#Nami x Trafalgar D. Water Lammy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

waterchestnut123 · 5 years

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CH 6 | To Catch A Turtle Dove

Fandom: One Piece Setting: Victorian AU Genre: Action, Adventure, Humor, Friendship, Romance. Pairings: Law/Nami Rating: M - Mature (for language, drinking and alcohol, death and some moderate gore, other adult themes)

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Chapter 6: Filling Pockets

It was when she could take no more of the cold—cheeks thoroughly numbed and gloved fingers stiff, that she deemed it safe to return to the warm interior of the ballroom. When she crossed the threshold back into the noisy hall, regretfully leaving her warm blanket behind with the butler, the music was in full swing and the ballroom boisterous.

Though she was still chilled and not presently keen on moving air, she nonetheless flipped open her fan and began gently fanning herself to hide the lower portion of her face as she scanned the ballroom for the two people she most wished to avoid: the Lord and Lady. Several dozen couples waltzed elegantly across the dance floor to a lively tune and she spotted Lady Lami among them, smiling graciously as she was twirled by a red-faced gentleman at least twice her age. The woman she had met earlier in the company of her brother—Jacqueline Daine, was also dancing, being pulled along by a short but cheerful looking young man. Her eyes lingered several moments longer, but try though she might, she could not find the Lord among them.

She began walking along the periphery of the crowd, eyes scanning the rest of the room—those not currently dancing. The tables were half-filled with seated couples and groups, and many milled about the edges of the dance floor, watching or talking to one another; that was where she spotted him. He stood in conversation with a half dozen other gentleman near the front-facing windows, glasses of champagne in every hand, clearly quite occupied by the discussion.

Judging by the amount of time which had passed, the still-growing crowd of dancers, and the scant few empty glasses littering the tables, she guessed most were still on their first glass of champagne or just starting their second; she therefore still had another half hour at least before it would be safe to begin hitting her marks. She just needed to kill a little more time.

Turning for the interior wall, she slowly navigated the crowds opposite the side of the room the Lord was engaged in conversation on, carefully avoiding any glances his way. When she made it to the opposite side of the ballroom, she quietly snuck out through the double doors and into the parlor, making a beeline for the crackling fire at the end of the room by which to warm herself.

The Parlor was, thankfully, largely deserted, save for the odd canoodling couple or servant passing through. It would be a perfect place to wait out the time. She took up residence upon a love seat, half-hidden behind a railing and a potted plant and near the fire, closing her eyes as the warm air graced her cold cheeks. She amused herself listening to the conversation which passed through the room, keeping an ear tuned for slurred words and overloud voices—telltale signs the guests had begun to overindulge. She was not left waiting long.

While the women may have seemed quite taken with the Lord, the men, it appeared, were of a very different mind.

“The nerve!”

The exclamation was accompanied by rapid footsteps as a man came barreling through the ballroom doors, another hot on his heels. She heard him pacing on the rug—muffled though the sound was, anger clear in the heaviness of his footsteps and mild inebriation evident in the volume of his voice.

“—in front of the head of the trade commission no less! Insinuating I, of all people, am incompetent. It is he who is incompetent—running Flevance into the damn ground! Profits have been on a steady decline because of his tariffs—not through any fault of mine! How does he expect a shipping company to survive fifteen percent?! The nerve of that BASTARD—!”

“Keep your voice down,” another man—older by the sound of his gruff voice, whispered, urgently but firmly. “You would do well to remember you are his guest, in his home. Control yourself.”

“Father, surely you—”

“Control yourself, Riven,” the older man reiterated, tone steely and voice rising ever so slightly.

She heard a sudden thud—presumably a boot hitting the wall, before a heavy release of breath. Curiosity growing, she subtly turned her head, side-eyeing the two men who stood near the closed door opposite the open ballroom through a gap in the railing. One was a young man of perhaps thirty, head lowered with two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Sandy blonde hair was neatly slicked back, and the coattails of his crisp black suit still fluttered with the momentum of his kick. Beside him stood an older man with similar features, gray beginning to overtake his blonde hair at the temples, expression guarded.

