The Reunion Page 5

  Pierce’s spirits lifted. The child was a genius. A fact he became aware of the first time she had gotten him out of trouble.

  “Aye, there’s a start.”

  He spied a writing desk with paper and fountain pens. He went over to find the royal coat of arms letterhead at the top center of each sheet. Taking a pen, he began jotting.

  “What are your intentions when you’re in?” Eilidh wondered. “Even if you get to them, you can’t simply walk them out.”

  “I’ll tell the guards that in light of the recent threat to the Queen, the prisoners are to be transported to the Tower to be interrogated.”

  “That won’t work,” Clover argued. “Prison transports usually require more than one guard.”

  The pen fell from his fingers. From experience, he knew she was correct. Unless he had a group of people in uniform, which he didn’t, that plan would fail.

  “Shite,” Pierce grumbled, crumpling the paper.

  “How do you know that?” Eilidh asked the girl with surprise.

  “I researched it once for a story of mine.”

  Eilidh thought a moment and snapped her fingers. “Oh! You can fake their deaths. Find a bottle of concoction and stage a poisoning.”

  Pierce could have kissed her. Actually, after what he had seen of her, he wouldn’t mind a kiss in the least!

  “Aye. That isn’t a bad idea.”

  “Concoction? Like in Romeo and Juliet?” Clover asked.

  “Aye,” Pierce answered. “Only thing is, the concoction in the story was complete rubbish. It doesn’t exist.”

  “Really?” Eilidh said, completely gobsmacked. “I honestly thought it was real.”

  Pierce looked at Clover and winked. “Making the unbelievable seem believable. That’s the brilliance of good storytelling, eh, lass?”

  Clover’s face burned red with favoritism at that statement.

  “What do you propose to do, then?” Eilidh inquired.

  “Stage their deaths, like you suggested.”

  “How?”

  “I know someone with certain tricks. Juan Fan.”

  “Who?” Eilidh demanded.

  “An old friend,” he explained simply.

  He turned around in his seat and began writing again. He worked quickly and wrote out another letter. Pierce was good at writing in different hands, and in this message, he wrote in perfect cursive with a feminine touch. There was no way to seal the letter, so when he was done, he asked Clover for the ribbon that was keeping her hair up. She pulled it free from her red-wine hair and gave it over. He rolled the letter, snipped the ribbon with a pair of sheers he found on the desk, and tied it around the scroll.

  He stood and slipped the paper under his uniform. “Right. Best crack on.”

  Eilidh blocked his path. “Pierce.”

  When she stopped him, he looked her in the eye. Considering where else he wanted to look, it proved a tad difficult. Then her eyes snared his focus sharper than a fishhook. They appeared to be made of clear glass, and behind them, something peered straight back at him. Eyes of hazel. It was a queer sight, for he could have sworn Eilidh’s were blue. He said nothing as he locked eyes with her. There was something strong and ancient about those other eyes, as if he were looking through the eyes of an old soul housed within a new body. Pierce wondered if anyone other than he had noticed this before. Did Eilidh know herself?

  Then she blinked and her eyes were her normal royal blue again. With so many more pressing manners to attend to, Pierce was quick to dismiss the occurrence altogether.

  “Did you really not see anything?” Eilidh asked.

  It took a moment for him to register her question. Then she glanced down at her chest and blushed.

  “Oh,” he said, remembering. He thought to lie, but she forced the truth out of him. “They’re very lovely.”

  Her gaping expression had him convinced a slap across the face was coming.

  “Erm, cheerio,” he said quickly, walking past her.

  “Please be safe, Mr. Pierce,” Clover pleaded as he twisted the doorknob.

  He winked at her again. “Only for you, darling.”

  With that, he left.

  * * *

  Archie had never enjoyed drinking. After witnessing what alcohol did to his brother, Ivor, he kept clear of it except on special occasions. He had consumed more liquor last week than he did in an entire year. Tonight, he was on his second glass of brandy.

