His companions evinced no delight at all—quite the opposite. Simon came in for his share of glares once he started to speak.
“Oh no, gentlemen, let’s not get any silly ideas. This is Maisie Musgrave, my fiancée and a very bright girl. She will be a most able assistant in this venture if I can tempt her away from the BBC.”
“What a lot of papers!” Maisie exclaimed, attempting to bely Simon’s assertion of her cleverness. “What’s in all of them?”
“Complicated bit of business, beloved. Nothing that need worry you too much.”
“BBC?” Hoppel interrupted, gaping at Maisie. “Brock-Morland, I appreciate your industry, but you didn’t have to compromise yourself.”
“What do you mean?” Simon asked. “Maisie’s all right. I liked her even before I knew she was so beholden to a beast.” He turned to Maisie and winked. “And once we’re married, you’ll be beholden to another, you know.”
“Simon,” Maisie said, looking into his eyes, trying to read him. “You haven’t signed these yet, have you?”
“Of course I have. We have plans, far bigger than anything in any storybook you’ve ever read. We’ll get married and I’ll tell you all about them.”
“You.” Grigson was staring at Maisie. “You are one for papers, aren’t you?” He breathed slowly, lips twisting in a sour smile.
Simon turned to Grigson in surprise.
Maisie had hoped to use more elegance, but she saw the recognition in those oily eyes and there was no more waiting. A long contract, a letter. She slapped her hands over both, snatched them to her, and ran.
The men yelped and shouted, busily untangling themselves from the table. Maisie zigged and zagged through the bar and into the lobby.
A hand latched around her wrist, jerking her almost to the floor. It was one of the men who had sneered at her as she came in.
“Well, well. I think you’ll be giving those papers back now, won’t you?”
“No!” She twisted away from him and this time made it out the door and almost to Hilda. The man’s companion was there, sneer on full display, and a nudge of his jacket displayed a pistol as well.
Maisie curled the papers more tightly in her fist. There were so many people around. He couldn’t possibly think he could do her real harm in so public a place?
“Put the papers in your bag, then, and let’s go for a little stroll,” the other man whispered behind her. “Make it look all very natural.”
She did as he suggested, hoping Hilda could see all of it. This was something they hadn’t rehearsed. The men didn’t even touch her, just flanked her almost politely and walked with her around the corner, into an alley.
“Maisie, what on earth are you doing? My friends seem to think you’re in league against me.” Simon had caught up to them.
“Your ‘friends’ are out to amass fortunes to surpass the king and don’t care what they hurt along the way,” Maisie told him.
“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “They’re giving me the opportunity I’ve always wanted, to really help the ordinary man and restore Britain to its greatest glory. Strengthen the empire—people think it’s waning, but we’ll prove otherwise.”
“You are a Fascist,” she breathed in sudden recognition.
“I prefer not to use labels, Maisie. You must know that,” he said.
One of the sneering men yelped and fell to the cobbled ground—hit by a rock.
“Run!” Hilda shouted.
And Mousy Maisie burst through the gang of street thugs and into the light.
Not that they were giving up easily. Hoppel, it seemed, was not such a gentleman that he couldn’t give chase. He went after Hilda, while the other sneerer, the one who had so politely indicated his pistol, pursued Maisie. She could hear it, even as she vaulted over a pair of Yorkshire terriers, a cheetah in double-strap heels, and tore along the pavement. The click, ready to hurt her and anyone else, all to get these papers back. But she was well ahead of him.
Hilda could run hard herself. She was barely ahead, but ahead nonetheless.
Hoppel reached out. He grabbed her by the neck—and a shower of onyx stones shot into the air and fell in black rain on the concrete.
Vaughn saw them and had the presence of mind to hop in and start the engine. Maisie dove into the backseat and Hilda vaulted over the door, yelling at Vaughn to move over. He did, and Hilda slammed her foot on the accelerator.
Her eyes were flaming. She shot them through the traffic as though they were thin as an arrow and fifty times as fast.
“Does this car run on rocket fuel or something?” Maisie screamed.
“It’s a very good car,” Hilda yelled back, swerving around a corner.
They bulleted down a narrow road. Faint blurs of shocked faces and surprised, frightened cries bounced once and disappeared.
Another tight swerve and they were bearing down on a traffic stop.
“Miss Matheson!” Maisie squeaked.