Delgatto wheeled himself into the ballroom, which was already half full of people in a variety of costumes—some elaborate, some with nothing more involved than a simple black mask and regular party clothes.
A small orchestra commanded the stage, filling the air with a slightly familiar song that squatted on the edge of Delgatto’s mind. He could remember as a child hearing his grandmother hum the tune as she embroidered, her needle flashing in rhythm to the lively notes. It was an infectious melody, one that spoke to him of home and love and family. It took all the control he had to fight the urge to tap his foot against the wheelchair in time with the music.
It was almost painful to watch the couples as they danced, knowing he couldn’t jump up and join them.
“Monsieur Galludat!”
Delgatto scanned the room and found Major Payne hailing him from a large refreshment table covered in tempting foods. Delgatto propelled himself toward the man.
Payne nodded at the wheelchair. “Good to see you traveling under your own steam, sir.”
“I prefer the independent life when possible.” Payne released a rare burst of laughter, a bit too loud and forced. “I don’t blame you at all.” The man pointed toward the end of the table to a large glass bowl filled with something pink and frothy. “May I offer you some punch?”
Delgatto noticed that Payne himself had something darker and foamless in his punch cup, perhaps accounting for his unnaturally pleasant demeanor.
“I think I’d rather have a bit of what you’re having, Major.”
The man blushed slightly and emitted another volley of slightly loud laughter. “Good show, old man. Good show. Certainly. Just don’t tell everybody where you got it.” The Major retrieved a clean glass punch cup and poured out an inch of amber liquid from a silver flask, which he produced from the folds of his costume. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Delgatto took a tentative sip of some of the smoothest Scotch he’d had in years. After he caught his breath, he added, “Your punch really packs a punch.” Once the Scotch finished etching the perfect pathway down his throat, Delgatto gave the Major’s costume a critical once-over.
“So . . . interesting outfit, Major.”
The man wore a toga—not just some bedsheet affair, but an authentic-looking toga that would have done Julius Caesar proud, and an authentic-looking pair of dusty sandals with leather laces that wove around his hairy legs and tied just below the knee. In addition, a lethal-looking dagger hung from a gold cord at the Major’s waist.
“An armed Julius Caesar?” Delgatto took another appreciative sip. “I don’t recall reading about that in my history book.”
The Major patted the jeweled hilt of his weapon. “If Caesar had been equipped like this, I daresay the name of Brutus would have gone down in history only because of his failure to complete his mission.”
Delgatto lifted his glass in mock salute. “Right along with that of General George Armstrong Custer.”
Payne stiffened perceptibly and slipped his silver flask back into the folds of his toga.
Oops. Sore point. Probably knew Custer. Maybe you went to grade school together or something like that. Delgatto sighed to himself. Oh, well, I didn’t want any more, anyway. After all, he did need to keep his wits about him. One drink would be sufficient to steel his nerves without deadening them.
Major Payne almost scowled as he gave Delgatto’s costume an almost scathing glance. “And what . . . er . . . who, exactly might you be?”
Delgatto adjusted his coat as best as he could while sitting in the chair. “Thanks to your young Rupert, who helped arrange for my costume, I’m one of your country’s more famous statesmen, Benjamin Franklin, sometimes referred to in my country as le Grand Père.”
Payne furrowed his brow as he stumbled through a translation. “The big father?”
Delgatto offered a shrug and a smile. “It isn’t a literal translation. In the American vernacular, it’s ‘the father of our country.’”
The wrinkles in Payne’s forehead deepened. “But the father of our country is George Washington.”
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about your country. I was talking about ours. More than one French schoolchild can trace his lineage back to a visiting American dignitary named Benjamin Franklin.”
“How dare you impugn . . .” The Major swallowed the rest of his words as he made a determined show of containing his anger. He glanced pointedly over Delgatto’s head, pretended to spot someone signaling for his attention, and mumbled an excuse to leave.
“That wasn’t particularly kind.”
