Wild Boy and the Black Terror (28 page)

“
I
present Lord and Lady Bisquith.”

Wiggins bolted up even straighter as he announced the latest guests to arrive at the ball. The Lord and Lady strutted together across the ballroom dance floor, gloved hands raised and fingertips touching.

There were a few appreciative mutters, and several jealous scowls, at the sight of their masks, which were the most extravagant of the evening so far. Fans of purple feathers rose from the top of their ivory eye masks, as if a pair of peacocks had charged full-pelt at their faces.

Wild Boy fought the urge to storm across the dance floor and tear the masks away. Even for his sharp eyes, it was hard to see behind the guests’ ridiculous disguises.

It was half past nine.

Almost two hundred guests had arrived. They all wore similar cloaks – shiny and black, with large velvet hoods – but the masks came in various colours and gaudy designs. Most featured some sort of plumage, so many feathers that Wild Boy wondered whether every bird of paradise had been plucked bare. Others were studded with jewels woven with laurel leaves, trimmed with lace or decorated with crystal horns.

“The Marquess and Marchioness of Salisbury.”

“Viscount Palmerston.”

The guests gathered around the dance floor, muttering about the lack of conveniences for a formal ball. Others wondered why the servants, who did not quite
look
like servants, seemed ignorant of the correct manner in which to serve drinks.

“It simply will not do,” said an admiral.

“I swear that waiter touched my glass,” replied his wife.

“And why the devil is there a drummer-boy here?”

Wild Boy banged his drum harder, praying his disguise would work. Since he usually wore a drummer boy’s coat, Lucien had suggested he play that role at the ball. His face was hidden behind a porcelain mask, and the shawl that covered his head was draped around his neck, concealing the hair.

The disguise was far from perfect. The hairs on his face bunched against the porcelain mask and poked through the eyeholes, and the rim of the hood hung too low, limiting his vision. That was a fairly big problem, since their plan to catch the killer relied almost entirely on his vision.

He felt his coat pocket, and the physicians’ syringe. He was ready to strike and get the killer’s blood. Aim for his neck, the doctors had instructed. The big vein called the jugular.

Around the ballroom, some of the Gentlemen examined guests as they served drinks. Others rubbed steam from windows to inspect the ledges, or lingered by candles to smell the smoke. The men were clearly on edge. They flinched at every roar of laughter from the dance floor.

Only Lucien was not in disguise. Dressed in a simple domino mask, he moved among the crowd, bowing and shaking hands. He made sure to remind everyone that the Queen, when she appeared, would be wearing the most precious jewel in her collection, a rare black diamond.

It was twenty to ten.

Wild Boy kept moving around the dance floor, banging his drum in time with the pounding of his heart. With each minute, he grew more certain the killer would come. He had no evidence, just a gut feeling that he trusted.

Come on. Where are you?

A hand grabbed his arm. It was one of the Gentlemen. The man was flustered, his forehead lit with sweat.

“Over there,” he said. “Is that Gideon?”

Wild Boy leaped onto one of the benches and followed the man’s gaze to a cloaked figure in the ballroom doorway.

“The Chinese Ambassador,” Wiggins announced.

The Gentleman sank to the seat, dabbing sweat from his face. “I almost apprehended him,” he said. “It would have caused a diplomatic incident.”

“Get up,” Wild Boy said. “Keep looking.”

The orchestra began to play a waltz, and the dancing began. Cloaks fluttered, dresses rustled, and satin slippers shuffled around the floor. Soon the whole room was twirling. There were quadrilles, polkas, two-steps and reels. The ballroom grew hot and clammy and the windows steamed over. One of the guests tried to open the patio doors to let in some air, but a Gentleman guided him politely away.

Sweat trickled under Wild Boy’s mask. He kept moving, kept whacking his drum.

Where are you? Why ain’t you here?

Movement caught his eye. Lucien rushed towards the doors, responding to a signal from one of the Gentlemen. Now Wild Boy was running too, around the side of the dance floor, barging past the guests. He reached into his pocket, gripped the syringe.

He caught up with Lucien as he marched along the gallery. “What’s happening?”

“Carew,” Lucien replied, breathless. “Someone saw Dr Carew.”

Two Gentlemen pinned a guest to the gallery wall. But even before they removed the man’s mask, Wild Boy knew it was a false alarm. The guest looked like Dr Carew, but he was too round at the waist. It wasn’t him.

Lucien leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. He signalled for his men to release their prisoner.

The guest staggered back. “What the deuce is the meaning of this?”

“Our apologies,” Lucien said. “We mistook you for a French terrorist.”

That was the story Wild Boy and the Gentlemen had agreed on should anyone ask about the security. “The Devil to you!” the guest roared. “I am no Frenchie. I was stepping out for air. And why the blazes is that drummer boy staring at me like that?”

Wild Boy leaned to Lucien. “Get rid of him.”

“What?”

“He’s gonna go back in there and shout about terrorists. Everyone’s gonna panic.”

“For God’s sake, Wild Boy. That’s the Earl of Gloucester.”