When the young man spoke again, his voice was controlled—but only just.

“I think I will step outside for some air. I shall return to the table shortly, Father.”

The older man grunted. “See that you do. And son—you held yourself well. Lord Trafalgar can be a… frustrating man.”

Another sigh.

“Thank you, Father.”

She turned back to the fire, gazing into the crackling flames. The shuffle of footsteps told her the men had parted, and she found herself biting her lip in thought.

Lord Trafalgar was proving more and more interesting. Irresistible to the ladies despite his apparent reputation (the nature of which she could only assume to be some shade of dark if Brook’s warning and the rumors she’d overheard were anything to go by), and antagonistic to the men. Apparently notoriously reclusive—having rarely been seen by the general public these past eight years—and with no end of rumor and gossip, both good and bad, surrounding him and his rule. And perhaps most unusual—nearly thirty and still unmarried, with no apparent heir. She was certainly no Robin, who doubtless had a firmer grasp on Flevance’s political history; but even she could tell it was an odd combination of circumstances and opinions—and difficult to pick apart what held truth. Part of her was becoming entirely too curious to find out just who this mystery man was.

But a good thief never revealed herself to their target if she could help it—and Nami intended to abide that principle as much as possible. The mystery that was Lord Trafalgar would simply have to remain as such—a mystery.

A group of giggling, stumbling girls were next to enter into the parlor, clearly having had one too many flutes of champagne, and Nami deemed it to be just about the right time to start her rounds. She rose to stand, pulling out her fan once more as she slowly navigated her way down the small set of steps and around the corner into the ballroom, chatter and music growing louder as she stepped out onto the parquet.

She glanced idly around the room as she slowly moved further inside, searching for her first victim. She quickly spotted him attempting and failing to woo a young woman who quickly dismissed herself from his company. He was objectively unattractive despite his regal attire—a pointed face and awkward posture with a stutter to boot. Even from the balcony hours ago, as walked the perimeter of the ballroom doing her first assessment of the guests, she could tell he reeked both of money and an insecure need to be liked. He had been the first she’d painted with a target.

She walked in his direction though she avoided looking at him directly, lowering her fan to reveal a coy half-smile to no one in particular. His eyes immediately caught on her and, as she’d hoped, he headed her way. When he was within feet of her she elegantly stumbled, falling directly into his waiting arms.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! How clumsy of me,” she gushed, leaning into his embrace. Clever fingers dipped into his open jacket, nimbly extracting a leather billfold and platinum pocket watch, withdrawn items hidden between their two bodies. In seconds she tucked them neatly inside one of her many pockets and righted herself.

“Oh, m-my,” he stuttered, awkwardly smoothing his hair as he released her, though he did not step away. “Are you quite alr-right, Miss?”

“Oh, I am now, thank you!” she simpered, giving him a winning smile. He smiled in return, glancing unsubtly at the dance floor before opening his mouth to inquire; but she beat him to the punch.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m due to meet someone at my table.”

Then, with a sudden turn she sashayed away, leaving the man open mouthed and blinking behind her.

Over the next hour she hit eight more targets, each with varying twists to her approach. For one gentleman she tripped a young lady walking nearby, who spilled her drink all over his dress coat. Nami, being a kindly concerned bystander, immediately offered to take it from him and dab it dry with a napkin she just so happened to be holding as the blushing young woman tended to his vest. And, of course, when she returned it to him, it was missing a few notable items from the confines of its pockets.

Another man—quite drunk and overly handsy, she allowed to corner her in section of the ballroom populated by what she deemed to be “white knight” types. As he made his advance she neatly swiped his valuables before making a pathetic and very public attempt at nervous rejection—which lured in another unsuspecting victim who gallantly pulled the man from her person, apologizing to her as he escorted the drunk away. Between the two of them, she scored two gold pocket watches, an elaborate watch chain, a silver money clip—filled with bills, and an inlaid mother-of-pearl scarf pin. By the time her knight in shining armor had returned, she was long gone.

