Nico’s voice breaks over the CommLink. “I think Lieutenant Lightweight may have overdone the Miracle Madeira quality control checks, if you know what I mean. She passed out ninety minutes ago. I had to carry her to her quarters.”
I’m tempted to shoot two enthusiastic thumbs up at him through one of the many camouflaged surveillance cameras installed in the room, but I’m sure the party is streaming live to the Benefactors back home. I envision the lot of them huddled around display screens, popcorn and red licorice in hand, watching our every move.
It sends a momentary shiver up my spine. I wish I could cut the communication just so I can work in peace, but I’m sure the assholes trying to ruin my life wouldn’t believe the “oops, did I do that” excuse for why the transmission feed inexplicably died during one of the most critical points in the mission.
Likewise, being a little too happy about their spy’s incapacitation would be equally hard to explain, especially if Trevor suspects her reaction to the Madeira was helped along by something a little stronger than alcohol.
“How long will she be out of commission?” Fagin asks. She casts a questioning glance in my direction, a clear sign she suspects some degree of underhandedness in the lieutenant’s condition. I give her my best “who me” shrug.
“Don’t know for sure,” Nico replies. “I think she drank a lot.”
“Let me know if her status changes,” Fagin says.
“Acknowledged.” Nico replies. “If Trevor so much as flutters a drunken eyelash, you’ll know.”
More courtiers, equally as bejeweled as the Botticelli girls, stream into the hall. I’ve been on high profile jobs where the bounty targets were worth as much as the entire Gross National Product of small countries, but this gig is in a class by itself. I should be giddy about plundering these people. Instead, it’s torturing me to look and not touch.
“Dodger,” Fagin says in a weary, admonishing tone.
“So unfair,” I say, making eye contact with her. “We need a Plan B to line our pockets in case this thing goes sideways, and—”
“It can’t go sideways.” Fagin’s expression constricts into a small, tight grimace. The fear on her face, visible from across the room, is palpable. “Do you hear me, Dodger? With Trevor here, we can’t put a toe out of line. If we fail, we won’t be the only ones. The Benefactors will target everyone we’ve ever known. Hunt everyone we’ve ever loved.”
I swallow hard. From the moment she told me of this mission, she has loudly lamented the danger we’re all in—self-preservation is always the foundation of humans’ hierarchy of needs—but this is the first time she’s mentioned concern for anyone else outside our team. It makes me wonder. Who else is there in her life that she needs to protect?
The idea that Fagin has kept someone she loves a secret from me widens the ever-growing gap between us into a chasm of doubt and distrust. How are we going to repair all the damage? A tiny voice inside me whispers that our version of normal is gone for good.
“Except for you, I have no family to threaten,” I say. It’s a lie. I’d risk my life to protect Nico, but admitting that on an open Comm chanel would put his head on the chopping block if it’s not already there. A deeper dive into who Fagin loves must wait as well. I hate waiting.
“Do. You. Hear me?” The hard edge softens into an urgent, breathless plea for my compliance. “Please. Don’t let me down.”
Merde. I close my eyes. Take a breath. “I won’t let you down,” I say with more certainty than I feel.
“Thank you,” Fagin says, softly.
A moment later, the courtiers burst into ecstatic applause as King Francois and King Henry enter, arm-in-arm. Lady Anne and her maids follow close behind. The French court’s most important women are absent from the gathering in protest—even Louis’ maîtresse-en-titre refuses to legitimize Anne with a meet-and-greet. Whether she provokes their jealousy or is a simple, devastating reminder that they’re all expendable if their king so decides. There’s no feminist solidarity where the Boleyn girl is concerned.
The newly minted Marquess of Pembroke may as well be a beggar in the streets for all the disrespect her enemies heap on her.
As the monarchs stroll like peacocks toward the head table, laid out with fine linens and expensive gold plate, the crowd parts before them like the damn Red Sea before Moses. King Henry is resplendent in clothing of purple silk embroidered with so much gold thread that the embellishments twinkle in the candlelight as he passes the candelabras. A string of fourteen enormous blood-red rubies, the smallest stone the size of a goose egg, are set in the collar. The king must’ve thought these embedded stones didn’t quite do the job because he also wears a double strand of pearls that boasts yet another gigantic ruby.
Just one of these gems, with authenticated provenance of being worn by King Henry on this historic day, would be enough to fund my retirement a dozen times over—Nico’s and Fagin’s, too. With the risks involved, it’s stupid not to leverage every chance to line our pockets. In the mania and chaos of packing to return to England, no one would miss one or two baubles if they went missing.
“Dodger, Mary Boleyn is at a table to your left,” Nico says. “That’s your cue to become her new best friend.”
I sigh. “Got her.”
Turns out to be easier said than done. Mary’s table is filled with courtiers, so I’m forced to sit at a table across from her. Noticeable, even from a distance, is Mary’s necklace. It’s a ruby. It’s not as large as the goose egg-sized stone King Henry wears, but it’s close. The stone is square-cut and set in a gold mount. A pearl nearly the size of the ruby dangles from a cabochon positioned just above Mary’s cleavage.
My palms itch again. Dammit, Fagin.
The
