The Lure of the Moonflower by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online Page B

there was no room on the ships . . .”
    “I see.” Jane hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath until she let it out again. She felt as she had the first time she had emerged safely from a midnight raid, breathless and slightly light-headed. “Men like to air their grievances. Particularly after the application of a jug or two of wine. The sooner we go—”
    “There is no we. I’ll go. But I go alone.” Jack Reid held up a hand to forestall any protests. “I’m sure you cut a very elegant swath in the salons of Paris, but here? You’re a liability.”
    “As you will,” Jane said pleasantly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Jack Reid’s brows draw together in disbelief.
    Jane held his gaze, keeping her own expression deliberately bland. Then she drove the knife deeper by saying, “I imagine it will be rather late by the time you conclude your inquiries. You needn’t report immediately. Shall we say . . . noon?”
    Jack Reid looked at her from under his hat for a long moment. “I’ll be there at eleven. Beneath the Arco da Bandeira.” He paused for a moment, the door in his hand, before adding helpfully, “You might wear something a little less conspicuous.”
    The door clanked shut behind him.
    The Pink Carnation regarded the closed door thoughtfully. “Mr. Reid,” she murmured, “you have no idea just how inconspicuous I can be.”

Chapter Three
    “A nother for my friend!”
    Red wine sloshed over the sides of a carafe as the harassed innkeeper clunked it down. The sticky residue on the planks of the table testified to the speed, if not the accuracy, of his service. Everyone was drinking heavily tonight. Word had gone out that Junot was contemplating a curfew after the events in Rossio Square.
    “Better drink while we can,” said Jack’s new best friend, Bernardo, gloomily. The man had once been an undercook in the Queen’s palace of Queluz, left behind, as with so many, when the court sailed for the Americas. “In our homes by seven—bah!”
    Bernardo spat eloquently, narrowly avoiding hitting the thinner man next to him, who scooted out of the way, casting the former cook a baleful look. The thin man had been attached in some arcane way to the Queen’s retinue and, from what Jack gathered, deeply resented being relegated to the ranks of the forgotten along with Bernardo, the cook, and Javier, the stable hand. Unfortunately, disappointment didn’t seem to have loosened his tongue. He nursed his drink in silence, regarding the others with a hauteur not dissimilar to the way the woman who called herself the Pink Carnation had looked at Jack.
    For a moment, Jack wondered. . . . But no. The woman didn’t speak Portuguese—she’d admitted this much—and this man had ordered his wine in that language.
    Although it didn’t take much familiarity with a language to order wine.
    Jack shook his suspicions aside and turned back to Bernardo, who, unlike the thin man, was more than happy to air his grievances, especially after a carafe or two of the local vintage, which, from the taste, Jack suspected to be half vinegar and at least a third horse piss, with a slight soupçon of actual wine for piquancy.
    Jack had had plenty of chances to sample this particular vintage. Alarico the drunk was well-known at this particular tavern, as he was at most of the taverns along the quayside. People, he had learned, would tell the town drunk what they wouldn’t to their confessor. The confessor might impose penance; the town drunk offered absolution for nothing more than the price of a carafe of wine.
    It was an easy enough costume to maintain. A wobble here, a waver there. Ragged clothes splashed with wine. A bit of vomit daubed in the hair if one wanted to be really true to the role. And voilà, instant inebriate.
    Jack didn’t need to see himself to know what he looked like. Ragged hat jammed down low over a horsehair wig, ragged jacket liberally streaked with old wine stains, grime