With the ball now at its peak and the dance floor filled with couples, she turned from the men to the women. Nimbly weaving her way through the crowd to the tables, she casually brushed up against them as she passed. Unattended purses littered the area, lying open on the edges of tables and hanging from the backs of chairs. She targeted those she could most easily and subtly access passing inconspicuously by, swiping money, jewelry, gold powder cases, diamond-studded barrettes and brooches, small silver hand mirrors, and dainty silver combs. In between purses, she grabbed gold napkin holders and intricate silver flatware from the table settings. A half hour later, as she once more put distance between her and her victims—a blanket wrapped around her shoulders on the chill, abandoned balcony, she couldn’t help the smile rising to her face at the weight the filched goods added to her gown. It was the most she had ever snatched at once.

And best of all—none seemed any the wiser. Ladies danced, carefree, on the ballroom floor. Gentleman flirted and drank—yet to notice their missing affects. And here she was, gown filled with stolen goods, unnoticed and overlooked.

She had never felt so powerful, nor so alive.

But there was one more target she planned to hit tonight—the cherry on top of this most delicious cake: the mysterious Lord Trafalgar himself.

According to the blueprints Franky had acquired for her, the Lord’s private study was also on the first floor, and a small inset into the wall strongly suggested, according to Franky, the presence of a hidden safe. Now that she had seen the incredible splendor of the castle, she could scarcely imagine what wealth lay hidden within. Though she already had more goods that were of a value greater than her last three jobs combined, with the possibilities locked away in the Lord’s private safe? She could, perhaps, at long last do it—she could save up enough to afford Nojiko’s surgery.

She could finally save her sister.

Behind her she heard the soft click of footsteps and glanced absently over her shoulder to see who had joined her out on the chill balcony. To her dismay she recognized the face of the man who strolled out into the night air, cheeks a faint but distinct pink. He glanced about casually, quickly spotting her, a smile broadening on his face as his trajectory turned in her direction.

“Ah, we meet again!”

It was Phillip Daine, but this time he was without the company of his sister.

She smiled, nodding, making clear moves for the ballroom.

“So we do,” she agreed demurely, “But I’m afraid I was just heading back inside—its become a bit too cold out here for me.”

He shook his head, approaching her and draping an arm over her shoulder, turning her around with startling strength and speed.

“Nonsense! It is too beautiful a night—just look how the snow glitters in the light! Allow me to keep you warm instead.”

Were she in any other situation she would have cuffed the man on the ears for his audacity; but she wasn’t, and instead she merely forced her smile to remain, allowing him to lead her to the balcony’s edge.

“Now… I don’t believe I got your name before,” he continued smoothly, arm holding her far closer than would have been strictly appropriate.

“My name is Bellemére,” she offered with some reluctance.

“Ah, what a lovely name for such a lovely face,” he crooned, attempting to lay on his idea of charm. He turned to look at her, raising his other hand to brush her cheek gently. She stiffened. This was going nowhere good.

“Thank you, that… is very kind.”

Attempting to put some space between them, she adjusted her makeshift shawl, side-stepping slightly in the process; but his hold was unyielding. Her smile faltered.

“You know,” he commented lightly, pulling her just a little closer as he turned to look down at her again, “I don’t believe we ever got a chance to share that dance you promised.”

She laughed softly, struggling harder to suppress her violent urges.

“I don’t believe I made any promises,” she responded playfully, making another subtle attempt to side-step him, to no avail.

“Ah, but the promise was in your eyes, Miss Bellemére,” he said softly.

He turned her to face him then, arm around her waist. She was loath to cause a scene or draw attention to herself, but subtlety with this man was getting her nowhere fast. She placed a hand on his chest and pushed gently but firmly, attempting a kindly, measured tone.

“A dance later would be lovely; Unfortunately I am expected, so I really must be getting back inside…”

His grip tightened.