The first thing Delgatto noticed when he turned around was a gold bracelet shaped like a snake and wound tightly around an arm so large that the bracelet created a spiral furrow in the flesh. The arm ended in a hand large enough to palm a basketball, but said hand was busy transferring the contents of a silver tray onto her own crowded plate of hors d’oeuvres.
Cleopatra shot him a toothy smile. “But since the Major is such an odious little man, I forgive you.”
Delgatto ducked his head in a modified mock bow. “Thank you, my queen.”
Cleo gave him an appraising stare which made the hackles on the back of his neck not only rise, but also look for cover.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” She held out her enormous hand, sporting a non-Egyptian-looking diamond engagement ring. He gave the stone a passing glance.
Paste.
And not particularly good paste at that.
“I’m Mrs.—”
Delgatto held up his hand to stop her. “Please—don’t. This should be a night for revelry as well as mystery.” He adjusted his own mask. “We wear these for a reason. An air of mystery can be very . . . enticing, don’t you think?”
A fine blush spread up the rolls of her exposed flesh. “Oh my goodness, yes, indeed.” She swallowed hard. “Enticing, indeed.” She stared openly at his legs. “I suppose you’re here for the cure. Is it working?” she blurted, adding a contrite, “If I may ask?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t been here long enough to chart its effect, but I have complete confidence it will be able to restore that which I’ve lost.”
“That which you’ve lost . . .” she echoed in a whisper. A moment later, she shook herself and cleared her throat. “Ah, yes. Well then, there is someone I’d like you to meet. She’s my dau . . . er . . . a delightful young lady I met tonight. I have a feeling you two would find each other fascinating company. Stay right here!”
Cleo hiked up her voluminous skirts and plowed a path through the milling crowd. “Stay!” she commanded as if he were a misbehaving dog.
Delgatto knew his only course of action was escape, but he needed to do it in a more public fashion. He needed witnesses who saw him at the ball, then saw him leave as well. Sneaking off to avoid meeting Cleo’s offspring wouldn’t give him an adequate alibi, should he need one.
What he really needed was to cause a mild but memorable scene.
He waited patiently until Cleo came back, towing Marie Antoinette with her.
“I’d like to introduce my . . . er . . . friend, Marie Antoinette.”
Marie bent forward to hold out her hand, but was forced to lean back as her enormous wig began to slide forward. Trying again, she managed to hold out her hand without losing her head. “Enchanted I’m sure,” she said in a very nasal voice.
He took the proffered hand and kissed it. “Ah, a fellow countryman.” He made a big show of looking around. “May I dare to hope your royal escort is not here tonight?”
She looked puzzled for a moment, then the light slowly dawned. She giggled—no, make that snorted—her reply. “You’re funny.”
“And hungry as well. May I offer the two of you some refreshments?”
Instead of scanning the table laden with food, Marie Antoinette eyed him with a look that re minded him of a hungry hawk spotting an injured fieldmouse. “That would be lovely.” She looked as if she was ready to sit down and be served, but her mother slammed an elbow into her ribs. Cleo gave her daughter a frantic nod toward the table, which evidently jump-started Marie’s good manners. “But please, allow me to serve you.”
“Then why don’t we do this together?” The moment he said the words, he realized his mistake.
She repeated the word together, managing to infuse it with enough sexual content to make herself blush. The Major’s smooth Scotch started an unwanted mambo in Delgatto’s stomach. Even worse, “Marie” commandeered his wheelchair, running him up to and into the table.
“Oops.” She giggled and pulled him back a couple of inches.
There, he selected from the hors d’oeuvres within reach, piling an indiscriminate assortment of food on two plates.
While the mother and daughter team stood there, sharing looks of subterfuge and triumph, Delgatto deftly slipped the end of the tablecloth in the last link of Cleo’s chain belt, which was looped loosely at her nonexistent waist.
“Shall we find a quieter corner?” He handed them the plates, then led the way, positioning himself in the lead position. His plan fell into place like well-organized dominoes.
