Chapter Text
-Paris 1925-
“You’re never going to win, Jack.” She smiled – gleaming, brilliant, dangerous – and extended one long gloved hand, graceful as the unfolding petal of a lily, for him to kiss.
“You don’t know that.” His eyes should have been fixed on the loot that she was concealing in her bag, watching for when Miss Phryne Fisher, grifter extraordinaire, would make the handoff to her as-yet-unspotted partner, DuBois. But he couldn’t help the drift of his gaze from the tips of her black satin fingers up along the silky wrap over her arms, to the onyx beads trickling along her neckline and through the strands of her jet-black hair, and further still to startling blue eyes whose intelligence was only overlooked because they were set in a lovely, feminine face. More fool those who did.
“But I do,” she said. “Shall we promenade?” Blinking, he watched as she pecked a kiss to the cheek of her escort. “Sorry darling,” she said to the young man who, right up until this very moment, Jack had assumed was her mule. “Business.” She shuffled the handbag on her wrist, and Jack was almost certain, by the swing of it, that the jewelry she was not supposed to be carrying was still secreted inside. The young man glowered, but wandered away to find something else to do with his time besides try to put his hands down Miss Fisher’s dress.
“You need better taste in men,” Jack said conversationally, as she took his arm to promenade around the ballroom. The party spun about them, like the swirling bubbles in the edge of a champagne coupe.
“And you,” she replied, a trifle testy, “do not get an opinion.”
“He’s wearing a cravat,” Jack groused. “And he’s impolite to the waiters. I’m not the freewheeling type that you are, Miss Fisher, but mark my words, nobody who is rude to the waiter is worth any sort of time.”
“I wasn’t spending time with him for his conversational skills, Jack.”
“If he can’t be polite asking for a prawn, I can’t imagine he’d grow more considerate in closer quarters.” They stared at each other, but she softened first.
“Your concern for my enjoyment of the evening is admirable, but you’re still not going to win.” The delicate trace of her fingers up his shoulder moved him into a dance form. “Dance with me.”
He obliged. He couldn’t help it. It was Paris, the War was over, Rosie was thousands of miles away, and he was gliding through a ballroom with one of the most cunning, mercurial, duplicitous, (beautiful) women he had ever met. “I don’t understand why you do this,” he said, framing his shoulders as best he could as he fell in step. He might be here on peripherally-military business, but that did not extend to an extensive clothing budget, let alone money for tailoring the suit jacket to accommodate his shoulders. And Jack wasn’t much for formal wear anyway. Investigating art and antiquities theft lent itself to loose shirts and dungarees, or at best, a borrowed blue wool suit, not tie and tails. “Isn’t your family titled?”
“I won’t be answering that,” she said, but the line of her jaw had hardened again, just as when he’d nettled her about her escort. “But surely you’ve heard of a case or three where a title involved nothing more than a mildering estate on a godforsaken fen and a few letters to tack in front of one’s name to make your eligible daughter more appealing when she’s propped up in front of the less-dead remainders of the aristocracy.” She led him backwards, just missing the full hem of a tittering teenager who was trying to ostrich-fan her way to victory over the boy who’d caught her eye. “But suffice it to say, if I followed the rules, I wouldn’t be having nearly the fun I am now.”
“What is your plan, Miss Fisher,” he said, executing a neat sidestep to keep her from having a clear line toward the exit. This dance was teetering on the edge of becoming a fencing match. “You can’t possibly think that you’ll be leaving the Palais with a handbag full of Russian diamonds and a wink to the guards outside. And where have you put the rest of the stash that is most certainly not in there?”
“Now Jack,” she said. She looked up at him through eyelashes that had crystals affixed to the tips, glinting in his vision as she steered him around a column. “While I do appreciate a direct approach, I expect more finesse from someone who worked Intelligence before he dedicated his time to repatriating war-disarrayed treasures.”
“I thought the dancing was the finesse,” he replied. “Would you prefer a drink?” She nodded coyly. But as he turned to locate a waiter with a salver, he felt her fingers shift inside the slippery gloves. Instinctively, he whipped his head back around, but he was too late. Her free hand gave a flourish like a magician producing a rabbit, and at the same moment, there was a crashing of glass somewhere near the rear of the party.