  “When do you plan on having children?” Prince Albert asked.

  Archie failed to hear him.

  “Pardon, Your Highness?”

  “Children,” he repeated. “When are you going to start having them?”

  “Oh. We were thinking within the year.”

  The Prince gave him a peculiar look. “Are you all right? You seem distracted.”

  Albert had a kindness about him that Archie remembered. When he had questioned him just now, it wasn’t with irritation but with genuine concern.

  Archie thought of a quick lie. “Suppose I am. My thoughts keep drifting to my father and brother.”

  “Ah, of course. You are in mourning. How insensitive of me.”

  “No, sir, not insensitive in the least. In fact, the talk of children has reminded me that, despite the loss, my family’s future will carry on.”

  Albert puffed on his cigar and nodded. “Indeed.”

  When a servant stepped in, Archie held his breath.

  “Forgive my intrusion, sir. There is a man at the gates claiming to be Lord Norwich’s coachman.”

  Archie had completely forgotten about Rhys Lane.

  “Ah, yes. I allowed him to go into the city and shop for his wife’s birthday. I do hope it was all right, given the security and all.”

  Albert waved dismissively at him while puffing away on his cigar.

  “It’s perfectly fine.” To the servant, he ordered, “Allow the coachman in.”

  “Yes, sir.” The servant bowed before stepping backward.

  When he was gone, Albert said, “I respect you for your simple desire to lead a quiet life, Archie. I wish you the best of luck.” He raised his glass, and so did Archie. “To family.”

  They clinked glasses and drank. Although the alcohol eased his tension somewhat, Archie couldn’t help but to expect the sound of alarm at any given moment.

  * * *

  A stable hand already had a horse saddled for Pierce when he arrived at the stables. Apparently, the Queen had given him a head start by informing the guards at the gates that one of her servants was leaving. It thrilled him no end, for he worried there would be questions. He left without a hitch and headed for Bermondsey.

  It’d been a couple of years since he last visited Juan Fan. Pierce had smuggled goods for her when he was eighteen, before she decided to open her own opium den. She had offered to partner up with him, but it wasn’t exactly Pierce’s cup of tea, watching people waste away on opium.

  The red uniform earned him looks that forced him to believe he was about to be murdered. Anyone of authority was generally not welcomed in this part of town full of ruffians and lowlifes. He pushed on and arrived at an old brick building. After hitching his horse to a post next to a few other mounts, he climbed the short flight of stairs and knocked. A tall, muscular bloke answered. It seemed Fan always had a new doorman. The man was a giant, with skin so pale he made freshly fallen snow appear off-white.

  He scowled down at Pierce. “What is it, guard?”

  Clearly, he also had no regard for the law.

  “The way to enlightenment is seen through smoke,” Pierce recited in Chinese.

  Every time Pierce delivered the password, he feared he’d mess it up, or that it had changed.

  The giant considered him a moment. The royal uniform was not working in his favor.

  “I came to speak with Juan Fan, chum,” Pierce finally retorted.

  The mountainous tosspot sighed so deeply it sounded like tornado winds blowing out of his nostrils. “Follow m
e.”

  Pierce entered the low-lit building. The entrance room sat completely vacant, only a lit chandelier hanging overhead. The alcove across the way was much more crowded. Pierce’s eyes dried out and watered simultaneously as he entered the room, opaque with smoke. A roasted, nutty chestnut smell filled Pierce with a comfort he couldn’t avoid.

  Each section of the house was dark, save for a few gas-powered lamps and hanging pagoda chandeliers with dimly-lit electric bulbs. Fan had had no electricity the last time he was there. She must have gotten herself a generator, he reckoned. Heavy velvet draperies were drawn over every window, sealing out the disturbance of the outside world. Asian paintings and other kind of artwork decorated the walls. An elderly Chinese man played the Guzheng in the living room. The dining room now fed dragon chasers. Men and women lay on fainting couches, slumped stupidly in chairs, or were sprawled out on the floor over animal-skin rugs. Some costumers huddled around hookahs. Thick strands of white smoke from mouthpieces curled through the air, thinning to wispy vapors before fading away within the rest of the grey stagnant fog hovering about. Young female servants wore colorful kimonos and men wore plain traditional garb. They stayed busy, offering Fan’s clients fire for their pipes, drinks, and of course, more opium.