“Ah, but where is your festive spirit! I haven’t seen you dance once, all night.”

Her forced smile was very near breaking. So. Philip was the type not to take no for an answer. That made this… immeasurably more difficult. If she was forceful, she risked drawing attention to herself. If she allowed him to have his way, she would likely never be rid of his company—not to mention the possibility of unwanted advances. Her heart rate began to quicken as she hurriedly debated how direct and aggressive to be in order to secure her escape—and whether she may have to cut her plans for the Lord’s study short, salvation came in a most unexpected form.

“Ah, Philip! There you are—your sister is looking for you!”

Philip turned, momentarily startled before smiling at their unexpected guest: none other than Lady Lami Trafalgar herself.

“Ah, My Lady! I’m afraid she will have to wait—I was just about to share a dance with the lovely Miss Bellemére.”

Lami smiled smoothly, glancing between the two. “I’m afraid it’s rather urgent—apparently she has lost her favorite brooch and is quite distressed. She asked for you straight away.”

Though her expression was friendly and her words were kind, there was a flintiness in her smiling eyes and a command beneath her honeyed tone. Philip paused a moment before finally releasing her and stepping away, giving Lami a short bow.

“Of course. Thank you, my Lady, for passing on the message.”

He turned to Nami, reaching for her hand and lifting it to his lips, eyes lingering meaningfully on hers. “I hope to see you again later, Miss Bellemére.”

Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked stiffly through the double doors into the ballroom. Nami let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I’m terribly sorry about that. Philip rather fancies himself more charming than he is—and his family’s place as second in the line for the succession tends to give him rather a large head.”

Nami glanced up to find the Lady approaching, hugging her own shawl around her shoulders as she eyed her with a friendly if teasing smile. Though grateful for the save—and impressed by the woman’s ability to wield soft power, Nami felt her fingers twitch. The Lady of the house was not one she wished to draw the eye of. She needed to think up an escape, and fast.

“Ah—thank you, My Lady,” Nami started with a smile, offering a small curtsy as her brain worked fervidly, eyes darting briefly to the door. The Lady was sharper than she gave her credit for, though, quickly noticing Nami’s subtle glance. Her eyes crinkled with unvoiced laughter.

“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you,” she said humorously. “I imagine you wish to get back to your family. Please don’t hesitate to let I or one of the staff know if you find yourself subject to any more… unwanted attention. I do hope you’ve otherwise enjoyed the ball thus far?”

“Yes, I have,” Nami replied honestly—though the reason why was, she imagined, quite different than the one Lami anticipated. “Thank you again, my Lady,” Nami continued, “I… would rather like to head back inside.” An involuntary shiver followed her statement.

“Of course, of course! After you?” Lami turned, gesturing towards the ballroom entrance with a quirked brow. Nami strode quickly across the balcony, making for the open doors and gratefully stepping back into the warmth. She handed off her shawl to the waiting butler and Lami did the same, bidding her a friendly farewell as she gracefully walked back across the room.

Nami, for her part, needed a moment to catch her breath.

She hurried her way through the jostling crowd back to the entrance of the ballroom and up the stairs to the second floor balcony which was, she was grateful to find, deserted. With a breath, she allowed herself to lean against the bannister, absently eying the dancing crowd.

That was… an uncomfortably close encounter. It didn’t seem as though it would cause any disruption to her plans, as the interaction had been relatively brief and uneventful; but still, she berated herself for allowing such an incident to occur at all.

She stood quietly, listening to the graceful music echo through the ballroom, breathing deeply as she re-centered herself. She needed to focus, to turn her attention back to her final target—the Lord’s study.

The night was nearing its end and her timing had to be just right; she needed to get in, take what she could, and get out in time to leave with the departing crowds. Barring the encounter with Phillip and Lady Lami, the night was going flawlessly, and she needed to ride that momentum through to her final theft and straight out the front door.

