The Amaranth Enchantment Page 8

  “Here we are,” Peter said, gesturing toward a glowing mountain of coals.

  Beside it a sweating one-legged man stood cranking the wheel of a curious apparatus that rotated several spits at once. Each spit held half a dozen plump, browning fowl, their juices dripping and sizzling on the embers, smelling deliciously of gravy and woodsmoke.

  “Dinner for two, Poke,” Peter said, with an affected wave of his hand. “Use the fancy china, will you?”

  “Anything for your majesties,” the man called Poke replied, with a mock bow.

  “But first, let’s see your metal.”

  Peter elbowed me, and I opened my pouch, turning as far away from him as I could. I gave Poke a gold piece, and his eyes grew wide.

  “The lady pays, does she?” He bent low and whispered in my ear. “I’ve known that Peter since he was a tot, and I warn you, he’ll have that gold off of you in two shakes. How’s a nice young lady like you come to take company with the biggest rascal in Saint Sebastien?”

  “Grim necessity,” I said, and he roared with laughter.

  It took most of his pocketful to give me change. Then he unhitched a spit from his strange machine and deftly slid off a bird onto a wooden board already shiny with grease. He cut the bird in half in one swift slice, skewered two steaming potatoes from a pan in the coals, and served us on trenchers of questionable cleanliness.

  “Compliments to the chef,” I said, breathing in the warm vapor. Poke grinned.

  I could grow accustomed to regular hot meals, I decided. If all went well with Peter, I’d have them forever, with clean plate and cutlery, too. Mama’s plate and cutlery. My plate and cutlery.

  Peter steered me toward a watering trough, and we sat on its broad edge while Dog drank noisily. My day of searching and my chase after Peter had left me ravenous, and for a moment neither of us spoke, but took full advantage of Poke’s skill. The hot potato burned my tongue then melted in my mouth, and the chicken… suffice it to say I did not eat it in a manner befitting the elegant lady I was dressed to be. Mama would not approve. Mama would never know.

  People passed by in twos and threes, laughing loudly, their breath making frosty clouds before their faces. Groups of women began to appear, dressed in gaudy clothes. Their lips and cheeks, I was astonished to see, were painted with rouge, their eyes rimmed with black, and they wore large earrings that hung down to their nearly-bare shoulders. With a shock I realized what they must be, something I’d only encountered before in books.

  “Evening, Maud,” Peter called to one, a young blonde.

  “Go on, you ruffian,” she called back, laughing.

  He’d called her by her first name! I watched her pass with a pair of comrades.

  Their shoulders, so white against the dark night, looked terribly cold.

  I forced my attention back upon my food. At length, my energy restored, I remembered my purpose. Peter was still working on a drumstick when I asked, “Do you still have the jewel?”

  I could see him calculating. He chewed and chewed, and licked his lips. “Not on me.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Approximately.”

  I snatched at his half-finished plate. “I’m weary of your games and lies. ‘Supper for the truth,’ you said, and I’ve paid my price. Now do you know where it is, or not?”

  He shrugged. “Approximately, I said, and I meant it.”

  Dog sniffed at Peter’s plate. It was tempting to give it to him. Instead, I willed myself to think coherently.

  “Do you know who has it, then?”

  “Most likely.” He made a grab for his dish, but I held it at arm’s length behind me.

  “How can you most likely know who has it?”

  “I know who had it when last I saw it.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Last night. Late.”

  I’d rather interrogate someone who spoke a different language than try to wring the truth out of Peter. I took a deep breath, and spoke slowly and distinctly.

  “And who had it last night, late, Peter?”

  “My customer.”

  “Your customer. You sold it?”

  “‘Course.”

  He did a tidy turnaround, that one. If Uncle had done half as well, perhaps Aunt wouldn’t have harangued him so much. Already sold it! Was there any hope now?

  “How much did you sell it for?” I knew I’d get no honest answer.

  He pursed his lips and scratched his head. “Can’t say as I recollect exactly.”

