way?'
Nora looked thoughtful. 'I probably wouldn't have slapped him--I wouldn't have had the nerve. But Augusta made me think it was important to take a stand.'
Maisie nodded. 'There you are. She wanted this to happen. She also got someone to tell the count you were easy.'
Nora was amazed. 'Are you sure?'
'He told me. She's a devious bitch and she has no scruples at all.' Maisie realized she was speaking in her Newcastle accent, something that rarely happened nowadays. She reverted to normal. 'Never underestimate Augusta's capacity for treachery.'
'She doesn't scare me,' Nora said defiantly. 'I haven't got too many scruples myself.'
Maisie believed her--and felt sorry for Hugh.
A polonaise was the perfect dress style for Nora, Maisie thought as the dressmaker pinned a gown around Nora's generous figure. The fussy details suited her pretty looks: the pleated frills, the front opening decorated with bows, and the tie-back skirt with flounces all looked sweet on her. Perhaps she was a little too voluptuous, but a long corset would restrain her tendency to wobble.
'Looking pretty is half the battle,' she said as Nora admired herself in the mirror. 'As far as the men are concerned it's really all that matters. But you have to do more to get accepted by the women.'
Nora said: 'I've always got on better with men than women.'
Maisie was not surprised: Nora was that type.
Nora went on: 'You must be the same. That's why we've got where we are.'
Are we the same? wondered Maisie.
'Not that I put myself on the same level as you,' Nora added. 'Every ambitious girl in London envies you.'
Maisie winced at the thought that she was looked up to as a hero by fortune-hunting women, but she said nothing because she probably deserved it. Nora had married for money, and she was quite happy to admit it to Maisie because she assumed that Maisie had done the same. And she was right.
Nora said: 'I'm not complaining, but I did pick the black sheep of the family, the one with no capital. You married one of the richest men in the world.'
How surprised you would be, Maisie thought, if you knew how willingly I'd swap.
She put the thought out of her mind. All right, she and Nora were two of a kind. She would help Nora win the acceptance of the snobs and shrews who ruled society.
'Never talk about how much anything costs,' she began, remembering her own early mistakes. 'Always remain calm and unruffled, no matter what happens. If your coachman has a heart attack, your carriage crashes, your hat blows off and your drawers fall down, just say: 'Goodness me, such excitement,' and get in a hansom. Remember that the country is better than the town, idleness is superior to work, old is preferable to new and rank is more important than money. Know a little about everything, but never be an expert. Practice talking without moving your mouth--it will improve your accent. Tell people that your great-grandfather farmed in Yorkshire: Yorkshire is too big for anyone to check, and agriculture is an honorable way to become poor.'
Nora struck a pose, looked vague, and said languidly: 'Goodness me, such a lot to remember, how shall I ever manage?'
'Perfect,' said Maisie. 'You'll do very well indeed.'
Section 2
MICKY MIRANDA STOOD IN A DOORWAY in Berwick Street, wearing a light overcoat to keep out the chill of a spring evening. He was smoking a cigar and watching the street. There was a gas lamp nearby but he stood in the shadow so that his face could not easily be seen by passersby. He felt anxious, dissatisfied with himself, soiled. He disliked violence. It was Papa's way, Paulo's way. For Micky it always seemed such an admission of failure.
Berwick Street was a narrow, filthy passage of cheap pubs and lodging houses. Dogs rummaged in the gutters and small children played in the gaslight. Micky had been there since nightfall and he had not seen a single policeman. Now it was almost midnight.
The Hotel Russe was across the street. It had seen better days, but still it was a cut above its surroundings. There was a light over the door and inside Micky could see a lobby with a reception counter. However, there did not appear to be anyone there.
Two other men loitered on the far pavement, one on either side of the hotel entrance. All three of them were waiting for Antonio Silva.
Micky had pretended to be calm in front of Edward and Augusta but in fact he was desperately worried about Tonio's article appearing in The Times. He had put so much effort into getting Pilasters to launch the Santamaria railroad. He had even married that bitch Rachel for the sake of the damn bonds. His entire career depended on its success. If he let his family down over this, his father would be not only raging but vengeful. Papa had the power to get Micky fired as minister. With no money and no position he could hardly stay in London: he would have to return home and face humiliation and disgrace. Either way, the life he had enjoyed for so many years would be over.
Rachel had demanded to know where he was planning to spend this evening. He had laughed at her. 'Never try to question me,' he had said.
She had surprised him by saying: 'Then I shall go out for the evening, too.'
'Where?'
'Never try to question me.'
Micky had locked her in the bedroom.
When he got home she would be incandescent with wrath, but that had happened before. On previous occasions when she had raged at him he had thrown her on the bed and torn off her clothes, and she had always submitted to him eagerly. She would do it yet again tonight, he felt sure.
He wished he could feel as sure of Tonio.
He was not even certain the man was still living at this hotel, but he could not go in and ask without arousing suspicion.
He had moved as quickly as possible, but still it had taken forty-eight hours to locate and hire two ruthless toughs, reconnoiter the location and set up the ambush. In that time Tonio might have moved. Then Micky would be in trouble.
A careful man would move hotels every few days. But a careful man would not use notepaper that bore an address. Tonio was not the cautious type. On the contrary, he had always been reckless. In all probability he was still at this hotel, Micky thought.
He was right.
A few minutes after midnight, Tonio appeared.
Micky thought he recognized the walk as the figure turned into the far end of Berwick Street, coming from the direction of Leicester Square. He tensed, but resisted the temptation to move right away. Restraining himself with an effort, he waited until the man passed a gas lamp, when the face became clearly visible for a moment. Then there was no doubt: it was Tonio. Micky could even see the carroty color of the side-whiskers. He felt relief and heightened anxiety at the same time: relief that he had Tonio in his sights, anxiety about the crude, dangerous attack he was about to make.
Then he saw the policemen.
It was the worst possible luck. There were two of them, coming down Berwick Street