The ripple of turned heads and swirling fabrics washed across the room irresistibly, as the guests turned to look at the commotion between the two waiters who had collided. And Miss Fisher made her move. The slinky wrap and gloves Jack had been holding onto suddenly slithered through his fingers, and the woman herself vanished around the side of the orchestra. The weight of her handbag was now over his wrist, and he paused for precious seconds to prevent it from falling, fiddle with the tog, and yank it open. Inside, where the heavy load of jewels should have been, was a chunk of white stone, with a lipstick kiss pressed along the top. Jack gritted his teeth and swore under his breath.
His fancy shoes slid, first on her wrap, then on the tile as he bolted in the same direction she had gone. He had done his research, of course. There were only a few exits from a place like this, but one of them would always be reserved for staff to meet their masters’ needs, and those doors couldn’t stay locked. It was her only efficient option. With him chasing her, she would have only a few moments to choose her course, and he knew full well that DuBois’ fishing boat offered her best chance of escape. That meant she would have at best seven, maybe eight minutes to make her way out of the building while dodging waiters, coachmen and maids taking a smoko, retrieve her loot, sprint down the lane between the late evening traffic lines, and, while wearing a party dress, vault some part of the fencing along the river to land in or near her partner’s berth in order to get them cast off before he could catch up. As he ran the same route out of the building, ducking and apologizing, Jack felt the calculations running in his head, tripping like cogs in a clock. He leapt past a housemaid carrying her ladyship’s coat over one arm and pivoted hard on the heavy runner of the hallway, ignoring her cry as the vase in the alcove wobbled precariously.
Not enough time. He skidded through the kitchen and ducked a perturbed sous chef’s ladle. The tradesmen’s door was open to admit last minute deliveries of shrimp and apples, as well as the cool evening air. Not nearly enough time. Jack slowed to a stop and took a long look around. The kitchen staff was glaring at him, but not nearly angrily enough. If Miss Fisher had blasted through here, they would be in an uproar over a second interruption. He scanned the shrubs, looking for clues. There.
Far back behind the hedges that concealed the working part of the building from the wealthy part, a pair of glittering party shoes lay discarded on top of a heap of loose dirt. Jack stared at it for a long moment, letting the clock tick around in his head. Then, as if the hour had begun to chime, his head whipped around, curls beginning to come loose from the pomade as he began to move again. He scrambled past the tradesmen and their boxes, trying to be mindful of his trousers.
Jack stalked to the edge of the street, where carriages and the occasional automobile clogged the roadway. Their lamps and lights threw crazed shadows along the cobbles, throwing the gaps between the buildings into either sharp relief or deep shadow. Few street folk lingered here, and she would hardly blend in wearing party clothes. No, there hadn’t been enough time. All Miss Fisher would have had opportunity for was for ducking into a doorway at best, but… Damn. And even as the realization broke over him, Jack knew he was going to be just moments too late. The housemaid. No housemaid should have been down with the caterers, carrying a coat scented with Jicky in the opposite direction of the cloakroom. And her eyes – had they glittered when she shouted at him? If she had swapped her costume somehow, chucked the shoes, and doubled back… He sprinted back the way he had come, but even as the stairs to the grand entrance came into view, he could see a dark-haired woman in a coat too long for the spring weather being handed into a very fast automobile, with a dark-eyed profile behind the steering wheel that was likely her cohort, DuBois. “Miss Fisher!” He bellowed, and her eyes snapped up. An expression of shock flared on her face, but it was quickly replaced with a nonchalant smile.
“Better luck next time, Jack!” She called with a wave. The engine roared, and Jack, breath heaving and spiking into his side, was forced to watch her go. Off she roared, one loose feather from her coat collar whirling into the sky. Jack watched it pirouette up into the night air, drifting gently downwards toward the place where she had pulled away. It seemed a fitting end to this particular adventure – watching her disappear into the lights and silhouettes of the Paris skyline while being unable to do anything more than catch hold of a feather. Limping from the damnable shoes, he climbed the steps of the Palais, waved off the doorman, and dropped himself tiredly into the first chair that presented itself. The handbag swung mockingly from his wrist, bumping into his thigh. Aggravated, he yanked hard on the drawstrings until it opened and he could wrestle out the block of stone. Only, it wasn’t a stone. In his hand was a chunk of alabaster, that, when flipped over, revealed itself as a Madonna and Child. One of astonishing quality, if the delicate drape of the Madonna’s robes were any indication. His eyes goggled. There was a note as well – of course there was a note. In slightly messy handwriting, it read: “It seems you came closer to winning than I expected. Consider this a consolation prize. PF.” Despite the ache in his side and the gloom of expecting a dressing-down, Jack smiled.