‘Sat is not a ticket, Monsieur.’
‘Read it.’
Frowning, the doorman unfolded the note and started to skim it—when his face suddenly paled.
‘Mon dieu! Monsieur, you are truly here—’
‘—on the personal in
vitation of His Majesty King Louis Philippe? Yes. I am afraid his invitation arrived at too short a notice to procure tickets for ourselves. We can, of course, come back another time, if you would be so kind as to give His Majesty our apologies and explain to him why we could not—’
‘Oh, no! No, Monsieur! I wouldn’t dream of it. Please, come in. Guests of ‘is Majesty the king are always welcome. He ‘as the best box to himself, after all, and can do with it as he sees fit.’
‘Adequate.’ Tugging the royal note from the doorman’s motionless hands, Mr Ambrose pocketed it and strode inside. ‘We’ll find our own way.’
When we were inside and out of hearing distance, I squeezed his arm and beamed up at him.
‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. Even on a deadly mission with the fate of the entire world at stake, you still find time to cheat your enemies out of the price of three tickets. That’s what I call staying true to yourself.’
Claudette gave the two of us a look and shook her head. ‘One sing is for sure. Nobody will ever write an opera about se two of you. Nobody in the audience would be able to figure out when you’re flirting and when you’re insulting each other.’
‘We do both at the same time,’ I told her, grinning up at Mr Ambrose. ‘Knowledge is power is time is money, right?’
I felt his fingers give my arms a gentle squeeze.
‘Indeed.’
The entrance hall was brightly lit and filled with excited chatter—about tonight’s performance, and much more besides. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones to know that His Royal Majesty the King would be present tonight. Gentlemen were walking extra stiffly and correctly, and ladies were checking and re-checking their hair and clothes in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors
The three of us proceeded in a tight group towards the grand stairs that obviously led to the upper levels and the best boxes in the opera, our heads lowered. It wouldn’t be smart to be recognized too soon, in case any of Dalgliesh’s goons were here. Once we reached the top of the stairs, Mr Ambrose nodded to Claudette in her male costume.
‘You’ll find the items you need in the third bin down the hall in the west corridor. If that little snake of a saboteur didn’t do as told and they aren’t there, signal us by coming to the royal box and knocking on the door three times short, one time long. Understood?’
‘Oui, Monsieur!’ Grinning, Claudette gave a mock salute. She was obviously having the time of her life. ‘Do I get a bonus for this?’
‘Yes. A bonus of one tailcoat and one pair of trousers from Paris’s foremost fashion designer, completely free of charge.’
‘Sacre bleu! How generous. You take my breath away.’
‘I’m in a generous mood, so you can keep it. Get to work.’
Hand in hand, we stood there and watched Claudette bustle away.
‘Maybe we shouldn’t have involved her in this,’ I murmured.
‘Why not, pray, Mr Linton?’
‘Because she could get shot or arrested!’
‘Do you know another Parisian with sufficient acting skills we can trust to keep their mouth shut afterwards?’
‘Well, I don’t think we can trust her to keep her mouth shut entirely—’
‘Except for when she’s singing.’