  “Your razor-sharp brain’s gone suddenly soft, has it? And I suppose you’ve already forgotten who your customer was?”

  He reached a long arm over to snatch back his chicken. “I remember that well enough.”

  One last hope. “Then will you for the love of heaven tell me?”

  “Not for that, but possibly for the contents of your bag.” His feral smile made me clutch the purse tighter.

  “You’ll have this bag and all its contents once you’ve stolen my gem back from whoever you sold it to,” I said.

  He put up a flat palm. “That would be unsporting,” he said. “When Peter sells, Peter doesn’t take back. My clients would never trust me.”

  “Nobody trusts you!”

  He had the nerve to look affronted. “Besides,” he said, “I’d hang if they caught me stealing from this client.”

  The irony was too much for me. “That didn’t stop you from stealing from me!”

  He inclined his head in a small bow. “Pardon my saying so, but you’re small fry compared to him.”

  My heart plummeted into my belly. If he wouldn’t steal it back, however would I get it? Someone grand wouldn’t be tempted by money. “Who’d you sell my jewel to? King Hubert?”

  He smirked. He stalled. He took a long lick of his greasy fingers, a sight to turn anyone’s stomach. All was truly lost now, and he was enjoying my suffering.

  “Not quite,” he said, “though give me time and I’ll make a client of him, too. No,” he said, gnawing on a bone, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “This time my client was only a shade less illustrious. I sold your spangle to Prince Gregor. He took a strange fancy to it. Said it’d be the perfect gift for his ladylove.”

  I felt as though a chunk of potato had lodged in my throat. I hadn’t taken a bite.

  “The princess?” I asked, trying to be casual.

  Peter nodded. I saw a flash of annoyance on his face. “Why, what have you got against her?” I asked.

  He frowned, “Nothing.”

  Something was going on under Peter’s skin. I couldn’t make it out, but it was a chink in his armor, which was all I needed. So I gambled.

  I made an extravagant sigh. “It’d be a shame if Prince Gregor couldn’t give Princess Beatrix a wedding gift, wouldn’t it?”

  He watched me under heavy-lidded eyes, saying nothing.

  “And you won’t steal it back for me, though by all rights you should, because you’d hang for it. I suppose I can’t blame you for objecting to that.”

  He tilted his head, eyeing me from one side, much as Dog did.

  A terrifying thought popped into my head. Tonight was a rash, reckless night, so I seized hold of it. “Of course, I could try to steal it back myself…”

  He snorted derisively. “You? Ha.”

  “… if only there was someone who could teach me how it’s done. A trainer. A tutor in thievery. For hire.” I jingled my bag.

  Lucinda, have you gone mad?

  Odd strains of gypsy music floated out to us across the dark festival. I watched Peter’s face through the shadows.

  Once past the horror of his table manners, his face was a fascinating study in indecision.

  “Supposing there was such a trainer,” he said warily, “how much would he be paid?”

  I met his gaze. “Everything I’ve got here, as soon as I’ve got the gem in my hands.”

  He shook his head. “No good. I can’t be responsible for the outcome. Too risky.”


  “A third up front, then,” I said, “and the rest upon the success of the mission.”

  “Half.”

  Why, why was I bargaining with a thief? Would he really be able to help me? Did I have a chance of success? Now wasn’t the time for caution. I couldn’t afford it. “Half.”

  Peter shifted in his seat. “And if anything goes wrong, or you get caught, you’ve got nothing to do with me, got that? I don’t know you and I never taught you anything.”

  I tore a bite of chicken flesh from its bones. “Never anything.”

  Peter ate the last of his potato then put forth his hand. “Then I offer you my services.”

  I slapped my hand in his, chicken bone and all. “Dear.”

  Chapter 14

  I counted out the coins on the stone edge of the watering trough. Peter insisted on watching; I insisted he stand far enough away that he couldn’t touch.

  “That’s no way to show trust in your new advisor,” he sniffed.