She waited, leaning against the bannister for several more minutes, going over her plan in her head again. First: a distraction to allow her to sneak away unnoticed; then, follow the winding halls to the Lord’s study—get in and out, and back into the parlor before anyone noticed she was missing. The only thing left, was to come up with an appropriate distraction. She had the rough outlines of several potential plans forming in her head, gaze roving the ballroom for inspiration. As her eyes fell upon the sandy haired man she had overheard in the parlor, a plan began to coalesce. Yes… that would work perfectly.

Slowly, casually, she headed back down the stairs out into the ballroom, eyes sweeping the crowd, searching for… there.

Not far from where she stood at the edge of the dance floor was the man who had complained about the lord earlier in the parlor—Riven, if her memory served. If his vocal complaints hadn’t already tipped her off, just by looking at him she could tell he was a proud man; and by the pink of his cheeks she could further assume he’d had quite a bit to drink—perhaps even to take the edge off his anger. She smiled to herself. It would take little provocation to achieve her desired result.

She lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a nearby butler to look the part, taking a quick sip before stopping mid-step near him, allowing him in his uncoordinated state to accidentally bump into her, sloshing her drink.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss! Are you alright?” he questioned in alarm, stopping and turning to her with concern. However, as his eyes swept her figure, gaze lingering at the dip of her breasts between which her pendant necklace rested, his expression morphed into a boyish smile.

“No, no I’m quite alright, sir,” she said sweetly, offering a coquettish smile. His gaze sharpened on her as he took her hand, lifting it to his lips.

“And who is the lovely lady I have the pleasure of meeting?”

She giggled girlishly, batting her lashes.

“My name is Bellemére. And you…” she squinted her eyes before nodding in faux recognition. “You must be Inkholm! I’ve heard so much about you!”

He released her hand, righting himself and glancing at her in confusion.

“Inkholm?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I was just speaking with Philip out on the balcony—Philip Daine? He told me all about you. He said your name was Inkholm Pentent? You work in shipping, correct?”

She continued to smile at him with an oblivious air, tilting her head endearingly for good measure. She watched as the gears turned slowly in his head, face beginning to redden from something other than his drink. He kept his smile though, as he cocked his head stiffly at her.

“No, actually, my name is Riven, Miss Bellemére. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me—I have some business to attend.”

Then he turned, glancing about the room, making a beeline for where Phillip stood chatting up a giggling girl near the tables. She suppressed a grin.

She made her way once more for the entrance to the ballroom, taking her time meandering through the crowd. She was lingering in the doorway when she heard it—raised, angry voices coming from the far side of the room, and confused murmurs erupting around her as heads turned.

She took that as her cue. Turning, she headed casually into the parlor as curious ladies and gentleman hurried from the room to see what all the commotion was about, moving towards the closed door opposite the ballroom. Glancing around quickly—the room had indeed emptied of servants and guests alike—she pressed her ear against the door, closing her eyes to focus on any sounds coming from beyond. Nothing.

She pulled back, carefully reaching into one of the hidden pockets of her gown and pulling from its confines her full lock pick tool set arranged neatly inside a folded leather roll. She quickly unfurled it, eying the lock in front of her and expertly assessing it to be a pin tumbler. Selecting her tension wrench and hook pick, she inconspicuously lowered them to the lock, covering her activities with her skirt. It was more difficult and time consuming to do standing, but in less than a minute she felt the pins align and turned the wrench, the lock sliding out of place; and that’s when she heard it: a startled scream followed by an angry shout echoing from within the ballroom, and an abrupt halt to the music. A fight had broken out.

She hastily pulled her tools out, shoving them into her pocket. With a twist of her wrist she pushed the door open, stepping inside and shutting it soundlessly behind her.

She was in.

She hurried down the long, empty hallway, dress swishing quietly as she walked. The guests were distracted and the clock was ticking—but she knew the twists and turns of this castle now like the back of her hand.

It would be less than a minute before she reached the Lord’s private study. Soon, all his treasures would be hers for the taking—and none would be any the wiser.

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