‘Oh.’ I put my spoon down, my appetite vanishing.
‘So what did you do?’ The concierge took the poker from the fire and dipped it in a mug of wine at his elbow. The smell of nutmeg and cinnamon wafted into the air as the liquid fizzed. I thought of Caleb Braithwaite, who is partial to warm porter, which he heats in the same manner by his little fire at Drury Lane. Used to heat, I corrected myself. His post by the stage door was probably rubble by now.
‘Speak up, mademoiselle. I like a story. I can’t believe anything too bad of you. I’ve a grandson who must be about your age – you remind me of him.’
I sighed. I needed some allies just now and he seemed a pleasant fellow. ‘Well, monsieur, I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done, but I think the root of the problem is that I’ve been telling too many stories about myself for their liking. They think I think I’m better than them.’
‘And do you think that?’ He took a mouthful of wine and spluttered. ‘Mon dieu, that’s hot!’
I passed him a jug of water from the table.
‘Of course I don’t. I’m no better than anyone. No parents, no home, no situation in life; I can’t even dance like they can – how could I possibly think I am superior to them?’
He smiled, his wrinkles deepening into little valleys.
‘That’s not what I heard. I was told – by a friend of mine, you understand – that you are one of the royalty.’
‘You’re joking?’
He shook his head. ‘Street royalty. A certain king took a shine to you this morning.’
‘That’s not all he took.’ I smiled ruefully, remembering my dress, Joseph’s livery and Frank’s money. I shook myself. ‘How did you know that?’
He touched his finger to the side of his nose. ‘What do you think an old thief king does when he gets too old to play the game?’
‘He . . .’ I looked around me. ‘He becomes a concierge?’
The old man nodded. ‘Guarding empty buildings is a fine job for a man with, shall we say, interesting connections. The old king recognizes the authority of the new, even if he is the cheeky offspring of his no-good son.’
‘You’re J-F’s grandfather?’
‘For my sins. Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Firecracker. He’s asked me to look after you.’
I was astonished: this seemed a very sentimental gesture for the thief king. ‘Why?’
‘So no one else robs you blind, of course, my girl. He thinks of you as his property now – you and the young lord: he called you his milk cows.’
‘Thank you, monsieur.’ At least, I think it called for a ‘thank you’ – I wasn’t too sure. This surely couldn’t be a coincidence?
He sipped his drink. ‘Call me Renard.’
Meaning fox. Yes, that fitted.
‘Thank you, Renard.’ I scowled at him. ‘You told J-F about us, didn’t you?’
He gave a grunt of laughter. ‘Not much escapes you, does it? I must admit I thought the young lord’s purse needed slimming down. I suppose it is possible that I may have given my grandson a tip that three clients would be out on the streets this morning, heading for the rue de Clichy.’
‘So he followed us,’ I muttered, more to myself.
‘It was your good luck that he did. I had nothing to do with the discussion at the lamp post – you can take all credit for that yourself.’
He stretched his legs out and sat back in his chair.
‘Now tell me, mademoiselle: what do you want me to do for the boy you’ve smuggled up to your bedroom now his family has been arrested?’
Nothing gets past a thief king – even a retired one.
‘Now, don’t fly off the handle, Frank, but I’ve got a suggestion for you.’ I had waited until Frank and Joseph had their hands occupied with their supper before I broached the subject in case either of them wanted to throttle me for what I was about to say.
‘Oh yes?’ said Frank suspiciously. ‘What kind of suggestion?’
‘A safe place for you to go to ground while we try and sort this out.’
‘That’s good, miss,’ commented Joseph, far more trustful of me than he should have been.
‘I’ve been having a talk with the concierge and it appears he knows J-F – he’s his grandfather, in fact . . .’ I wasn’t sure I had the courage to continue.
‘Really? That’s a strange coincidence,’ remarked Frank.
I coughed awkwardly, not thinking it an opportune moment to explain how we were set up this morning by our friendly concierge.
‘Go on,’ prompted Frank.
‘He . . . well, no, I suggested that the safest place for you at the moment might be at the Golden Balls . . . with J-F.’
‘What!’
‘He won’t let anything happen to you – not if we pay him well,’ I added in a lower voice.
‘Cat, you can’t be serious! That boy is a menace – a charming one, but still a menace. He will sell me out sure as my name’s Francis.’
‘Well, it’s not any longer. You’re Fran?ois.’ He seemed about to protest again. ‘Look, Frank, do you have a better idea? It’s only for a few days.’ His objections died before they passed his lips. ‘Joseph, you don’t have to go with Frank but . . .’
‘Of course I have to go with him,’ the footman replied indignantly.
‘I thought as much. But please don’t anger J-F. He’s doing us a favour.’
‘How much?’ asked Frank bitterly.
‘What?’
‘How much is this costing me?’
I twisted my hands together. ‘He understands that you may be low on funds at the moment . . .’
‘Yes, since he stole all my money, you mean.’
‘So we’ve put aside the matter of payment until later. He’s promised that it won’t be more than we can afford.’
Frank gave a snort.
‘You could look on it as a chance to broaden your horizons,’ I said over-brightly. ‘You always loved exploring the streets of London with Pedro; why not Paris?’
‘Yes, but Pedro isn’t a ruthless thief who’d cut your throat if the fancy took him.’
‘You don’t know that about J-F.’
‘Don’t I? I bear the scars from this morning’s encounter even if you got off lightly, Cat.’