  Despite the pleasant fragrance, opium looked like balls of tar, and was nearly as sticky. Pierce had tried the drug shortly after Fan opened her den. He recalled clearly how effortlessly and widely each toke had traveled through his whole body. When it took over, a wash of warmth flowed over him like rays of sunlight shining out from behind the clouds. Though the feeling had stimulated every inch of him to the point where he truly felt himself levitating off the floor, he hadn’t fancied how the days escaped him without warning. The drug was interesting, yet, for him, it was a leisure best experienced once.

  He and the doorman cut through a couple of other rooms and reached a staircase. They climbed up one flight, and then up a second flight, where the doorman walked heavily down the hall toward an open door. The giant stopped at the doorway with Pierce directly behind him.

  “Madam Fan,” the mountain of a man announced. “There is a young guardsman here to see you.”

  “A guardsman?” Fan snapped in alarm.

  Pierce couldn’t see past the giant standing directly in front of him, yet he imagined, upon hearing the word “guardsman,” Fan was most likely reaching for her gun.

  “Fan,” he called, jumping once to show himself over the doorman’s broad shoulder. “It’s me, Pierce!”

  “Pierce?” came Fan’s voice again, sounding less startled. “Rex mentioned you were a guard.”

  The cocker, known as Rex, apparently had no intention of moving, forcing Pierce to squeeze between him and the doorframe.

  “I’m in disguise,” he explained, sidestepping his way in.

  The bedroom was pleasantly smoke-free and lit by many pendant lamps hanging from the ceiling. The wallpaper was modern, although the hardwood floors were old and scuffed. There wasn’t much inside save for a dark wood wardrobe, a dresser, and a few mirrors on the wall. A queen-sized walnut bed sat near a small hearth. Fan stood in front of a black-framed standing mirror on the opposite side. Her hair was done up and decorated with pocket watches and peacock feathers. She wore a long emerald gown that touched the floor. She was having her overbust corset tied by a handsome young fair-haired feller dressed in black silk britches and not a stitch more.

  Fan had earned a small fortune over the years through her opium trade and shady dealings. She would have moved her business to the less seedy side of the city, were she allowed.

  Pierce first met Juan Fan down in the Catacombs of Paris when he’d gone in to explore. He stumbled upon her while she was smuggling crates of brandy through the passageway of bones where she hid them. She, and the lot she ran with at the time, had nearly killed him on the spot. However, he had convinced her to let him join her. Back then, she went by her birth name, Jinhai Fan. She wore men’s clothing in those days, but still acted more feminine than most women Pierce knew. Pierce had always assumed Fan was a homosexual, but, as it turned out, it was more than that. After establishing her opium business, Jinhai decided it was time to shed her men’s clothing forever and become Madam Juan Fan. It took a while for the crew to adjust to referring to her as a “she” rather than a “he,” but, in time, it became natural, even for Pierce.

  Fan was years older than Pierce, and she wasn’t much to look at, but her wits had earned her respect. She was very smart, a lot smarter than Pierce, he suspected. And she was loyal to those who were loyal to her. When she saw Pierce, she smiled widely, showing tea-stained teeth.

  “Pierce Landcross,” she greeted in her heavy Chinese accent. She sounded just as feminine as Pierce remembered. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”

  He approached her with arms spread. “I’ve come close many times.”

  He stepped into her embrace and they kissed each other’s cheeks.

  “I am pleased you are very much alive.” She admired his getup. “And dressing better, I see.”

  “Not as fancy as you. Going out?”

  She looked down at her thick velvety dress and twirled in front of the mirror with the threads of her untied overbust corset swinging about with her.

