Mrs. King studied the girls. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, no older. She pictured them at the edge of a field, perched on a gate, scaring villagers. She could guess where they’d have ended up if Mrs. Bone hadn’t acquired them. A paid-for flat, somewhere off the Charing Cross Road, taking calls after dark. Girls like these, with no family to speak of, didn’t get shop work, or secretarial positions, or positions in decent houses. They got swooped on. Everyone knew that.
“We’ll differentiate between them somehow, Mrs. Bone. We can’t just call them Jane-one and Jane-two,” she said.
“That’s what I call ’em.”
Mrs. King raised an eyebrow. “Girls?”
They glanced at each other, a quick, uninterpretable look. “Makes no odds to us.”
“Well, we’re all equals here,” said Mrs. King. “You can sit down next to Mrs. Bone.”
Mrs. Bone’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t make the rules around here, my girl.”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Mrs. King pleasantly. “And that’s the first. Equals, Mrs. Bone, one and all.”
“You can eat your rules for breakfast. You’re the one asking me to pay for this enterprise.”
“And I’ll be infinitely grateful to you if you make that considered investment, but I’ve got my own terms of engagement.” Mrs. King kept her gaze dead straight. “Second, and to quote Mr. Disraeli, ‘Never complain, never explain.’” She scanned each of them. “We will have one object, one single plan. There will be no grumbling, no discord. If you’re given an order, you follow it. Additionally, all your other duties and obligations are hereby suspended. Until this job is concluded, you’re answerable to the members of this group, no one else.” She looked at her sister. “I am God, till July.”
Mrs. Bone snorted.
“Third,” said Mrs. King. “Speak before you’re spoken to. You have a voice, so use it. See a risk? Speak up. Make an error? Confess. Say boo to the goose, if you will. Content, Mrs. Bone?”
Mrs. Bone pulled the Janes to sit down beside her on the couch. “I’m not signing up to anything until I hear this plan in full.”
Winnie leaned in, voice steady. “We’d really better get on,” she said. Agreement rippled around the room.
Mrs. King gave them a brisk nod. “Very well. Ladies, lend me your ears.”
They’d gathered in a circle. Mrs. King wanted them seated where she could see them. Winnie on her right hand, positioned as aide-de-camp. Mrs. Bone, eyes glittering as she judged whether to invest. Hephzibah, restless and magnificent, concocting her stage directions. The Janes, notebooks on their knees, inspecting the engineering. And Alice, eyes wide, jaw set, the canary already in the coal mine.
Mrs. King beckoned to Winnie. “Bring out the Inventory, will you? Ladies, this is critical. We have a record of nearly every item in the de Vries house on Park Lane. Nearly every item. You girls—” she nodded to the Janes “—are going to need to fill in the gaps.”
Jane-one raised her pencil into the air. “What for, Madam?”
“Don’t call me Madam. Call me Mrs. King.”
“What for, Mrs. King?”
“Because we’re going to take the items listed and sell them.” Mrs. King gave them a smile. “I don’t intend to miss a thing.”
Jane-two crossed her arms. “How much are you selling?”
“Everything, darling,” said Hephzibah, reaching for the dessert trolley, swiping a lemon pudding. “Am I right?”
“Quite right.”
Mrs. Bone rubbed her chin. “Fantastical.”
“Risks later,” said Mrs. King. “Maneuvers first. The job will be executed on the twenty-sixth of June. Mark the date in your diaries, ladies. Alice, tell us what’s happening that night.”
Alice started, but found her voice. “There’s going to be a ball.”
“A ball?” said Hephzibah, licking her lips.
Mrs. King opened her arms wide. “A costumed ball, ladies. The most magnificent party. The kind you’ll tell your grandchildren about. It will be, I can tell you, a right knees-up.”
Mrs. Bone pursed her lips. “While their precious master’s still warm in his grave?”
“Life goes on, Mrs. Bone. And just think of the crowd that the house of de Vries could command. Americans. High rollers. Royalty.”
Hephzibah smoothed her gown. “Royals are usually very dowdy.”
“Mad,” said Mrs. Bone at once.
“No, entirely sane,” said Mrs. King. “We couldn’t ask for more favorable conditions for this enterprise. I myself have been intimately involved in all the preparations. Half the rooms will be closed off for their own protection. A quarter of the goods can be put into safekeeping before the first guests even arrive.” She nodded to her sister. “Alice won’t be the only new arrival on Park Lane. They’ve got a big staff but a ball on this scale requires an even bigger one. I’ve lined up all the appropriate posts: house-parlormaids, daily women, et cetera. Mrs. Bone, if we can count on your resources, we’ll be able to get people expediting our affairs on every floor of the building.” She looked at Hephzibah. “And with your talents, Hephz, we’ll be providing half the guests, and all of the entertainment. They’ll be really rather critical: moving people around is important. Our estimates are that we’ll commence the full clearance at midnight.”
“Our estimates?” said Mrs. Bone, sending a piercing gaze across the room.
“I’ve gone over the timings, Mrs. Bone,” said Winnie helpfully. “In great detail.”
“Nobody knows this house better than Winnie Smith,” said Mrs. King smoothly, before Mrs. Bone could speak. She patted the Inventory. “Believe me.”
Mrs. Bone folded her arms. “And I s’pose you’d be expecting my fences to get the stuff moving?”
“Every van you’ve got, Mrs. Bone,” agreed Mrs. King. “Every carthorse, come to that.”
“Have some donkeys,” said Mrs. Bone. “There’s a few in this room.” She shook her head, tutting. “You don’t rob a place when there’s a party going on. You wait till they’ve gone away, cleared off to the country, sent the butler down to the seaside for his week off. You don’t do it in high season, for God’s sake.”
Mrs. King often noticed this. Other people simply didn’t know how to take bets, how to set wagers. It showed such a disagreeable lack of imagination. She wondered if Mr. de Vries had noticed this shortcoming in Mrs. Bone. He’d built his empire without her help, after all.
She quashed the thought: that was a disloyal line of thinking, never to be expressed out loud.
“We want this job to have a little fizz, Mrs. Bone,” she said. “A little get up and go. Imagine it, ladies: the grandest house in London, licked clean on the biggest night of the season. People won’t be able to sleep for thinking about it. The papers will be full of it. And wouldn’t you want something from that house? A little clock, perhaps? Some drapes? A hearth rug for the nursery? Something wicked, something naughty, something stolen, just for you? Don’t you think you deserve it?” She gave Mrs. Bone a hard look. “We can add a fifty percent surcharge to the prices, possibly double, no question about it. And the best items can go straight to auction.”