Rather than check why her belt suddenly wanted to trail behind her, Cleo kept her matchmaking glances on Delgatto and her daughter, and gave her belt a sharp pull without looking. The tablecloth followed, dumping to the floor half of the food, as well as the silver punch bowl.
The bowl, being almost empty, bounced with a large metallic clang, creating more sound than damage. The noise startled the partygoers and drew their attention just in time to see Marie Antoinette screech in an unattractive high-pitched voice and back into her mother, who then ran into Delgatto’s wheelchair.
Although the blow wasn’t hard enough to knock him over, Delgatto was ready to take full advantage of the contact and threw his weight to one side, making the chair fall over. He made sure to land in a gangly sprawl, drawing even more attention to himself.
Help came from all sides except for his two screaming, crying escorts. Someone righted his chair, and Delgatto made a grand show of not letting anyone help him and crawling back up into the chair on his own. He made sure his mask came off in the process. There needed to be no questions as to who Benjamin “Wheelchair” Franklin was.
The Major intervened, taking control of the situation with a calm but firm manner. He ordered Marie and Cleo to a neutral corner, where they continued to cry hysterically and blame each other for the accident. He made a quick assessment of Delgatto’s “injuries” and called for Franz, who appeared like a well-trained dog to take Delgatto back to his room.
The last domino fell perfectly.
Long ago, Delgatto had learned the turning-pale-on-command trick from a Madame LaRouche, a medium who supported herself in Dublin fleecing the living by conversing with the dead. So as Franz pushed him out, taking the most direct path, which just happened to bisect the ballroom, everyone in attendance saw poor Monsieur Galludat sitting slumped in his chair, eyes closed, face white as the proverbial sheet.
The perfect alibi.
Franz offered to help him undress and get in bed, but Delgatto declined, saying he was merely tired, not injured, and then a bunch of tommyrot about being independent and learning how to care for himself. Franz bought the explanation and left him alone.
As soon as the door closed, Delgatto counted to twenty, then jumped from the chair and stripped off his soiled costume. Benjamin Franklin would not be making a reappearance at the ball.
Neither would Monsieur Galludat.
He opened the armoire, reached into its darkest corner, and pulled out his secondary outfit. With his identity safely hidden behind the second costume and the mask, he’d be free to join in the festivities, dance, drink, eat—and, of course, find and steal the Heart of Saharanpur.
He closed his eyes, imagining the emerald, its weight resting in his hand. Just the thought of success made his palm itch. And who wouldn’t savor the chase, staring down all that lovely décolletage?
After being bested by The Kid, Delgatto had entertained serious doubts that the King of Thieves would ever surface again.
A familiar sense of excitement began coursing through his veins.
The king was back.
Long live the king, baby.
When Emily entered, the ballroom didn’t come to a standstill as Cornelia had prophesied. The music didn’t stop. The dancers didn’t freeze. But Emily still felt like the belle of the ball as several young men noticed her and started making their way through the crowd toward her. Soon, she had a slate of costumed admirers who were battling for a chance to dance with her, bringing her refreshments, paying her compliments, and making her the center of their attention.
It was more than a dream come true. She’d never dared dream anything like this would happen to her, even in her finest and most self-involved daydreams.
After four rousing dances, she retired to a corner to catch her breath. Sitting at a small round table, she nursed one of the three punches she’d been served by her most dutiful admirers, whom she’d christened Tom, Dick, and Harry. They jockeyed like adolescents for her attention, bragging about their abilities and fortunes.
“Well, that’s nothing,” one young man dressed as a court jester said in response to another’s wild boast. “I can perform not two but three back flips in a row.”
“That’s nothing.” The second young man had abandoned his elaborate dog mask on the table, revealing a shock of red hair and a freckled face. “I can do that while holding a cup of punch and not spill a drop.”
“Now, boys . . .” Emily stepped between the warring factions. “This isn’t the right place to demonstrate such gymnastic feats.”
“Let’s go outside!” the third lad announced.
“No, it’s snowing.”
“Then let’s go to—”
“Why don’t you hold your competition in the Grand Foyer?” declared a deep voice from behind Emily.
