Amberlough(52)
“Something happen to Ellie? I was fine making pickups from her.”
“No. Nothing’s happened to Ellie. But this came across my path, and I thought you’d d-d-do it credit.”
“You trying to ask me a favor?”
“You’ve already done me several. Consider this a b-b-bonus.” He’d taken it, with her in mind, from the lot that had come in this afternoon—delayed after the dummy raid for Taormino.
So far, their arrangement had worked flawlessly. Cordelia had been spotted all over the city with Cyril. He’d even seen her in the background of a photo in the Clarion society pages. Cyril, of course, had avoided the camera’s gaze. And now, he felt confident enough to come back to the Bee posing as her lover. He must be in good stead with the Ospies, and with Cordelia.
Speaking of … Her eyes were suspicious as she tugged one flap of the package open. After a quick inspection of the blocks of tar, she arched one finely plucked eyebrow and pinned him with an accusatory glare. “Damn sight finer’n what you pass on to Ellie.” When she rubbed the edge of a brick with the pad of her thumb, her skin came away stained brown.
“Like I said,” said Aristide. “I thought of you. You needn’t mention it to her when you see her next.”
“Quiet as a sleeping eel.” She surprised herself by pecking his painted cheek. “You know, you really ain’t as bad as all that.”
“Oh no,” he said. “I prefer to think I’m worse.”
*
In short order, Aristide followed Cordelia out into the house. The jumble of voices poured over him, and the press of bodies and adoration propelled him forward. Everyone reeked of wet fur and smoldering, damp tobacco.
The crowd hadn’t changed much in the few weeks since the election—at least, not on the surface. Corks still popped from champagne bottles, and flirtations flew with as little discretion as they ever had. But if one listened carefully—and Aristide always did—conversation around the mosaic tables tended strongly toward politics, and little else. Moritz had moved to impeach Josiah Hebrides in a special session of parliament, and the wheels of the process had begun to turn.
Most of Malcolm’s star performers found their stacks of interval invitations diminished. Aristide, on the other hand, stuffed both his pockets and even then ended up putting off some punters until after. Since Acherby’s victory, he could count on one hand the nights he’d gone to his bed before the sun rose from hers.
He had people to see tonight—he was especially keen to rendezvous with Zelda Peronides about moving some hot Lisoan ivory. But he lingered near the front of the house, careful to keep hidden in the crowd and stage left of center.
The chance movement of a large group toward the bar gave Aristide a clear line of sight. Cyril was at his regular seat, resting his elbows on the blue and green tiles of the tabletop. As he spoke, he gestured with a cigarette. Cordelia sat beside him, sipping a cocktail. And in the chair across from him … Aristide couldn’t be sure. He could only make out the back of a head: long-skulled, square-cornered, furred with close-clipped silver hair. When Cyril’s guest turned, attending to Cordelia, Aristide saw the flash of spectacles resting on an aquiline nose: Deputy Police Commissioner Alex Müller.
“Mr. DePaul,” Aristide murmured, hand over his mouth. “Keeping such low company these days.” But it made sense. If Hebrides fell, the unionists would move into Amberlough. Without a standing army, the police were the nearest thing the Ospies could touch that might help with a coup, or whatever they had planned.
He thumbed through the business cards Tito had brought him, scanning the crowd, matching names to faces. When the pad of his thumb struck cheap matte paper amidst the creamier textures, he looked down, surprised. His finger hid the given name, but left Lourdes visible.
He didn’t have time—really, he didn’t. But seeing Cyril had stung him more than he cared to admit. And if he didn’t have one lover’s card in his pocket, at least he had another’s. Casting his attention over the crowd, Aristide searched for the bright distraction of the accountant’s copper hair.
*
When the curtain rose on the second half, Cyril indulged in a single, relieved sigh. Watching Müller flirt with Cordelia at the interval was equal parts gratifying and embarrassing. Müller was clearly smitten with her, and she clearly knew it. He’d take them both out after the show. He needed Müller feeling catered-to, expansive. There were a few things Cordelia could contribute that Cyril, though he was willing if it would get him what he wanted, couldn’t quite. And they were all on display in the penultimate number of the cabaret’s second half.
The show would end with an extravaganza: all the members of the cast onstage, confetti, streamers, swelling orchestra. But the eleven o’clock number was a sultry partner striptease: Cordelia and Ari, sliding around each other like oil and paraffin, just as slippery and just as volatile.
They started on opposite sides of the stage, alone in dramatic spotlights that hit the boards with a crisp beat from the orchestra. Aristide was wrapped to the neck in white fox fur. He had abandoned the powdered wig in favor of his natural curls, gathered in an elaborate coif pierced with two long, gold pins. His hands, clutching the fox at his throat, were gloved in black satin.
Cordelia contrasted in every way. Where Ari was dark, the spotlight turned her fair skin ghostly pale. Her brilliant hair was tucked beneath a silk top hat. Against Aristide’s white fox, she wore a black tailcoat, nipped in tight beneath her ribs. High-cut dress trousers made her legs look impossibly long for her short stature, and her spats were blinding. She struck an arrogant pose with a gold-topped cane, smirking over one shoulder at the audience.