Who: Gabriel Allen, Chiara di Palermo, and various NPC characters What: A party, a reconnaissance mission, a wager When: 18th July, 1888 Where: The home of Lord Henry Mountbatten the Third Rating: Low Warnings: None
When Chiara di Palermo had written him with a request to attend a party together, not just any party, mind, but the annual summer fete of Lord Henry Mountbatten the Third, a fairly traditional sort of werewolf who tended to be particular about his guest list -- the kind of man who frowned on vampire women attending without a chaperone -- he pulled a few strings and managed to charm his way onto the list with Chiara as his guest.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been her arm at parties -- he filled out a suit quite well, and was good at dancing, and just respectable enough (and amusing enough) to warrant invitations to a wide range of parties, human and non, so it figured Chiara would find him useful; and, if there was one thing he knew about the venerable Lady di Palermo, it was that she preferred the people around her to be of use to her. He knew she required this particular party for a particular reason -- possibly related to the caper she’d spoken of at their latest meeting -- but he also knew that until she said otherwise, his role was a simple one -- to be a pretty, charming presence while she did what she needed to do.
He was glad to help -- he knew she repaid her favors -- and they did make a charming couple on the dance floor.
The two of them swept to the top of the stairs, and were announced accordingly, and made their way down the staircase to the ballroom below. He looked over at Chiara appreciatively as they descended.
“Darling, you’re positively glowing,” he murmured with a playful grin.
“I ought to. It has only taken me the better part of three hours to put this look together,” Chiara remarked, amused. “But you have always been so delightfully appreciative of my efforts in this arena. It makes a rather perfect choice for an endeavor such as this.”
There was no way she would have been allowed into a party like this alone. She was an unmarried woman, and that was something of a taboo in their time. Chiara hated this. As an avowed proponent of women’s rights, she hated the idea that there were avenues closed to her and to women like her without a man on their arm. It just did not sit well with her to know that there were things she could not achieve on her own.
Still, she was here now, and she could get started on the reconnaissance she needed to do. “You are going to hear some things,” she murmured as she continued to hold Gabriel’s arm. “I need you to stay by my side and pretend to be charming, while not reacting to any of those things.”
“Ma bella, Gabriel purred in reply, “You ought to know that I’m perfectly capable of being both charming and pleasantly clueless. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Besides, I didn’t snag us an invite because Lord Mountbatten wanted to hear my opinions about things.” His grin sharpened. “He wanted me here because I’m gorgeous.”
He knew his sort tended to be invited to parties as social lubricants -- the kind who’d keep conversations sparkling, who’d flirt with all the women and make them blush and laugh no matter what their age, who’d sweep those in need of a dance partner onto the floor without hesitation. But he knew from experience that when it came to those serious conversations later in the evening where men of power gathered and made important decisions, smoking cigars and drinking brandy, he was all too often on the other side of the door.
Oh, they’d gladly tumble into bed with him, to be sure, but that was the extent of it, and they didn’t spend much of their time talking anyways. He was more than aware that in the highest of circles, he was mostly considered a pretty, frivolous plaything rather than someone worthy of attention and respect.
“You are the prettiest,” Chiara agreed solemnly. She had left her usual mask of slightly amused indifference back at L’albergo: tonight she wore an expression of enthusiasm gently tinged with insipid wonderment. “But as to which of us is the best actor… Shall we engage in a small wager, my dear?”
She lowered her head deferentially as a member of Parliament walked past, thereby hiding the fact that her expression darkened at being obliged to do so. When she raised her head again, the scowl was instantly replaced by a vapid smile. “Behold,” she said, amusing herself with her normal slightly cynical drawl coming out of an expression like that. Checking to make sure no one was watching, she passed her gloved hand in front of her face, transforming it each time. “Tragedy… comedy… I love deferring to idiot men who have more money than soap… I am better than everyone here… tragedy… comedy…”
It was impossible not to chuckle at her own antics, so she hid the laughter by burying her face in Gabriel’s shoulder.
“You are an endless delight,” he replied in a low murmur, his own sparkle of amusement visible in his eyes. This was the side of Chiara he enjoyed the most -- so few got to see her as capable of humor, let alone downright silliness. He looked over at her with a fondness that was entirely unfeigned. “What’s the wager, then? And how do we determine the victor?”
“You might as well just declare me the winner now,” Chiara said innocently. “Shall we say, a hundred pounds to the local widows and orphans fund, payable by the loser? And the winner will be determined by…” She trailed off, frowning in thought. “How about, the first to make someone cry real tears, is the winner? Must be witnessed by the other party.”