“Great idea! There’s plenty of room there.” The three boys skidded away toward the exit, their attentions centered on their contest of skill and not on Emily, to her great relief.
But she still had to contend with this remaining suitor. She turned around to thank him and perhaps persuade him to tag after the other boys. But when she saw him step out of the shadows, her breath caught in her throat.
He wore black.
And he was no boy.
Emily wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to be a highwayman or a buccaneer or what. Quite frankly, it didn’t matter. What she saw stirred a part of her where her dreams, her imagination, and her womanly desire intersected.
He was magnificent.
Smiling, he doffed his black tricorn hat, revealing dark curly hair that spilled over the edges of the black mask that hid his identity. “The brigands have been dispatched, my lady,” he said in a thoroughly American voice.
“Th-thank you,” she stuttered like a schoolgirl.
He whipped his cape back, revealing a burgundy brocade vest that covered what appeared to be a flowing white shirt. His tight-fitting black breeches and boots clung to muscular legs. He reached out for her hand, and in the guise of kissing it, pulled her closer.
“In my lady’s service,” he whispered in a voice that sent shivers up her spine. He kissed her neck, and she found herself arching to meet him, savoring the contact of his body pressed against hers.
“Until we meet again.” He melted back into the shadows and disappeared.
“Wait!” Emily stopped herself. What was she doing? He was a perfect stranger!
Then a small voice inside of her whispered, Perfect, indeed.
She clutched her throat, feeling her pulse, which still throbbed where his lips had grazed her skin in such a brazen but delicious action. Her heart suddenly skipped a beat.
My necklace!
She patted the neck of her costume, searching for the missing chain and pendant. Please, tell me the chain didn’t break! Tell me it hasn’t fallen off!
To her relief, she discovered the necklace had slipped itself beneath the vest and was merely hidden from view. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled the emerald from its hiding place and situated it in its position of honor.
Her thoughts turned back to the highwayman, and she released another sigh, this one betraying a part of her she wasn’t quite ready to recognize.
Whoever you are . . . I wish you’d come back.
Delgatto had tried not to stare too openly at the woman in the fairy princess costume. He didn’t have time to admire the eye candy. A surreptitious glance during their embrace had assured him she wasn’t wearing the Heart of Saharanpur, so it was on to the next likely candidate.
For the first time that evening, he considered taking a break, maybe asking the princess to dance or some such thing. Then his sense of duty flooded back, filling the temporary gap in his attention span.
The news article from the future had given no details about the woman in the past who’d been wearing the necklace, so Delgatto’s only recourse was to check out every woman in the place from eight to eighty—or eight hundred, as the case might be with some of the old biddies propped in the corner, tapping their canes to the music.
So far, the suave and debonair masked-man routine was working well. A stolen kiss here and a purloined hug there, and he was making pretty good headway in his search to see around the neck and down the cleavage of every female in the place.
Some sights were better than others.
And although the fairy princess’s high-necked outfit didn’t allow him any real view of where no man had probably gone before, he’d found her the most appealing of all the women he’d seen so far.
And he wasn’t quite sure why.
Forget the fairy, he told himself as he selected his next conquest, a hatchet-faced woman dressed as the Queen of Hearts. After enduring two point three minutes with her, he couldn’t bring himself to kiss her and instead employed the old “Oh my, there’s a piece of lint on your shoulder” ploy to get close enough to inspect her. Seeing nothing of interest whatsoever, he pushed on to the next knot of women, evidently a group of four friends who had all dressed in bird masks—red, blue, pink, and yellow. He expected them to erupt in high-pitched giggles, but they were cool, perhaps even wary of a handsome masked stranger making their acquaintance with such deliberation. Such suspicions required a different story.
“Ladies.” He motioned them closer and lowered his voice. “Are you familiar with the United States Department of Internal Defense?”
The obvious leader of the group was a tall gangly woman, perfectly personified by her pink flamingo feathers. She stared at him with a dubious gaze. “No, I don’t believe we’ve ever heard of such an organization.”
