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Authors: Lauren Willig
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him.”
“Be that as it may, he’s out for restitution.”
“Don’t you mean retribution?”
“Given that it’s your blood he’s after, I wouldn’t quibble about the details.” Her eyes shifted sideways, meeting his. “He’s sent one of his lackeys to lie in wait for you.”
“Only one? I’m insulted.”
The Pink Carnation wasn’t amused. “You haven’t seen the lackey.”
The lackey didn’t worry him nearly as much as the woman standing next to him. Lackeys he’d dealt with before. A blow here, a kick there. He knew how to keep himself alive in a brawl. It was refreshingly straightforward. Unlike the Carnation.
So far, in their brief acquaintance, she’d managed to fool him twice, first as a courtesan, then as a soldier. Jack didn’t like it. It made him feel as though his feet were on shifting ground. He was the one who made the ground shift, thank you very much.
She’d claimed not to speak Portuguese, but why should that be any more true than anything else?
Jack looked at her from under the brim of his hat. “I have the information you need—but you know that already, don’t you?”
The Pink Carnation neither confirmed nor denied. All she said was, “Not here.”
Jack couldn’t argue with that. The alley smelled regrettably of piss, not to mention charred fish. “Where, then?”
The Pink Carnation put a hand at the small of his back and shoved him so that he stumbled nearly into the open doorway.
“Follow my lead,” she murmured, just before she dealt him a stinging slap across the face.
“Thief!” she shouted in French, so loudly that even Bernardo roused from his drunken stupor, lifting his head and looking about with glazed eyes. “Pig!
Canaille!
I paid you ten livres for a horse and what did I get? Not even a donkey!”
Jack held up both his hands in exaggerated pleading. “Please, I swear, monsieur—” His French was convincingly broken. “It was the best mare—”
She cuffed him around the ears. “I’ll have you up before the authorities. Come with me, cretin.” The soldiers at the table had half risen to their feet. The Pink Carnation waved them down. “This one is mine,” she said, her voice convincingly slurred. “Justice!”
And with that, she placed a boot in his back, propelling him forward into the street. Jack didn’t need to feign his stagger as he slipped in the refuse in the gutter. The Carnation grabbed him by the ear, half pulling, half pushing him down the street.
A shadow fell over them as a man stepped out from the alley. Jack hated to admit it but the Pink Carnation had a point about the lackey. He had the physique of a gorilla and the face of a rat. It wasn’t a pleasant combination.
But the Pink Carnation breezed past him with all the arrogance of her class. “You may return to your master,” she said. “I have this
canaille
in my charge.”
And then, just to make sure of the matter, she flipped a coin in the man’s general direction.
Leaving the lackey scrabbling in the dirt, the Carnation marched Jack past the tavern, down a side street, and into a narrow alcove between two buildings.
“We’re safe enough here. They won’t follow.”
“Was that quite necessary?” Jack’s ear hurt and there was a boot-shaped dent in his back.
“I got you out of there, didn’t I?” As the Carnation spoke, she was already stripping off her uniform jacket, revealing a frock coat beneath. She reached into a hole between stones, pulling out a plain black cloak. She swirled it around her shoulders, transforming in a moment from a French soldier to a gentleman out for the evening, her shako hidden beneath a tall black hat.
“You planned that,” said Jack flatly.
“I took the necessary precautions.” The uniform jacket was whisked away, beneath the cloak. Given what he had seen earlier in the day, she made a surprisingly convincing man. It was, Jack realized, the small details, the way she held herself, the way she walked. She had made
“Be that as it may, he’s out for restitution.”
“Don’t you mean retribution?”
“Given that it’s your blood he’s after, I wouldn’t quibble about the details.” Her eyes shifted sideways, meeting his. “He’s sent one of his lackeys to lie in wait for you.”
“Only one? I’m insulted.”
The Pink Carnation wasn’t amused. “You haven’t seen the lackey.”
The lackey didn’t worry him nearly as much as the woman standing next to him. Lackeys he’d dealt with before. A blow here, a kick there. He knew how to keep himself alive in a brawl. It was refreshingly straightforward. Unlike the Carnation.
So far, in their brief acquaintance, she’d managed to fool him twice, first as a courtesan, then as a soldier. Jack didn’t like it. It made him feel as though his feet were on shifting ground. He was the one who made the ground shift, thank you very much.
She’d claimed not to speak Portuguese, but why should that be any more true than anything else?
Jack looked at her from under the brim of his hat. “I have the information you need—but you know that already, don’t you?”
The Pink Carnation neither confirmed nor denied. All she said was, “Not here.”
Jack couldn’t argue with that. The alley smelled regrettably of piss, not to mention charred fish. “Where, then?”
The Pink Carnation put a hand at the small of his back and shoved him so that he stumbled nearly into the open doorway.
“Follow my lead,” she murmured, just before she dealt him a stinging slap across the face.
“Thief!” she shouted in French, so loudly that even Bernardo roused from his drunken stupor, lifting his head and looking about with glazed eyes. “Pig!
Canaille!
I paid you ten livres for a horse and what did I get? Not even a donkey!”
Jack held up both his hands in exaggerated pleading. “Please, I swear, monsieur—” His French was convincingly broken. “It was the best mare—”
She cuffed him around the ears. “I’ll have you up before the authorities. Come with me, cretin.” The soldiers at the table had half risen to their feet. The Pink Carnation waved them down. “This one is mine,” she said, her voice convincingly slurred. “Justice!”
And with that, she placed a boot in his back, propelling him forward into the street. Jack didn’t need to feign his stagger as he slipped in the refuse in the gutter. The Carnation grabbed him by the ear, half pulling, half pushing him down the street.
A shadow fell over them as a man stepped out from the alley. Jack hated to admit it but the Pink Carnation had a point about the lackey. He had the physique of a gorilla and the face of a rat. It wasn’t a pleasant combination.
But the Pink Carnation breezed past him with all the arrogance of her class. “You may return to your master,” she said. “I have this
canaille
in my charge.”
And then, just to make sure of the matter, she flipped a coin in the man’s general direction.
Leaving the lackey scrabbling in the dirt, the Carnation marched Jack past the tavern, down a side street, and into a narrow alcove between two buildings.
“We’re safe enough here. They won’t follow.”
“Was that quite necessary?” Jack’s ear hurt and there was a boot-shaped dent in his back.
“I got you out of there, didn’t I?” As the Carnation spoke, she was already stripping off her uniform jacket, revealing a frock coat beneath. She reached into a hole between stones, pulling out a plain black cloak. She swirled it around her shoulders, transforming in a moment from a French soldier to a gentleman out for the evening, her shako hidden beneath a tall black hat.
“You planned that,” said Jack flatly.
“I took the necessary precautions.” The uniform jacket was whisked away, beneath the cloak. Given what he had seen earlier in the day, she made a surprisingly convincing man. It was, Jack realized, the small details, the way she held herself, the way she walked. She had made
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