“Tears of sorrow,” he said, holding up a finger, “not tears of laughter or pain. And nothing said that might sully either of our reputations,” he added for good measure. “We might have one attempt while the other times, and then switch places, order determined by a flip of a coin,” he concluded, eyes sparkling.
“Flip the coin,” Chiara murmured back, already scanning the room for a likely patsy. There was an elderly woman standing near the window, looking somewhere between uncomfortable and miserable, that she set her sights on - how hard could it be to make her cry? Already, Chiara was rearranging her facial features to resemble “sorrow”. Mirroring was such a powerful tactic, after all.
“Can we at least stage a lover’s quarrel?” she asked, wondering if that was something she could use to play with.
He groaned, and rolled his eyes before fishing a coin out of a pocket and flipped it handily, catching it on the back of his hand, and looked over at her, huffing. “Well? Call it,” he said, a bit of a bite to his tone, his face slipping into annoyance and frustration.
Leaning up into Gabriel’s ear, Chiara whispered, “I’ll choose heads - for two reasons. First, because it leaves tails for you, and I know how much you love chasing tail. Second, because I do love… heads,” she giggled, hoping he picked up on the double (single!) entendre there.
Gabriel lifted his hand, revealing heads to both of them. “Feel free to gloat,” he said, coldly, stuffing his hand roughly back in his pocket. “Good lord, woman, you really are too much sometimes.” His eyes darted to the clock to note the time as he leaned in closer, frowning and shaking his head, his back stiff. “You really do look lovely in that dress,” he bit out, his voice low, a snarl on his lips. “God, it does wonders for your bosoms,” he added for good measure, angrily tossing his head and throwing a hand in the air for emphasis.
“If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you see them later tonight,” Chiara muttered, her voice hitching as her face crumpled. No tears sprang to her eyes though - she wasn’t physically capable - but the judicious application of a handkerchief to the corners of her eyes masked that.
It was her fazzoletto, and she couldn’t resist a smirk behind the purple edged satin.
“And if you’re really nice to me, I’ll let you touch them,” she continued, then let out a sob and wrenched her arm out of his and fled to the other side of the room.
Gabriel’s eyes flashed, and he schooled his features to look a little stern, but not draw undue attention. He decided to take some advantage of his placement, standing by the mantlepiece to scout out his own mark as Chiara tearfully approached the elderly woman, debating which angle he might take himself.
Chiara kept it subtle at first. She approached the elderly woman, but didn’t speak to her, pretending to be pretending to be fine. She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, secreted it between her breasts, and helped herself to a drink of champagne.
She let her hand tremble slightly, and spluttered slightly as she took the first sip.
“Are you quite all right, my dear?” the elderly woman inquired, and Chiara had to steel herself not to smirk. Jackpot.
The party had been abuzz all evening with talk of the shocking attempt on Lord Black -- as the crowd had a significant number of werewolves in it, he’d caught several snatches of conversation here and there about it, and it took him a moment to find someone he might sympathize with -- a young-looking thing with blonde curls and an overly-bright flush to her cheek suggesting she was a touch overwhelmed.
“I will be fine,” Chiara said in her best imitation of a staunch but crumbling voice. “He just… He can be so nice, and then he can be so cruel, you know?”
The elderly woman patted her back encouragingly. “Men can be that way. What did he do?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” Chiara said. “My mother has been sick for some time, and this morning we received word that she has… passed away,” she said, sobbing into her handkerchief briefly. “And we knew that it was coming, because she was so very sick - the consumption, you understand - but it is still such a great loss.”
The elderly woman looked sad, but was not crying yet, so Chiara stepped it up a notch. “He just does not understand,” she said, voice trembling. “She was my mother, she was… I did not know my father, because he died before I was old enough to understand. My mother was all I had. You know the type of bond a woman has with her mother.”
Bingo. The woman was starting to get misty. Would it be gauche, Chiara wondered idly, to take out her pocket watch and see how long that had taken? But still, no tears had actually fallen.
“What was your mother like?” she asked in a meek voice.
Gabriel was still keeping half an eye on Chiara, and once he saw the woman begin to get a little wet around the eyes, began splitting his time between the clock and the old woman, doing his best to not make it obvious what he was doing, so he could be precise with his timing.
“She was… rather like yours,” the woman said. “Took care of all of us when Father wasn’t around anymore…” She sniffled, and it took everything Chiara had not to smirk.
