“Cahoots!” Hippolyta shouted. Then recollecting that complete phrasing was usually helpful: “They were in cahoots with each other, I am sure of it. They and Lady Trimble and the whole diabolical cadre of bird snatchers.”
Beth did not point out that she and Hippolyta belonged to the same cadre. The first unspoken rule when it came to Hippolyta Quirm was that honesty seldom represented the best policy. (The second rule: it was tea in her silver flask, regardless of smell, color, or that half-empty bottle of rum sitting on the shelf. Which also handily illustrated rule one.)
“I’m certain you are right,” she murmured with only the smallest twinge of conscience. Devon might be guiltless in this matter, but she did not like the man, nor respect him, nor desire in the slightest to slide her hand through his wayward black hair. He was a bird-stealing fiend, never mind his various charms! They were fiends too, the whole lot of them! And she was a mature, sensible woman, despite the evidence of this paragraph.
She sighed, her heart drooping.
“Buck up, dear!” Hippolyta boomed. “I have—we have a caladrius to catch, and no unscrupulous men shall stop us. Fortune favors not only the brave but the decent and honorable!” She thrust out her hand sidelong, palm up. “Ticket!”
One of the three footmen standing to attention behind her stepped forward with a small card, which he placed tremulously in her hand. Hippolyta passed it to Beth.
“Here is your train ticket. The hotel maid has packed your things, although there is still much to organize before we leave.”
Beth inspected the first-class ticket amazedly. “How did you manage to get this so quickly?”
“I stole it from Oberhufter’s room.”
—
That evening, Herr Oberhufter himself, along with a rather weary Devon, departed Hôtel Chauvesouris for the Gare du Nord station. A gentleman of Oberhufter’s caliber does not need anything so trifling as tickets to secure passage on a train. (Especially if he blackmails the railway company president into giving him free travel.)
They proceeded along the seventh-floor corridor toward an elevator, trailed by their butler, valet, and two footmen pushing a luggage trolley. Dinner had been a light, hasty affair, and Oberhufter was munching on an emergency cheese sandwich as he walked. But as the elevator door opened before them with a jaunty bing, the sandwich drooped, half its contents falling to the floor.
“Mein Gott!” Oberhufter shouted.
“Huh,” Devon added more succinctly.
Misses Fotheringham lay moaning on the floor of the elevator chamber, bestrewn with lapwing feathers. The bird itself was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened here?” Herr Oberhufter demanded.
A Miss Fotheringham hauled herself to her knees. “Masked man in a black suit,” she said, spitting a feather from her mouth. “Attacked us. Took the lapwing. Sister, are you alive?” She grasped the other Miss Fotheringham’s shoulders, shaking her.
Oberhufter waved his sandwich impatiently. “Never mind all that! Focus on what’s important, Elvira! Where is the caladrius call?”
“Gone!” Miss Fotheringham cried as she slapped her sister’s face. “Wake up, Ethel! Wake up!”
Ethel was in fact awake and yelping at being struck, but this did not daunt Elvira, who continued slapping, shaking, and at one point punching her sister. Oberhufter turned away as the elevator door slammed shut on the scene.
“Who was that masked man?” he demanded of the world in general.
Devon shrugged a reply. In truth, he was rather surprised by this evidence that Oberhufter hadn’t been behind the lapwing attack in the museum after all.
The man bit heavily into his sandwich. “I’m shocked!” he declared, although it sounded, through the mouthful of bread, more like he was shoffed. “This is the work of that reprehensible Quirm woman, I guarantee it. Well, well, Hippolyta. I take my hat off to you. If I was wearing a hat, that is. And if you were here. And if you wouldn’t just steal the hat to whack me with it.”
He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then looked around with sudden concern. “Where is my hat? Someone fetch me a hat! At once! And why for the all the sausages in Germany are you just standing there, Lockley? Summon the elevator!” Taking another bite of sandwich, he muttered about dumb associates (or possibly “yum, opiates!” which might explain quite a bit).