“I’d be surprised if you had,” he confided. “We do try to keep a low profile.”
Cardinal, a tall blond, eyed his tight pants in open admiration. “By low profile, do you mean not calling attention to one’s self?”
“If so”—Blue Jay made great sport of scanning him from the tip of his boots to the top of his hat—“you’re failing.”
Delgatto shrugged. “When in Rome . . .”
The brunette Canary shook her head in disgust. “Please! Let’s not mention the Major and his toga. It’s not a sight I want to commit to memory.”
Delgatto remembered the Major’s hairy legs emerging from his toga and nodded in total agreement. “I’m not working with or through the Major. This is an independent, nonmilitary investigation. We suspect that one or more foreign operatives may be posing as guests and attempting to steal the personal effects of one of the hotel’s real guests.” He leaned forward. “I could use the help of a few observant civilians . . . like the four of you.”
Their suspicions started to fade to curiosity. Blue Jay looked almost hooked. “To do what?”
“Keep your eyes open, report any suspicious behavior or activities.” He paused, then added the sure clincher. “In defense of your country, of course.” The four women huddled together, sharing hurried whispers. Finally, Flamingo stepped back, allowing him into their small circle. It afforded him the perfect chance to examine them for telltale chains ending in very expensive gems.
“We’d be glad to help you. To help our country,” Flamingo declared with patriotic resolution. “If we find anything, how should we contact you?”
He tapped his mask with his gloved forefinger. “My identity must remain a secret. So if you see anything or anybody suspicious, leave me a message beneath the cushion of the chair closest to the front door in the Grand Foyer.” He made a pretense of seeing someone across the room. “Just sign it with a drawing of a feather so I’ll know it’s from you. Now, if you ladies will excuse me . . .” Delgatto tipped his hat and worked his way back into the shadows.
He continued to work his way through the room, methodically searching for the Heart. Although there were other riches that could be plundered, he did nothing other than take note of who possessed what valuable and its relative worth. Once he found and reclaimed the Heart, he’d have to figure out how to fund an escape. Maybe if he stole judiciously from the various attendees, he could gather a suitable nest egg without leaving any one person particularly bereft. Then he could cool his heels for six months, return to the hotel in June, and let Miss Sparrow do what hocus-pocus she had to perform to send him back.
In some ways, the elaborate costumes made it easier to keep track of the coming and going of female guests. He kept a mental list of which women he’d examined and could dismiss based on the unique details of their costumes. As he worked the room, he kept an eye on the main door and noted who came and went.
Two hours into the ball, he’d reached a point where he’d surreptitiously examined the neck of every female in attendance. He wasn’t sure whether he should breathe a sigh of relief because his plan of action seemed to be effective, or kick himself because he hadn’t found the Heart yet.
Whoever wrote that article had spotted the necklace. Why hadn’t he done so as well?
He froze, then smacked himself in the head with his gloved palm. You idiot. It was all suddenly so clear to him. Find the reporter!
But the best way to find the reporter was to ask someone who probably knew every person in attendance, and Delgatto didn’t want to chance a run-in with the Major, the very person who might realize that the Masked Highwayman was nothing more than a gate-crasher.
So Delgatto went to the next best person.
He found Rupert standing in the doorway, tapping his foot in time with the lively music.
“Nice party,” Delgatto remarked, joining him at the door. He added a slight Southern twang to his voice, something the young man might remember if later asked questions about the Masked Highwayman.
“Seems to be, sir,” Rupert said with a sigh. The clear message was: How would I know? I’m stuck out here and can’t come in. He snapped out of his reverie and to attention. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
Delgatto waved away his question. “Nothing at all. I just came out here to get away from the crowd for a bit and thought I’d join you here. You’ve picked a great vantage point for viewing the room.”
Rupert relaxed a bit. “Yes, sir.” He gave Delgatto a quick but polite once-over. “Nice costume, sir.”
“Thanks.”
They stood there in relative silence, bathed in the sounds of the revelry spilling from the ballroom. After a measured moment, Delgatto spoke. “Maybe you can help me. I understand that your local newspaper is covering this event. Would you happen to know which person in there is their reporter?”
