Alice checked the clock. She’d checked it several times already, watching the minute hand inching forward. Time to ready Mrs. Bone’s men in the mews yard. They’d need to be opening the back gates soon.
She picked her way through the boxes in the dressing room. Fresh wares had been delivered that morning. Bolts of white satin, stretches of Honiton lace. Linens, and velvet gowns, jet-crusted parasols. Madam was already assembling her trousseau, in expectation of her engagement. Alice pictured herself holding one of the parasols, skin bronzed by the sun. Dressed in white lawn, holding a purse full of money. A lady’s companion, far from England, entirely sheltered by her mistress. Living in a fine suite, with every luxury, near Madam herself. Madam, with her edges softened, her drapery growing more gentle, more tractable, by the day.
Stop it, Alice told herself. Her thoughts were developing dangerous, sinuous lines.
She went downstairs, trying to keep a steady pace. She knew exactly what she had to do. Winnie had drilled it into her. The back stairs were frenzied, men running up and down from the garden with trays from the kitchens. The mews, she reminded herself. Go to the mews.
She slipped out through the garden door, making sure she hadn’t been observed. It felt cooler out there, on the other side of the wall. The city rumbled in the distance. She peered down the lane. Out there, around the corner, poised and waiting, were a hundred van drivers ready to descend upon the house and begin the almighty clearance.
A figure moved at the end of the lane. Someone was watching her from the shallow arch in the middle of the lane. He separated himself from the shadows, a sliver of darkness.
A man.
One of the entertainers, a woman in a silver dress, hoisted on painted stilts, peered down at Winnie. They were on the terrace, the house looming behind them. Winnie was surveying the crowd, eyes peeled for any disturbances, any problems. There were none. It made her heart thrum with excitement. “That’s good paint,” the woman said, reaching down and touching Winnie’s forehead.
Winnie dodged. “Thanks.”
She was keeping her back to the wall. Miss de Vries moved from guest to guest, managing things perfectly. Shaking hands, exchanging a whisper, squeezing an arm, admiring a gown. One man stayed on her tail.
“Don’t stare—you’ll make them blush,” said the woman on stilts.
“Pardon?”
“At those two. The lovebirds.” Stilts pointed at Miss de Vries. “We’ve got a bet on it. A proposal, under the fireworks, before the night is over.”
Winnie squinted, studying the young man accompanying Miss de Vries. He’d dressed as Charles the First, with a wide-brimmed hat adorned with feathers. He had a dangerous-looking jaw. A bored, laconic expression.
“Lord Ashley, of course,” said Stilts, confidentially. “Busy Hands, we call him. It’s all right for me—I’m up here, out of his way.” She hiked off, gargantuan legs rippling beneath her dress. “You might not be so lucky!”
Winnie’s mind clouded over. Lord Ashley wasn’t watching Miss de Vries. He was talking to the maids, all in uniform, arrayed on the terrace. They giggled, humoring him, pretending to be amazed by the entertainments. Only pretending, though. They were beyond exhausted. You could see it in their shoulders. Fatigue in the soul, something chronic. A few pounds a year and a scrag of mutton at Christmas—that’s all they had to look forward to.
She felt her chest tightening.
Miss de Vries checked a tiny wristwatch affixed to her costume. It caught the light, a sparkling flash. She said something briefly to Lord Ashley, catching his attention. He turned sharply, treading on her gown. Nobody else noticed, but Winnie saw. He pinned Miss de Vries to the spot and she looked down, a flash of annoyance. The dress had torn.
Lord Ashley moved on, not caring. They don’t look much like lovebirds to me, thought Winnie.
Miss de Vries stayed motionless for a moment, inspecting her train. Then she gathered herself, rearranged the crepe folds and moved toward the house.
She did it so subtly that the crowd barely parted for her: she was simply there one moment and then gone the next.
Winnie thought, Someone needs to follow her.
And then she thought, Why isn’t Alice here?
The Janes were sweating now, wrapping delicate furniture with dust sheets, binding everything together with string. Glossy wood, a lot of walnut, Queen Anne cabinets with a hundred gleaming brass latches.
“What would you go as?” Jane-two said.
“Eh?” said Jane-one.
“To a fancy-dress ball.”
“Like this one?”
Jane-two nodded.
Jane-one thought about it. “I wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“As what?”
Jane-two considered it. “Helen of Troy.”
Jane-one snorted. “Oh, very good. Here’s your wooden horse.”
She rolled the next box, filled to the brim with treasures, along the tracks they’d laid down the corridor, and ran a quick hand through her hair. Don’t stop, she told herself. Not even for a minute. She didn’t need to look at the clock. She knew what it would say. Midnight was fast approaching. “We need to speed up,” she muttered.
Alice had recognized the man in the mews lane the second she saw him. He had come without his usual companion. For some reason this made her more afraid, not less. One man, alone, without constraints, with his shirt collar loosened. Even debt collectors felt the heat, she thought, smothering a desperate bubble of laughter.
Usually he showed perfect courtesy, and tipped his hat. But tonight he wasn’t wearing a hat at all. He looked bigger than before, and the lamp shone on his bald head.
She searched for his hands, but they were shoved into his pockets.
He let out a breath when he saw her. This, too, made her feel weak. It was a tiny gesture, a little huff of...what? Anger? He was impatient to get this job done, sorted, over with.
She could see he had something concealed in his pocket. A lead pipe or a rope or a knife: her imagination unraveled all the possibilities, fear rattling through her chest.
“You’re late on your payment,” he said.
Alice ran her eyes down the lane. She looked over her shoulder, back into the yard. No one there. No one who could help.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t think. She turned and ran, straight back to the mews house. Run, said her body, run and hide.
She scurried through the lower offices, dodging the waiters and footmen. Think, she urged herself. Think, think, think.
“Alice?”
A face looked around the corner of the kitchen passage. It sent a jolt through her skin: she gasped.
It was one of the under-footmen. He gave Alice a quizzical expression. “Steady on. Madam just asked for you. She’s gone and torn her gown. Run upstairs and fix it for her, will you?”
Madam. Alice’s mind was whirring. Yes: Madam. Someone fierce, someone in charge, someone who could offer immediate protection...
Alice could feel her chest tightening, worse than being laced. The under-footman’s frown deepened. “What are you waiting for? Go!”