  “Balderdash.”

  Once he’d pocketed the coins, and I’d tied my much-lighter wallet securely back upon my belt, suddenly Peter was all business.

  “Right then,” he said. “First, you begin by knowing your target. I can help there. The prince believes the gem is magic. Romantic. Like a love charm.” He laughed. “That idiot will believe anything I tell him.”

  I bristled. “He is not an idiot!”

  Peter made a low whistle and shook his head. “So you’re another one, are you?”

  “Another one what?” I cursed myself for talking without thinking.

  “Another of the empty-headed Saint Sebastien females who run around besotted by Prince Gregor’s dimples and curls.”

  Thank heaven the darkness concealed my blushing.

  I’d never thought of that. It made me feel sick. Of course I wasn’t the first to look at him.

  “Nothing of the kind,” I snapped.

  Peter grinned. “And how would you know if he’s an idiot or not?”

  Think fast! “I’ve heard tell of him.”

  Peter shrugged. “Anyway, he’ll have it on his person, that’s certain. He met the princess for the first time today. He’s been all worked up about it.”

  That, I knew. “So he’ll have his love charm with him, sure as anything. And if I know him, it will be in his inside breast pocket.” Peter gestured into his jacket with his hand.

  That caught my attention. “How d’you know where he’d keep it? How would you know him so well?”

  That same tight-lipped look I’d seen a moment before crossed his face and vanished as quickly, to be replaced by his usual sarcasm. “You mean, why would a gent like me keep such low company? I told you, he’s my client.”

  “Yes, but you don’t just have the prince as your client any old day of the week,” I said.

  “That’s true,” he said. “Only on days when I have something he’d want to buy.”

  “Does the king know that the prince buys stolen gems?”

  “Not ‘stolen,’ “ Peter said, elaborately pressing his fingertip and thumb together in an affected flourish under his nose. “Exclusive and sought after.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Time’s wasting,” he said, glancing around. “Quit interrupting the training.”

  “I’m not…”

  “As I was saying, the prince thinks it’s a love token, so he’ll have it with him. He won’t have given it to her yet, I’ll wager. He’ll be waiting for a more private opportunity.”

  I gasped.

  “What?” Peter asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. I’ve got some marvelous gems I could show you. A diamond they say is the largest ever to come out of India.

  “Peter,” I said. “When you sold the stone to him, where did you say it was from?”

  He scratched his head. “China? No. India. That’s right.” I nodded.

  “Adds to the perceived value. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Yes, well, I wish you’d quit changing the subject. As I was about to say, the princess will likely be back at the palace by now. The festival by night is no place for respectable young ladies,” he said, giving me a meaningful look. I pulled my coat tighter around me.

  Peter continued. “By tradition, the prince will have hosted the festival and the dancing all day long, which works to your advantage. He’ll be exhausted. He’ll have just stuffed himself at the banquet. Then there’ll be more music and dancing afterward, though not the kind you saw earlier today. Now, pay attention.”

  I was already paying attention.

  Peter chose a stone from the ground, wiped it, and dropped it into his pocket.

  “An inside pocket is difficult,” he said. “And the prince is heavily guarded. If it were me picking it off him, I’d strike up a conversation with him, in the middle of a lot of commotion, lots of people all around, and at the right moment I’d direct his attention elsewhere, so he turns, see?” Peter demonstrated a dramatic turn to one side, as if he’d heard a cry of “Fire!”

  “Now, watch here. Right at that moment, while he’s turning, I’d slide in with one quick movement, grab the stone, and have it out before he’s realized there’s nothing to see.” Peter demonstrated by robbing himself of a pebble.

  “Impossible!” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’ll never make your living as a thief. That’s the most elementary maneuver. I do it twice in a week at least.”

  I didn’t doubt him.

  “But you’re not me,” he continued, “and in this one case, therein lies your advantage. I’m not a girl. You are.”

  He looked at me as if he’d made a revelation. I was utterly baffled.