Rupert nodded eagerly. “Absolutely, sir. He’s not here yet, but when he comes, you’ll have no problem finding him. He’ll be dressed in an outfit made entirely out of newspapers. Name’s John Dunlop.”
“Dunlop. Thanks.”
The young man shot him a snappy salute. “Have a good time tonight, sir.”
Delgatto scanned the ballroom. No new arrivals meant he could relax his guard, albeit only slightly. He thought about the various women he’d encountered during the evening and there was no contest as to which one had piqued his interest.
He spotted the fairy princess on the dance floor, being steered around in awkward circles by the Major. The man almost looked as if he were marching rather than dancing.
Her mask couldn’t disguise her obvious discomfort. If any maiden needed rescuing, she did.
And he was all too ready to oblige.
She spotted him before the Major did, and hope flared in her eyes. As Delgatto approached, she actually mouthed the word, “Please,” in anticipation of his actions.
He tapped the man on his toga shoulder. “May I cut in?”
The Major postured for a moment, remembered his place—not quite on the same elevation as the guests—then reluctantly released his hold on her. Delgatto stepped in to assume the man’s place, and held her out at approximately the same arm’s length distance, evidently meeting the man’s approval. They both waited until they were several steps away from the Major before Delgatto pulled her closer and she whispered her thanks.
“This is the second time you’ve rescued me and I appreciate both times very much. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I thought you looked a bit . . . Payne’d.”
She giggled at his pun. “It’s not that the Major’s a bad dancer. I mean, he didn’t step on my feet. But I didn’t feel . . . comfortable with him.”
“And you do with me?”
She remained silent, but he noticed she made no effort to pull from their relatively close embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he added with the proper note of contrition. “That was rude of me. Allow me to say that I hope you feel more comfortable with me.”
If truth be known, she was causing him increasing discomfort of the most personal kind. Although he had no time for any sort of dalliance, if he was going to put the moves on anyone that night, it would be her. Beneath that mask, he suspected, was a beautiful face. And beneath that well-fitted costume, he was assured she had a body to die for.
“I do.”
Her quiet words caught him off guard. “Pardon?”
“I do feel comfortable with you. Safe.”
They were innocuous words, delivered in total innocence, with no double entendre, no winks, not even a knowing twinkle in her eye.
And they shook him to his core.
Safe? With him? He was a crook. Nothing was safe with him. Not women’s jewels. Not women’s hearts.
All he wanted was one Heart.
Then why did he want to stop in the middle of their dance and kiss her? To assure himself that this was nothing more than a simple, sexual attraction? That’s what he ought to do. Stop dancing, kiss her, and then walk away and get back to work.
They stopped in the middle of the floor.
But theirs was no simple kiss.
As their lips met, they became the center of the universe, with all the other dancers revolving around them in a blur of color. The music faded, drummed out of Delgatto’s ears by the rush of blood from a rapidly beating heart.
Her heart or his?
He couldn’t quite tell. His arms were wrapped around her, pressing her against him. The world continued to spin around them, unaware of the quiet moment of first passion they were sharing.
She broke off first, turning away and burying her face in his shoulder. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I have no right.”
He reached up and used his hand to gently lift her face into view. “You have every right.”
She tried to smile. “No, I don’t. I’m not supposed to be here.”
Delgatto offered his own smile. “Neither am I.”
“No.” When she shook her head, her light brown curls bounced. “I’m really not supposed to be here.” When she looked up, he could see enchanting green eyes hiding beneath her mask. “Please forgive me,” she whispered.
She tried to step away, but he grabbed her hand. “Wait!” He watched a tear slide down her cheek, having escaped the mask that hid her identity.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
He stared at her, hoping to memorize every detail, knowing instinctively that this was going to be one of his greatest failures, letting her slip from his life.
He watched the tear fall from her cheek to her neck and form an uneven wet splotch on her blouse, right next to the Heart of Saharanpur.