Devil in Spring

She glanced at Dragon, who didn’t look any happier about the situation than her husband.

Despite Dragon’s brooding expression, he cut a fine figure in formal evening clothes, which had been purchased and altered with lightning speed at Winterborne’s. It had been agreed that he would accompany Pandora and Gabriel inside the Guildhall and attract far less notice if he were dressed like the other men present.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Pandora said with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. “We’ll stroll into the Guildhall, I’ll point out the man from the warehouse if he’s here, and then we’ll go back home.”

“This is lunacy,” Gabriel muttered.

Dragon kept silent, but his expression was one of complete agreement.

“As Mr. Ransom remarked,” Pandora told Gabriel, “I’ll be much safer when this collaborator is caught. And Mr. Ransom did agree to let you have five minutes alone with him, although heaven knows why you would want to talk to such a dreadful man.”

“We won’t be talking,” Gabriel said curtly.

They crossed a paved limestone courtyard to the massive vaulted entranceway of the Guildhall, a magnificent stone civic hall built in the fifteenth century. Recent restorations had lent it the grace of Gothic spirit and detail, but it possessed a fanciful mixture of styles and ornamentation. The Guildhall was used for all manner of civic functions, including banquets and annual public meetings hosted by the Lord Mayor, and balls and receptions for royalty.

An enormous crowd had amassed in the courtyard, the glittering mass funneling into the entrance of the south porch.

Pandora regarded the gathering with amazement. “There must be two thousand guests here.”

“Closer to three thousand,” Gabriel said. “Damn it. If you’re caught in a crush . . . if someone bangs into you . . .”

She clung to his arm. “I’ll stay close to you.”

In another minute, they saw Ethan Ransom approaching, lean and elegant in evening clothes. Pandora stared at him, struck by a sense of something familiar about him. The way he walked, the shape of his head. “How odd,” she murmured.

“What is it?” Gabriel asked.

“I just had the sensation that I’ve experienced this before . . . as if I’m reliving something that’s already happened.” She made a face. “Dr. Gibson warned me to expect this for a few weeks, after having undergone amnesia.”

Ransom reached them and bowed to Pandora. “Good evening. You’re a vision, my lady.”

She smiled and curtsied. “Mr. Ransom.”

As they proceeded toward the entrance, Gabriel asked, “Shouldn’t there be more uniformed officers for a crowd this size? So far I’ve only seen two.”

“There should,” Ransom said sardonically. “A spectacular lack of police presence, isn’t it?” Glancing at the rows of mounted Coldstream guards and ceremonial honor guard officers, he commented, “No real weapons. But thank God there’s plenty of gold braid, epaulets, medals, and shiny breast plates. If the anarchists attack, we can blind them with our sparkly decorations.”

They entered the Guildhall and proceeded down a long, wide corridor that opened to the towering great hall. It was a breathtaking space, with a lofty oak roof comprised of intricate arched ribs, and elegant wall panels shaped like Gothic windows. A temporary wooden floor had been built over the stone floor for the event, to give the hall the appearance of an ancient baronial manor. The rectangular hall was divided into eight bays, with an orchestra playing at the west end, and a huge dais at the easternmost end. Imitation marble columns formed the sides of an arcade arch on the dais, with swaths of green cloth and an acre’s worth of flowers spread lavishly all around it. A pair of heavy golden state chairs had been positioned at the front of the dais.

Pandora’s uncertain gaze moved over the crowd. The hall was packed full of people, with more pouring in. Even if the man from the warehouse was here, how was she supposed to see him with so much happening all around her? Waltzing couples whirled in time to the exuberant orchestra music. People clustered in laughing, chatting groups. The high-pitched tone began in her ear, and she lifted a hand to tap it away.

Gabriel escorted her along the side of the hall. “Try to look at the room in sections,” he said close to her good ear.

They moved slowly around the room, pausing often to exchange pleasantries with acquaintances. Gabriel introduced her to what seemed like a hundred people. Gabriel possessed an impressive recall for names and details, remembering to ask after someone’s aunt who was in failing health, or about the progress of an elderly gentleman’s written memoirs. The main topic of conversation, not surprisingly, was Pandora’s experience at the Haymarket a fortnight ago. The assault, which was assumed to be an act of street thievery gone wrong, was pronounced shocking and abominable, and occasioned a great deal of sympathetic interest. Receiving so much attention made Pandora feel uncomfortable and shy, but Gabriel kept the conversation flowing smoothly.

The orchestra played beautifully, releasing music into the air as if it had wings, waltzes swooping and gliding and darting everywhere. The Mockingbird Waltz. The Fairy Wedding Waltz, the Evening Echoes Waltz. Another tune began, and after the first few strains, she and Gabriel glanced at each other as they recognized “Sally In Our Alley” played in waltz time. They both began to laugh.

Just over Gabriel’s shoulder, at the eastern end of the Great Hall, Pandora caught a glimpse of a man with pale straw-colored hair, and her amusement vanished. Startled, she drew closer to Gabriel, half-hiding behind him, and peeked again. She recognized the broad, square face, the bunched chin, the pale complexion.