“A toast, then, to mothers?” Chiara suggested, raising her mostly-full glass of champagne. She noted a single tear dripping down the woman’s face as she continued her charade of weeping. Glancing over at Gabriel, she tried to communicate with her eyes that her work was done, and he should make haste to extricate her from the situation.
Gabriel noted the time once more, and with an all-too-affectionate roll of his eyes, swooped in to wrap an arm around Chiara’s waist and kissed her on the cheek. “Such a passionate people, the Italians,” he murmured to the old woman. “Forgive me, darling?” He tossed Chiara’s way. “Please, do let me make it up to you,” he added, pulling her away with an apologetic shrug and smile tossed the old woman’s direction.
“I’ll write down your time on a piece of paper,” he continued as they made their way across the room, kissing her knuckles as they made their way back to the mantle. “Wish me luck, dearest,” he added, winking before looking briefly at the clock and nodding, indicating she ought to start timing him.
His mark was just doing her best to pipe in during a conversation about the assassination, her cheeks flushing brightly as she tried to get a word in edgewise, but her conversation partners weren’t paying her any mind. He wandered their way, neatly inserting himself into the clot of conversation with a well-placed “just awful, all too right,” and a sober nod and a frown, and proceeded to listen intently for a few beats of the conversation.
When she inhaled sharply, as if she meant to speak, and someone was just about to interrupt her yet again, he turned and tilted his head and looked at her, leaning in, and she clung to the opening as if she was drowning.
“I was there, you know,” she said, quietly, and the clot of her friends collectively groaned, as if they’d heard it a dozen times already, but Gabriel shifted a little again to cull her from the herd, forming a smaller, more intimate pair, leaning in close. “Heavens,” he said, his eyes wide and concerned. “How awful. You poor dear.”
Chiara allowed herself the smirk now, ignoring the puzzled look from the elderly woman (who was no doubt wondering how her mood had turned on a dime). She focused on watching Gabriel work. He played smart, she had to give him that.
She nodded, biting her lip, and he leaned in closer. “You must’ve been so frightened,” he said.
“There was blood everywhere,” she replied, her breathing rapid, her eyes already glossy. “Ana Foster -- she’s my dearest friend, she saw everything, and could have been killed by that… that monster,” she gasped, managing to work herself into a froth over the sheer rapture of such attention paid to her plight, and Gabriel took a hand gently in his, whipping a handkerchief out to have it at the ready.
“Mercy,” he murmured, “what a horrible ordeal it must’ve been for you.”
She nodded, and sniffled. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering, and then the dampness gathering in her eyes finally spilled over onto her cheeks, and he passed her the handkerchief and pressed her hand, his eyes darting briefly over to Chiara. “You were so brave,” he murmured. “And such a good friend.” He kissed her knuckles. “God willing they’re able to catch the blaggard,” he added, before bowing a little. “Courage, my dear lady,” he said with a small, sad smile before sauntering back over to Chiara.
“Let me find us some paper and pencil so we can write our respective times down and see who the victor is,” he said with a grin.
They retired to a corner, compared times, and surprise, surprise, Gabriel was the winner. Playfully, Chiara flashed her fangs at him, pretending to be upset, but she retracted them immediately and slipped her hand into his.
In the next instant, she stiffened. Her enhanced hearing had enabled her to catch the Maltese Falcon being mentioned, on the other side of the room. Whoever was talking about it was speaking in hushed tones, and the entire ballroom was alive with chatter and hubbub, so a mortal person would never have caught it. As it was, Chiara was straining.
She didn’t want to speak, focused intently on what she was trying to hear. She tugged on Gabriel’s arm, wordlessly asking that he walk her closer, and make overhearing a little easier.
“...Falcon… new moon… carriage…” was all she got. How frustrating! The entire reason for being at this party was to try and glean this information: where the thing was, and how it was being transported. The new moon? Fine, but which month? The one coming? And a carriage, well, good, but from where, and to where? Driven by, accompanied by, whom?
Chiara swore in Sicilian, something she reserved for her most frustrated moments. “Gabriel,” she murmured, adopting an expression of adoration as she gazed up at him. “I need to be closer to that man. If that is not possible, I need you to find a reason to get closer, and tell me what he is saying. Even better, insinuate yourself in the conversation. Do you think you can?”
“My dearest,” he said with a smooth smile and a wink, bending down to kiss her cheek affectionately, “why do you think I just won a hundred pounds?” He laughed a little, and as they got closer, he heard mention of a safe, so he jumped in with a query about the latest model from Chubb, and a witty comment or two about how humans tended to be rather short-sighted when they thought of security, and was soon given a brief nod and reply, and a subtle widening of the circle.