No, it had to be just himself and Julian, walking into that house dressed as Prussian clowns. He sorely wished Hudson Greathouse were here, if only for the benefit of advice … a better plan … anything to ease the tension that threatened to slow both his mind and his legs, and he had the feeling that tonight of all nights he would need them both to be quick.

“Remember,” said Julian as he got into the polar bear coat. His face was powdered white up to the top of his skull and his cheeks were rouged. “You speak no English, correct?”

“Ja,” the pallid-faced Matthew said, as he righted the wig on his head and secured the purple tricorn atop it. The last thing he did was pull on the calfskin gloves, and the Black-Eyed Broodies tattoo was out of sight. Beneath his sealskin coat, hidden away under the shiny mud-colored jacket, were his pistol and the ivory-handled dagger that had belonged to Albion. Under Julian’s coat, the four-barrelled pistol hung on a belthook. They were as ready as they would ever be.

“Take along a vial of powder,” Julian advised. “If you sweat, your scar may show and you don’t want Black seeing it if he’s there.” As Matthew got the powder, Julian picked up the satchel containing the gold bars and the plans for the machine that resembled a winged dragon.

“Ready?” Julian asked.

Matthew nodded, because for the moment his throat had tightened to the degree that no English could pass even if he chose to speak it.

They left the room.

On the way down the stairs, Julian nudged Matthew with an elbow in the side, though Matthew hardly felt it through the heavy coat. But Matthew understood the meaning, for here came Lord and Lady Turlentort up the staircase, both of them wrapped in furs and silks and chattering to each other like happy shoppers, their faces ruddy with the cold. One glance at the pair descending toward them, and the Turlentorts shut up like clams feeling the steam from a cookpot. Matthew saw Lord Turlentort roll his eyes at his lady and she disguised a chuckle as a polite little cough. Then they were past, and Matthew realized that if anything, the duo of Scar and the dashingly charming but ominously wicked teller of exciting tales in a pitching coach were completely unrecognizable.

As they crossed the lobby, the grandfather clock began to chime the hour of seven o’clock. Outside, the night once more was bitterly cold. It seemed that the crust of snow would not melt a flake before May Day. “A hack, sir?” asked the attendant on the street, who having received a curt nod walked out waving his arms to guide a carriage to the curb.

When the carriage pulled up, the driver looked down at Julian from beneath his peaked cap. “Where to, sir?”