Wild Boy didn’t care who it was. The man could ruin the whole plan.

Lucien knew it too. He groaned, spoke in a low voice to one of the Gentlemen. The Earl’s protests grew louder as he was led away.

Lucien checked his pocket watch. “Nine forty-five,” he said. “You understand our situation?”

Wild Boy did, but he couldn’t bring himself to say so. This evening had been about catching the killer before the Queen appeared. If they hadn’t done so by ten o’clock, she would remain upstairs in her room. Their chance would be lost.

Time was almost up.

He tore the drum from around his neck and hurled it across the gallery. Slumping against the wall, he slid his mask up his face and rubbed his hair. He’d been trying so hard not to consider failure, but now it was impossible to avoid.

“You’ll be the boss of the Gentlemen after tonight?” he asked.

“It is not guaranteed,” Lucien said. “Her Majesty is yet to reprimand me over concealing the black diamond. But my appointment to the position would be the most likely outcome.”

“What about me and Clarissa?”

“Do you wish me to be honest?”

Wild Boy didn’t. He wanted him to lie, to tell him that they could both stay in the palace forever.

“You will both have to go,” Lucien said. “I cannot have Miss Everett undermining me. I would ask you to remain with us, but I doubt you would consider doing so without her or Marcus.”

Wild Boy closed his eyes. He wouldn’t stay without her; that would be a betrayal too far. Nor could he stay
with
her, not for long at least. She could do anything she wanted, but not with him at her side.

“Hear what they say about Wild Boy! The ugliest freak at the fair!”

He heard the showman cry, the mocking crows. They were louder in his head, getting closer.

“Sir? Mr Grant!”

Another Gentleman rushed from the ballroom, red-faced and flustered. “We have another situation,” he said.

Lucien waved the man away. “Whoever you have apprehended this time, I pray you’ve acted with more discretion.”

“Haven’t apprehended anybody, sir.”

Wild Boy sat up. This didn’t seem like the other false alarm. Something had happened.

Sliding his mask back into place, he followed Lucien back to the ballroom. The heat of the room hit him like a furnace, drying his throat. The dancing was in full swing. Couples whirled around the floor, whooping with tipsy laughter.

Through the moving bodies, Wild Boy spotted several Gentlemen exchanging angry words by the patio doors. Lucien saw them too, and now they were both running again, dodging through the dancers.

“What is the situation?” Lucien asked as they approached.

“The patio doors,” one of the men replied. “Bentley was supposed to be watching them.”

“Bentley escorted the Earl of Gloucester to his carriage. What is it? The doors are locked.”

“No, sir. Outside – look.”

Wild Boy rubbed steam from the glass. There were marks in the snow. They were faint, but they were definitely marks. Someone, or something, had been there just moments ago.

“Could have been a fox,” Lucien said.

Shifting his mask to see better, Wild Boy leaned closer to the doors and examined the groove around the frame. The ice seal was broken.

“It ain’t no fox,” he said. “This door’s been opened. Someone’s broken in.”

31

“
W
e must protect the Queen.”

The words came almost as a whisper from Lucien’s mouth as he stared at the marks beyond the patio doors. The tracks of an uninvited guest.

Wild Boy turned and scanned the dance floor. He suspected that whoever had sneaked into this ballroom was
still
here. He was certain he could find the person, but not if Lucien and his men charged around causing panic.

He grasped Lucien’s wrist, kept his voice low. “We gotta stay quiet.”

Lucien glared at the hand on his arm as if it had just fractured whatever fragile peace existed between them. “You forget yourself,” he said. “It is our primary duty to protect the Queen.”

Ain’t my primary duty
. Wild Boy was here to save Marcus. He almost said as much, but stopped himself. “Look at them candles on that stand,” he said. “Two of ‘em are out.”

“So?” Lucien said. “The wind extinguished them when the killer opened the door.”

“Right. But they were all lit at the same time, and now the other three have burned for about ninety seconds longer.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Cos I know this sorta stuff. Now listen, we were in the gallery before that and no one passed us. Here in the ballroom the windows are guarded and your men are on the doors. No one’s gone out in that time. So whoever broke into this ballroom is still in this ballroom, geddit?”

Lucien got it. He watched the guests swirling around the dance floor. “Good God,” he said. “If the killer knows he is caught, he might act irrationally.”

“Right, like grab one of these toffs.”

“What do you propose?”

“Block the doors, don’t let no one out. Gimme five minutes and I’ll find him.”

“There are two hundred and thirty people here.”

“Two hundred and thirty-one now.”

“All right,” Lucien agreed, with a sigh so heavy it rustled his whiskers. “Five minutes. But after that we shall tear this room apart to find him.”

Wild Boy didn’t doubt that. But he had to try it his way, to think like Marcus had taught him. Only he wished he’d asked for ten minutes rather than five.

He opened the patio door and slipped outside.

A porch protected him from the worst of the weather, but the cold was still vicious, like a wire in his nose. The fog of his breath formed ice crystals that hung in the air before being swept away by the wind. Through the heavy snowfall he saw naked trees swaying at the side of the palace garden.