Page 21
My breath catches. I glance toward the stage. The curtain remains closed. For the first time all evening, I smile. So, my darling is here.
The wealthy possess an extraordinary talent for turning excess into etiquette.
Crystal chandeliers hang above the ballroom in glittering rows, casting golden light across silk gowns, polished shoes, and enough jewels to purchase half of Lockham. Servants glide through the crowd with silver trays while an orchestra performs near the marble staircase.
Every surface gleams. Every smile is false. Every guest appears convinced that refinement can disguise rot.
Alcott looks entirely at home.
Of course he does.
His white-blond hair is slicked neatly away from his face, and his charcoal evening coat fits him with irritating perfection. A silver chain curves across his waistcoat, catching the candlelight whenever he moves. He holds a glass of champagne in one hand while charming an elderly duchess with the other.
She laughs. Alcott has not said anything remotely amusing. I remain near one of the pillars, pretending to inspect the dancers while silently regretting every decision that led me here, but this is my occupation and I must do it well. Across the ballroom, our mark stands beneath a gilded portrait of himself. Thomas McSurry. Merchant. Blackmailer. Occasional trafficker of human beings. Habitual bore. The Collector requested his death before midnight. Preferably discreetly. Alcott glances toward me. His fingers move subtly against the stem of his glass. North corridor. Ten minutes.
We had taught ourselves sign language at a young age. For if we muttered a sound we’d be beaten, thus we adapted by learning to speak with our hands.
I answer by adjusting my cuff and responding in visual language.
Too crowded.
His handsome smile never falters. Then create a distraction. I stare at him, deadpan. He raises one pale eyebrow. Naturally. The brother currently drinking champagne and flirting with nobility would like me to create the distraction.
Before I can object, Thomas McSurry separates from his companions and begins moving toward the corridor alone.
Alcott’s eyes brighten. Now. I follow. The music continues behind me as I leave the ballroom, every note fading beneath the sound of my own footsteps. McSurry does not notice me until we are beyond the final set of doors.
“May I help you?” he asks, looking me over with immediate disdain.
“No.” He frowns as I close the door behind us. “But what I’m about to do may help several other people.”
Panic sets in his face as he frantically looks around the room to try to find an escape.
“I have an abundance of money. Is that what you want?” He asks while backing into his desk.
“No,” I reply, then lunge toward him, pulling out the piano wire from my coat, swiftly wrapping it around his neck, and jumping over his wooden desk.
He lands atop his desk with a loud thud as I crouch behind the desk, pulling with as much force as I can. The sounds of his struggle resound in my ears. Familiar gasps. Familiar gurgling noises. It is interesting how everyone makes similar sounds when they are about to pass. The office door creaks open, and my back stiffens.
“Goodness, he is a tubby bloke.” Alcott’s voice comes from the entrance.
Once I’m confident McSurry has taken his last breath, I release my hold and stand, so we may ready his body for disposal. I glance toward my brother and find him standing in the doorway, with a smaller unconscious man tucked awkwardly against his side.
I stare. Then point.
“What is that?” My voice is filled with dread.
Alcott’s eyes look between me and the man he is holding. Then back at me.
“Oh, this?” He shrugs his shoulders.
Rolling my eyes, I drag my hand across my face. “Yes, that.”
“A party favor.” A simple retort that makes more dread settle in the pit of my stomach.
“Alcott,” I warn.
His expression brightens, which is never a good sign.
