Alice had slipped out for her break, checking over her shoulder every second. Winnie met her on the corner of Mount Street, a purple veil covering her face. The slump in her shoulders made her look exhausted.
“I don’t have long,” Alice muttered. “Can we make it quick?”
Winnie lifted her veil, checking they weren’t being observed. Her skin looked gray, her eyes worried. “Fine. Talk me through the plan. I need to make sure you’re on top of the details.”
Alice dug her hands in her pockets, looked nervily down the road. “It’s like we said. I’ll make a fuss. Kick up a hullabaloo, get Madam downstairs so Mrs. Bone’s men can start on the third floor.”
Winnie shook her head. “No. That’s not in your nature. And Miss de Vries will know your nature. She’ll have worked you out already.”
Miss de Vries shimmered in Alice’s mind. She yearned to get back to the costume, to correct it, to make the last adjustments. She couldn’t wait to fix it to Madam’s skin. She tried to conceal all this with a shaky smile.
“I’ve only been working here five minutes,” she said.
“You think that matters? Miss de Vries is an excellent judge of character. She’ll know if you’re behaving strangely.”
Alice pictured Miss de Vries’s eyes. Gray, changeable, penetrating her. Was she behaving strangely? All Alice’s emotions felt entirely strange. “Fine. Tell me what to do.”
“You tell me.”
Alice began to sweat. She had been given the easiest job of any of them, and that made her even more anxious. Watch Madam. That’s all she had to do. Just watch her. Nothing more than that. If she got this wrong, she’d have failed them all, ruined the whole enterprise. She felt sick.
“Alice?”
“I suppose I’d...feel badly about things. Being a snitch, I mean. I’d be hemming and hawing about whether to say anything.”
“Good, that sounds right.”
“I’d say, I don’t wish to cast any aspersions...”
“Hm.”
“All right, I’d say, I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
“Better.” Winnie squeezed her arm. “And you should look guilty. Go red, if you can.”
“I can’t make myself do that.”
“Picture Miss de Vries trying to skin you alive.”
Alice paled. That idea gave her a quick, hard kick of pain—something altogether unexpected. She released her breath. “Look here, Winnie, I don’t see how I can do it. She’s impossible to control. There’s no earthly way I can get her downstairs.”
Winnie gave her a nervy smile. “Certainly you can. You’re doing marvelously. Now, once she’s finished in the servants’ hall, you must trail her. Stay on her all night—indoors, outdoors, everywhere. Mrs. Bone’s men won’t go near her rooms until the last possible moment, for safety’s sake. The second we give you the word, bring her to us—wherever you are, no matter what’s happening. Make her come.”
Alice had been over and over this part of the plan. “I’ll try.”
“Alice, what’s up? You look terribly pale.”
Alice shook her head. “Nothing.”
“I told you: Mrs. King’s awfully pleased. She trusts you implicitly.”
“Who does? Mrs. King, or Madam?”
Winnie frowned. “Mrs. King, naturally.” Winnie paused. Then said, with care, “How are things, with Miss de Vries?”
Alice felt a wave of unease. “Fine. I mean, splendid.” Was that right? “I hardly know. She’s up at five. She spends her morning on her letters and the papers. Reads from two till teatime. Then it’s dinner, bed. Not much to tell you, really.” Alice laughed, a hollow sound.
Winnie studied her, silent. “She’s a very captivating person,” she said.
Alice looked away. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. She can be terribly charming. Perceptive. Good sense of humor. You’re new here, so you’re easily susceptible to it.”
“Oh, naturally, I’m everybody’s chump.” Alice’s own anger caught her off guard. She swallowed it. “I don’t mean to be rude,” she added. “Perhaps it’s...the strain.”
“Then I suggest you take a deep breath,” Winnie said seriously, looking down at her watch. “Because it’s time for you to start singing, little bird.”
Alice wished very badly then to say something, to unburden herself, to say, Help me. Miss de Vries wasn’t charming. She wasn’t captivating. She and Alice didn’t speak as friends would; there wasn’t any laughter or gossip between them. It was different, a sort of keen, fizzing fellowship.
The kind that made her heart flip over in her chest.
The Janes moved fast, carrying a huge tray, laden with a mountain of boxes concealed by a white cloth. The chauffeur was wrestling with the hose. It was chugging hard, filling the courtyard with water. “What’s all that, then?” he called, clocking them.
“Cakes!” they shouted as they barreled into the house.
They weren’t cakes. They were Parenty smoke machines, and they rattled dreadfully in their boxes.
“I wish this were cake,” murmured Jane-two as they slid carefully into the electric lift.
“Don’t start, Moira,” said Jane-one.
They glided upward, otherwise unobserved.