  “Don’t be a simpleton! What I mean is, you’re a girl. You can flirt with him, cozy up to him, dance with him. He won’t even notice a little tickle in his chest pocket.” He grinned rakishly. “He’ll probably like it.”

  I jumped up from the watering trough. “Just what kind of a girl do you think I am?”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “Truth be told, I couldn’t say. One day you’re sharing your bedroom with street thieves, next day you’re nearly a duchess.”

  Sharing my… !

  “At any rate, I don’t see why it wouldn’t work. You’re not ugly.”

  I blinked. Not ugly? I could feel my face grow hot. I had no special delusions of beauty, but still.

  He continued. “The prince won’t be choosy. At festival, he’ll dance with anyone.”

  Oh, better yet.

  Once more, he looked me up and down. “I’ll go so far as to say that the prince will find you quite amusing.” He wagged a finger in my face. “We’re not talking about marrying you off. We’re talking about getting near to the prince for one minute, maybe two. Surely you can produce enough charms to manage that.”

  “Spoken from the lips of an expert on charm,” I said.

  “Why, thank you.” He swept off his hat with a flourish. Then he patted the pebble in his coat pocket. “Let’s practice. I’ll be the prince. Approach me and try to get my attention.”

  I’d never felt so self-conscious in all my life. Peter watched me expectantly.

  Think of the house, I told myself. This was only a training exercise, one for which I’d paid a fortune. Might as well make the most of it.

  “Hello, Your Highness,” I attempted.

  “No, no, no,” he said. “Simper! Bat your eyelashes. Look at him this way,” he looked at me out of the corner of his eyes, making a repulsive smile intended to look coy, then looked away. “Curtsy. Bow your head modestly.” He contorted his neck grotesquely.

  “You’re about as modest as a tom turkey,” I observed.

  “I’m not female!” he said. “It’ll come naturally to you.”

  There was no point favoring that remark with a reply. “Can’t I just trip him and hope it flies out of his pocket?”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Amateurs,” he muttered. “Now try again
.”

  It’s only Peter, I told myself. Just practice.

  But when the real performance came, it wouldn’t be Peter. It would be him.

  My stomach flopped. Yes, I’d twice made a fool of myself around him, but not that kind of fool. Not a deceiver, and a thief.

  He’ll lose all respect for me.

  He has no respect for me.

  All these thoughts chased each other while Peter watched me, arms folded.

  “Well?”

  I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and willed my mind not to think. I thought of the painted ladies passing by.

  Now.

  “Hello, Peter,” I purred, half opening my eyes. “Don’t you look fine tonight?”

  I fluttered my eyelids and turned my shoulders to show my profile to its best advantage—if, hypothetically speaking, my profile had any advantage, which I doubted.

  Peter’s mouth fell open.

  I sidled closer to him.

  “How long has it been since I saw you last?” I drawled, soprano voce. “I declare I almost fainted when I laid eyes on you just now. Such a sight for sore eyes.” I rested one hand briefly on his shoulder. “Cold tonight, isn’t it?”

  Peter’s eyes bulged. He swallowed hard and stepped back.

  “Yes. Well. Very good.” He straightened his collar and shook himself slightly.

  “Yes. Now let’s just practice the filch.” He indicated his jacket. “Try to get the stone without drawing attention to yourself.”

  Peter was about my height, which helped. He pretended to look away. With my left hand low, I tugged his lapel out just slightly. With my right, I slipped a hand into the pocket, grabbed the stone, and pulled it out.

  “Good enough,” Peter said. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Let’s try it again. I’m sure that wasn’t subtle enough. You could tell I was doing it, couldn’t you?”

  “Of course I could,” Peter snapped. “I’m a professional, not an idiot prince who’s had his vanity stroked. But you did fine. The prince won’t notice. Let’s go.”

  He grabbed my hand and started pulling me. Dog protested loudly.

  “Your friend here will be no help at all,” Peter said. “You’ll have to keep him with you,” I said. Peter grimaced.