Read Online The Lure of the Moonflower by Lauren Willig - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Willig
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a thorough study of her craft.
She might, he thought ruefully, even be the bloody Pink Carnation.
“How did you know the cloak and hat would still be here?” he asked accusingly.
“I took a calculated risk.” Her face was completely calm, her hands steady. Jack felt a moment of reluctant admiration. Whatever she was, the woman had nerves of steel. “The streets aren’t safe for a lone French officer after dark.”
“The streets aren’t safe for anyone,” Jack corrected. Any large city attracted its share of bandits and cutthroats; right now, with the city seething with resentment, the danger was multiplied tenfold. “I’ll see you back to your lodgings.”
She didn’t argue. Possibly because she was already walking ahead, speeding her pace slightly, as befitted a gentleman being dogged by a drunk.
“Please, sir,” Jack whined. “Just a coin, sir.” And then, more softly, “You were checking up on me.”
The Pink Carnation shook her cloak free of his grasp. “I speak no Portuguese, Mr. Reid. I have a vested interest in keeping you alive.” They were at the grille that led to her lodgings. “I’ll leave the gate unlocked. Wait ten minutes and then follow.”
She swept up the stairs as Jack squatted in the dirt outside, picking at illusory fleas, and deeply regretting the loss of his old contact. Jack hadn’t liked the man; he had been one of those round-bellied English merchants, full of his own consequence. The man had never been quite able to hide the faint disdain he felt for a half-caste like Jack, but he had done Jack the supreme favor of limiting his involvement to collecting reports, leaving Jack to get on with his own work as he saw fit.
In the eight hours since the Pink Carnation had arrived at Rossio Square, Jack had been beaten with a parasol, outwitted, and kicked.
This did not bode well for their partnership.
He waited a little longer than instructed, just because. Part caution, and partly because it would be deeply satisfying to make the Carnation squirm. Once roughly half an hour had elapsed, Jack slouched his way up the stairs.
The Carnation had removed her mustache and wig, but still wore the tall black boots and uniform trousers, the white leather clinging to her hips and thighs in a way that made Jack’s throat suddenly dry.
She was standing in front of an age-pocked mirror, sponging off the remains of her makeup. Her eyes met Jack’s in the mirror. “You said you had information for me?”
Jack removed his hat, tossing it onto the table. “You shouldn’t leave the door open, princess. Anyone might walk in.”
The Pink Carnation turned, and Jack found himself facing the point of a pistol. It was a very attractive piece of weaponry, chased in silver. It was also primed and cocked.
“If so,” she said calmly, “they would have been given reason to depart.”
“Off this mortal coil?” Since the dress of the evening appeared to be casual, Jack shrugged out of his odiferous jacket, draping it over a chair. Beneath, he wore only a loose linen shirt over his breeches. “Don’t point a weapon unless you intend to use it, princess.”
For a moment their eyes met and held, the challenge simmering in the air between them.
And then the Pink Carnation smiled. Just the briefest crease of the lips, but there was something about it that made Jack feel as though he had dealt a blow, only to find himself windmilling through empty air. The Carnation had removed his target and left him flailing.
She set the pistol gently down on the corner of the table, next to the bowl of water with its stained cloth.
“My aim is true enough,” she said, “but I prefer to use other means when possible. Littering the ground with corpses is the surest way to attract unwanted attention. You said you had news for me?”
There was nothing so dangerous as charm. Not the obvious charm of the courtesan she had pretended to be before, but this, a wry weariness, agent to agent. The intimacy of her
She might, he thought ruefully, even be the bloody Pink Carnation.
“How did you know the cloak and hat would still be here?” he asked accusingly.
“I took a calculated risk.” Her face was completely calm, her hands steady. Jack felt a moment of reluctant admiration. Whatever she was, the woman had nerves of steel. “The streets aren’t safe for a lone French officer after dark.”
“The streets aren’t safe for anyone,” Jack corrected. Any large city attracted its share of bandits and cutthroats; right now, with the city seething with resentment, the danger was multiplied tenfold. “I’ll see you back to your lodgings.”
She didn’t argue. Possibly because she was already walking ahead, speeding her pace slightly, as befitted a gentleman being dogged by a drunk.
“Please, sir,” Jack whined. “Just a coin, sir.” And then, more softly, “You were checking up on me.”
The Pink Carnation shook her cloak free of his grasp. “I speak no Portuguese, Mr. Reid. I have a vested interest in keeping you alive.” They were at the grille that led to her lodgings. “I’ll leave the gate unlocked. Wait ten minutes and then follow.”
She swept up the stairs as Jack squatted in the dirt outside, picking at illusory fleas, and deeply regretting the loss of his old contact. Jack hadn’t liked the man; he had been one of those round-bellied English merchants, full of his own consequence. The man had never been quite able to hide the faint disdain he felt for a half-caste like Jack, but he had done Jack the supreme favor of limiting his involvement to collecting reports, leaving Jack to get on with his own work as he saw fit.
In the eight hours since the Pink Carnation had arrived at Rossio Square, Jack had been beaten with a parasol, outwitted, and kicked.
This did not bode well for their partnership.
He waited a little longer than instructed, just because. Part caution, and partly because it would be deeply satisfying to make the Carnation squirm. Once roughly half an hour had elapsed, Jack slouched his way up the stairs.
The Carnation had removed her mustache and wig, but still wore the tall black boots and uniform trousers, the white leather clinging to her hips and thighs in a way that made Jack’s throat suddenly dry.
She was standing in front of an age-pocked mirror, sponging off the remains of her makeup. Her eyes met Jack’s in the mirror. “You said you had information for me?”
Jack removed his hat, tossing it onto the table. “You shouldn’t leave the door open, princess. Anyone might walk in.”
The Pink Carnation turned, and Jack found himself facing the point of a pistol. It was a very attractive piece of weaponry, chased in silver. It was also primed and cocked.
“If so,” she said calmly, “they would have been given reason to depart.”
“Off this mortal coil?” Since the dress of the evening appeared to be casual, Jack shrugged out of his odiferous jacket, draping it over a chair. Beneath, he wore only a loose linen shirt over his breeches. “Don’t point a weapon unless you intend to use it, princess.”
For a moment their eyes met and held, the challenge simmering in the air between them.
And then the Pink Carnation smiled. Just the briefest crease of the lips, but there was something about it that made Jack feel as though he had dealt a blow, only to find himself windmilling through empty air. The Carnation had removed his target and left him flailing.
She set the pistol gently down on the corner of the table, next to the bowl of water with its stained cloth.
“My aim is true enough,” she said, “but I prefer to use other means when possible. Littering the ground with corpses is the surest way to attract unwanted attention. You said you had news for me?”
There was nothing so dangerous as charm. Not the obvious charm of the courtesan she had pretended to be before, but this, a wry weariness, agent to agent. The intimacy of her
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