Devon pressed the elevator button. Bing! The door slid open to reveal Misses Fotheringham wrestling on the ground, hands around each other’s necks. Oberhufter stepped in, moving to one side so Devon could enter next and the servants thereafter, maneuvering the trolley. With such a crowd, Misses Fotheringham were forced to relocate their skirmish to the rear of the chamber.
“Let’s get moving!” Oberhufter demanded as the valet placed a hat upon his head (having first surreptitiously removed the one already there). “The caladrius won’t catch itself!”
A footman reached for the control button to close the door—
“Hold that elevator, by Jove!” boomed a deep, galumphing voice. Oberhufter spat out a mouthful of chewed sandwich, which struck the footman’s cheek then slid down the front of his uniform. The footman did not so much as blink. He held the door open as Mrs. Quirm swooped in like an exotic bird-of-paradise that had just flown through a haberdashery store, and peremptorily employed her furled umbrella to clear space within the chamber. She was followed by Miss Pickering, more discreetly attired in a simple beige traveling suit, its sleeves barely puffed. With her chestnut brown hair gathered tidily beneath a straw boater and delicate spectacles settled on her nose, she looked so much like a schoolteacher, every man in the elevator stood up straighter.
“Sorry, pardon me, thank you,” she murmured. But her attention was focused on a book she held open in one hand, and Devon doubted she even knew whose company she’d joined. Whatever it was she read filled her eyes with enthrallment, and as she turned a page she seemed to hold her breath in anticipation. Watching her, Devon found himself holding his own breath too.
He was being foolish; he knew it. The woman might be pretty, but she was also a rival in the field, an academic foe, an associate of the unscrupulous Hippolyta Quirm, and so very pretty the air around her seemed to glow. The spectacles alone made him want to
“Atrocious!” Oberhufter shouted. Devon jolted, then realized the man was complaining about the ladies’ servants, who were angling an overburdened luggage trolley into the elevator. “Typical Quirm behavior! Taking up all the space! I might have known!”
(“Aagh, that’s my hand someone’s standing on!” cried a Miss Fotheringham.)
“You know nothing!” Hippolyta shouted back at Oberhufter. “Your head is emptier than a cuckoo’s nest!”
Rolling his eyes, Devon just happened to glance again at Beth Pickering and caught her staring at him with startlement and—was that interest? His pulse leaped. But she immediately jerked up her chin, tightened her expression into haughtiness, and pivoted on a heel to face the elevator door. Devon grinned. With a side step and a little angling, a little shoving at the luggage trolley, he insinuated himself into the space beside her. She was so rigid, a person could use her as a ladder for observing bird nests. She stared at her book with such fierce intent it was obvious she saw not one word on the pages. Devon weighed whether he should nudge her or whisper in her ear.
He had not yet decided when she turned a page in a crisp, emphatic manner that warned him to try neither, on pain of being publicly educated as to his flaws. With any other woman, he might have taken this as a challenge, but there still existed some question as to just how sincere she’d been when she said she wanted calm waters. Veering on the side of gentlemanly caution, a neighborhood he seldom visited, Devon shoved his hands into his coat pockets, where they could not get up to any mischief.
“Hurry up!” Hippolyta shouted, banging the tip of her parasol against the elevator floor. “I have yet another award to add to my pile.”
The door slid shut with an ominous clank. A footman moved the control lever, and with a tremor, the chamber began its descent. Beth tipped toward Devon, then righted herself mere inches before a delightful collision could occur. Devon’s body flashed hot. The woman smelled of lavender and pencil shavings, as if she’d just come from hiding in a bush to sketch birds. She was the perfect height for him to cuddle her close and kiss the top of her head—and the moment Devon thought this, he suddenly longed to make it happen.
“Such codswallop!” Oberhufter shouted. “Your pile will be a mere pebble compared to my collection!”
“Funny you should mention a pebble,” Hippolyta retorted, “since we all know that is the size of your—”
“Cheese sandwich, anyone?” a footman interjected loudly.
