“Did you really?” Esta asked, more than a little amused at the silent fury—and embarrassment—etched into Harte’s expression. She tossed back the last of the liquor, just to irritate him.
“Where else do you think he learned it from? You should have seen him the first time he auditioned at the Lyceum. It wasn’t even one of the better houses, you know. Catered mostly to the riffraff who could afford a step above the theaters in the Bowery, but not much more. I’d been working on my own act for a while then and was having a fair amount of success. I happened to be around for auditions one day, and I saw him—”
“Julien,” Harte said under his breath.
“He wasn’t any good?” she asked, leaning forward.
“Oh, the act itself was fine.” Julien looked to Harte. “What was it you did, some sleight of hand or something?”
Harte didn’t answer at first, but realizing that Julien wasn’t going to let it go, he mumbled, “Sands of the Nile.”
“That’s right!” Julien said, snapping his fingers to punctuate his excitement. “He didn’t get to finish, though. The stage manager let him have maybe a minute thirty before he got the hook. You couldn’t blame the guy—anyone could tell what Darrigan was within a second or two of meeting him. You should have heard him then. His Bow’ry bo-hoy twang was as thick as the muck of a city sewer—I could hardly understand him. And it didn’t help that he looked as rough as he sounded . . . like he’d punch the first person who looked sideways at him.”
Esta glanced at Harte, who was quietly seething across the table. “He still looks like that if you know which buttons to push,” she said. Actually, he looks like that right now. Which was fine with her.
“So you helped him?” she asked Julien. “Why?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Julien took another long drag on the cigar, spouting smoke through his nose like some mischievous demon.
Esta suspected that he wasn’t really thinking through the answer. The pauses were too purposeful. It was a fairly ingenious ploy, she had to admit, and one Julien was damn good at—pulling the listener along, making them want to hang on his every word. By the time he finally spoke, even she was aching for his answer.
“I could say that I’m just the sort of kind, benevolent soul that likes to help others—”
Harte huffed out a derisive laugh, but Julien paused long enough so that nothing distracted from the rest of his statement.
“I could say that, but I’ll tell you the truth instead,” he finished, his gaze darting momentarily to Harte. “That day I saw something in him that you can’t teach—I saw presence. Even as untrained and uncouth as he was then, when Darrigan got up on that stage, he commanded it like he was born to walk the boards. There was something unmolded about his talent—something I wanted to have a hand in shaping.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Jules,” Harte said, apparently unable to take any more. “You only helped me because you needed someone to take care of the Delancey brothers.” Harte glanced at Esta. “They were a couple of wannabe gangsters in the neighborhood who didn’t understand that Jules’ act was just an act. They’d taken to stalking him after shows, trying to intimidate him to prove what big men they were.”
“I held my own with them,” Julien said stiffly.
“Sure you did, but the rules of the gentleman’s boxing club don’t exactly hold water in the Bowery, and swollen eyes are hard to cover up, even with all the face paint in the world.” Harte shrugged. “So yeah, Jules here taught me how to not look and act like trash from the gutter, and I taught him how to fight dirty so he could get rid of the Delanceys. It’s as simple as that.”
Julien’s expression was drawn. “You know how to ruin a good story, you know that, Darrigan?”
“I’m not here to tell stories,” Harte told him, and then glared at Esta. “And neither is she. We’re here for the necklace.”
Julien frowned, and Esta didn’t miss how he’d blanched a little. “I already told you, I don’t have it.”
“How could you get rid of it after that letter I sent you?” Harte said, his voice low. “Did you miss the part where I asked you to hold on to it for me? To keep it safe?”
“No,” Julien said, his voice going tight. “I understood, but I also believed you’d jumped off a bridge and were supposed to be dead.”
“So you decided to ignore my dying request?” Harte asked.
Julien looked slightly uncomfortable. “I held on to it for so long, and it’s not like I thought you were ever coming back—”
“Enough drama, Jules. Just tell us where it is already,” Harte demanded, a threat coloring his voice.
“Harte,” Esta murmured. “Let him talk.”
Julien sent her an appraising look, less grateful than interested. “Like I said, I did hold on to it. I kept it under lock and key, just like you told me to. But then last winter, Mrs. Konarske, the costume mistress at the theater, created a gown that was practically made for it.”
Harte groaned. “You didn’t.”
“I figured you were dead and gone, and I couldn’t resist.” Julien snubbed what was left of the cigar into the ashtray. “I wore it for less than a week before someone offered to purchase it.”
“You sold it?” Esta asked, her instincts prickling. If Julien had simply sold the necklace, it meant that it wasn’t lost. She was a thief; she’d just steal it back.
“I didn’t really have a choice.” From Julien’s uneasy expression, Esta knew there was something more he wasn’t saying. “Anyway, if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t worn the gown since.” He sounded almost disappointed.
“I don’t care about your costume, Jules. I need to know who you sold the necklace to.” Harte’s eyes were sharp and determined.
“That’s the thing.” Julien looked up at Harte, waiting a beat before he spoke again. “I have no idea.”
Harte swore at him until Esta kicked him under the table. As frustrated as she was with Julien, they needed him on their side, and at the rate Harte was going, he was going to say something he wouldn’t be able to take back.
“You must have some idea of who purchased it,” she said more gently. “Even if you don’t know who the buyer was, someone had to have given you the money and taken the stone.”
“Oh, of course there was an exchange,” Jules agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I know who it was that made it.”
Esta could practically feel Harte’s impatience. “Stop talking nonsense, Jules.”
“I didn’t sell the necklace to a person.” Julien’s voice was calm and even, and he paused to take a long swallow of whiskey.
“I’m not getting any younger,” Harte said through clenched teeth.
But Julien refused to be rushed. It was a master class of a confidence game. He leaned forward, his dark eyes ringed with the reflection of the lamp on the table between them. “If you’re thinking of getting it back, you might as well forget it,” he said softly, pausing to draw the moment out. “Because I sold it to the Veiled Prophet.”