  “Only trying it on. You like? It’s the latest fashion.”

  “It isn’t as beautiful as you are.”

  Fan gave him a sidelong glance and smirked. “Always the charmer. Your silver tongue kept you from joining the rest of the bodies in the Catacombs.”

  “Aye. I reckon so.”

  His expression must’ve showed some hint of urgency, because hers also changed. “What is it?”

  “I need your help.”

  Fan turned her attention to the handsome servant and the pale doorman. “Leave us. Both of you.”

  The men bowed and began vacating the room. Pierce followed the half-naked youth with his eyes.

  “He has less clothing than the other servants downstairs.”

  “Bartlomiej is my personal Polish plaything,” she stated, adjusting the feathers in her black hair. “I share him with no one. Perhaps with you, though.”

  “Tempting, but I’ll pass,” Pierce quipped.

  “Be a dear,” Fan said, thumbing over her shoulder.

  Pierce took the threads and began tying the corset where the Polish plaything had left off.

  “What can I do for you, Pierce?”

  “My parents are being held in Newgate. I’m going to try breaking them out tonight. Do you have any Salvia?”

  “What we used on Coira MacCrum?”

  “The very same.”

  “I do. Why? What ideas do you have rattling inside your pretty head, my pet?”

  “I’m thinking I’d portray myself as a guard wanting to question my folks. Once I can get Mum and Dad alone, I’ll tell them to pretend to kill themselves and act dead long enough for the turnkeys to send them out.”

  “Send them out where? Unless someone comes to buy the bodies, chances are they’ll keep them in their cell until finally burying them in shallow mass graves inside Newgate Cemetery.”

  “Dammit,” Pierce cursed as he finished tying the cords into a perfect bow. “I never thought of that.”

  He looked away, biting at his thumbnail while thinking of a way through this obstacle.

  “And you can’t offer to pay for them without raising suspicion,” Fan threw in. She placed her hand on the side of his face and gently moved his head to look at her. “You will need more than Salvia from me, my pet.”

  * * *

  Eilidh returned to her and Archie’s room. She was nearly bursting at the seams, waiting for her husband. The wine she had drank with the Queen had made her even more anxious. The whole time, Eilidh had acted surprisingly calm. Her Majesty, however, was distracted, and Eilidh didn’t need to know why.

  The door finally opened and Archie wandered in, his balance slightly wavering.

  “It’s about time yo
u got here. I must tell you . . . ” she started to say while standing from her chair. “Are you drunk?”

  He looked at her with glassy eyes. “A little. My nerves were wrecked.”

  “Pierce isn’t in the castle.”

  Archie scrunched his face. “What? Where did he go?”

  “He approached the Queen and offered to trade himself for his parents’ freedom. She turned the offer upside down and proposed a wager with him to see him break them both out of prison.”

  Her husband was completely lost.

  “Wait. Kindly repeat that.”

  She didn’t. Instead, she went on. “If he gets caught, though, he will hang.”

  Archie appeared to sober up rather quickly. He stiffened his back and marched over to the table where a pitcher of water and some glasses sat. He poured himself a glass and gulped it down.

  “He’s going in there by himself?”

  “He mentioned someone by the name of Juan Fan,” she told him. “He said little about her, though.”

  “Does he even know how he’ll get them out?”

  “He’s planning to fake their deaths. Do you think he’ll succeed?”

  He wiped water from his mouth with his sleeve.

  “I haven’t a clue, but I plan to find out.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked as he took off his jacket. “You’re going to do what?”

  Archie threw his jacket on the bed and unfastened his britches. “I’m leaving for Newgate. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”

  “You’re mad! You cannot go after Pierce. You may end up locked in there with him, if he’s caught!”

  He brought out the most common pair of slacks he could find from inside the luggage trunk.

  “I don’t intend on helping him,” he declared, slipping them on. “I only want to know if what he plans on doing will work. That’s all.”