Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night by Jean-Marc Lofficier & Randy Lofficier

Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night by Jean-Marc Lofficier & Randy Lofficier

Author:Jean-Marc Lofficier & Randy Lofficier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2013-10-04T00:00:00+00:00


With her jeweled head-dress, scarlet forehead dot, exposed midriff, kohl-lined eyes, near-transparent costume and sinuous walk, “Princess Jelhi” was instantly popular, attracting a platoon of admirers in white tie and tails or dress uniform. Most of the men had swords: as a consequence of jostling for position among the upper ranks, several duels were likely.

As Irene flirted and fluttered, the Persian scanned the ballroom.

The dancing floor was not the classic square, but an oblong. Brassbound porthole-shaped windows above and below the waterline reminded guests that they were on the river. The mooring was secure and the barge heavy in the water: only the slightest motion reminded guests they were not on dry land. The theme of the ball was Childhood Remembered, and the room was dressed as a giant’s playroom. Ten-foot tall wooden soldiers and other outsized toys stood around, as conversation pieces or to excite wonderment. In the center of the floor, a gigantic, stately top spun on its axis, ingeniously weighted not to stray from its spot or fall over.

Irene lifted a bare foot, showing off her painted nails and oddments of paste jewelry from the Opéra’s vast store of dressing-up kit. The motion parted her sari, affording a glimpse of her shapely inside-leg. Gasps rose from her admirers and she tittered modestly at the “slip,” chiding the gallants in delightfully broken babytalk French.

The Persian looked about for anyone not enraptured by the Princess. If the business of this ball was fishing for fiancés and an uninvited interloper was raiding the stock, the fleet who held rights in these waters would be out of sorts. Countess Josephine had not made an entrance, but the Persian knew she would be watching. Erik was not the city’s only addict of secret panels, two-way mirrors, listening tubes and portraits with removable eyes. Any descendant of the mountebank Cagliostro would be mistress of such matters.

Irene Adler could be relied upon to glance at a crowd of gentlemen and single out the most distinguished victims–taking into account inherited or acquired wealth, ancient or modern title, achievements on the field of battle or in the arts, and degree of commitment to their current marital state. At a masquerade where everyone was dressed up as what they were not, she could spot a Crown Prince through a throng of mere Viscounts and chart a course which would lead inevitably to taking the prize. Within minutes, she had dismissed the also-rans and narrowed the field down to the three men in the company worth bothering with.

The choice picks were Count Ruboff, the Russian military attaché (which is to say, spy) and a cousin of the Tsar, Baron Maupertuis, the Belgian colossus of copper (and other base metals), and “Black” Michael Elphberg, Duke of Strelsau, second son of the King of Ruritania (a mere unmarried half-brother’s death or disgrace away from succession to the crown). Any or all of these might be candidates for the Marriage Club, though only the Baron was elderly.

Count Ruboff asked the Princess



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