It was remarkably easy to make trouble. Mrs. Bone had spoken a little word in Cook’s ear—just as planned—and the kitchen had descended into chaos, as predicted. Cook was at the center of it all, wooden spoon aloft.
“You heard ’em!” she said, pointing at Mr. Shepherd.
Mr. Shepherd had paled, hands raised, trying to soothe the uproar. “Ladies,” he called, over their voices, “now is not the moment for dissension in our ranks.”
Cook lifted the wooden spoon higher. “We can’t work safely in these circumstances, Mr. Shepherd. You’ve got to make a decision.”
Mrs. Bone was watching all this with an eyebrow cocked. Easy, she thought. You wind ’em up, give a few sharp twists, and off they go...
Cook saw her. “There she is. Ask her yourself, Mr. Shepherd!”
The butler turned to Mrs. Bone, perspiring. “Well? What is this all about?”
“Tell him!” said Cook, hot with indignation, jabbing the spoon. “Tell him what you told me.”
Mrs. Bone wrung her hands, made a hangdog face. “It’s the princess’s policemen, Mr. Shepherd. They’ve been ogling us ladies, giving us marks out of ten!” She cast a sideways look at Cook. “It was filthy!”
“You see, Mr. Shepherd,” said Cook, triumphant, eyes shining. “They even eyed up the old daily woman.”
Mr. Shepherd goggled at them.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Shepherd,” said Mrs. Bone, jutting out her hip. “And they touched me. Here. And here.”
Mr. Shepherd averted his eyes. “Now, ladies...”
Cook raised a finger. “It don’t matter what you do. You can call ’em bobbies, you can send ’em up to Buckingham Palace, you can put ’em in uniform, you can give ’em any airs and graces you like. It don’t make a difference, if they’re Irish.”
“Cook...”
“Irish, Mr. Shepherd! Known philanderers!”
William moved in, right behind Mrs. Bone, smelling delicious. “What’s happening here, then?” he murmured.
Mrs. Bone wound her fingers together. “I dursn’t say.”
Cook pressed her hand to her heart, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And what, I’d like to know, are Their Majesties doing bringing philanderers into their house to guard their daughters? We might as well put them princesses up for sale to the highest bidder. They can call Maud Bawd.”
“Cook, enough,” said Mr. Shepherd, agonized.
“No Irish!” said Cook, and the spoon went back up in the air. “No Irish!”
“Enough,” said Shepherd. His eye swept over the crowd, landed on William. “Show the princess’s men out to the mews house. Get them some refreshments, with my compliments.”
“Compliments, Mr. Shepherd?” gasped Cook.
“And tell them to stay out of the kitchen, and well out of the way of the ladies.”
“Ooh, I think I’m getting a bruise on me hip, Cook,” said Mrs. Bone. “They pinched me that hard.”
“Go!” roared Mr. Shepherd.
Good. Mrs. Bone wanted a squadron of men near the back gate, ready to keep the road clear when required.
Cook turned, irate. “But what about Mr. Doggett, Mr. Shepherd? He won’t want his mews house being overrun by—”
Mr. Shepherd flapped her away. “Mr. Doggett is helping up here. William, you sort things out.”
“Yes, Mr. Shepherd.”
“I want everyone back to work.”
Cook gathered her bevy of girls around her. She crossed her arms, eyebrows knit together. “He didn’t ought to do that,” she said as Mr. Shepherd retreated. “Madam won’t like the idea of strangers sitting out in the garden. They might unlock the back gate.”
Mrs. Bone didn’t care for this line of thinking in the least. “Oh, you’re a regular detective, ain’t you?” she said. “Got your magnifying glass in your apron, have you? Got your police whistle?”
The kitchen girls gaped at her. Mrs. Bone scowled at them. She’d be out of this house soon enough. She was very nearly done being a humble worm. “Ah, shut your mouths. And one of you can help me with these pails.”
Cook aimed a frigid stare in her direction. “Help yourself,” she said, and spun on her heel.
The Janes had started packing the guest suites on the second floor—and they assumed they had the place to themselves. Their laundry baskets were already heaving with ornaments. Their system was smooth. Lift one thing, wrap it with tissue paper, drop it in the basket. They were steady, focused. They didn’t even hear the door open.
“Oi. What are you doing?”
The girls whipped round. There was a shadow on the wall.
Jane-two’s stomach contracted as she saw one of the house-parlormaids in the doorway, eyes on stalks.
“Putting stuff in safekeeping,” said Jane-one, without missing a beat. “Give us a hand, would you?”
“Mr. Shepherd said guest suites. Not all the suites.”
“I’ll tell him you slowed us down, if you like.”
The house-parlormaid stiffened at that. “I’ve only got five minutes.”
“That’s all we need.”
Jane-two wished she had her logbook with her. Risks made her want to sneeze.
“I don’t like this,” she murmured.
“Hush,” said Jane-one.