
Jack pulled his hat down over his eyes. “The mare wasn’t lame when I sold it to
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