Jareth Coppersmith trod up the steps, his right foot clanging on the stone with every step, despite being enclosed in a leather boot. Bright gas lamps illuminated the front of the building and the sound of music and laughter flowed out through the open doors. Jareth grimaced as he neared the top step. He paused for a moment, to straighten the lapels of his midnight-blue coat and brace himself for the night ahead.

Dammit, but he hated balls. He couldn't dance and light conversation bored him. Usually, he avoided them like the plague, but tonight was an exception. Lady Clarissa Pennington had decided this would be a masquerade ball, costumes essential, so that for once, he might fit in without too many shocked stares or horrified gasps.

And, most important of all, his target would be present. Present and hopefully less vigilant than usual.

The opportunity was too good to pass up.

Jareth handed his invitation to a liveried footman and strode into the hall, his mechanical eye immediately scanning the crowd. A sea of brightly coloured silk gowns and frock coats greeted him. It appeared most guests had chosen a characterful face mask as their costume of choice, tigers, metallic birds and one-eyed pirates appeared the most popular. How ironic, thought Jareth, with a smile that made a young woman who'd been about to approach him, step back in a hurry.

Ah, there! Jareth found the man he'd been seeking. He was wearing a camel coat, loaded with shiny brass buckles, and a black domino mask that covered half his face, but Jareth knew it was him. Maurice Winthrop, proprietor of the second biggest protection racket in town.

Jareth wove a steady path through the room, his gaze fixed on his target. Then suddenly the musicians stopped playing, preparing to take a well-earned break, and he lost the visual.

Now the floor was filled with expensively dressed men and women getting in his way, either stampeding toward the refreshment room or milling around, trying to find friends. His task was not helped by the floor length mirrors lining the walls, reflecting the guests so that the room appeared twice as full. He scanned the room again, dividing it into quadrants.

Gas lamps attached to the walls cast a warm glow over everything, highlighting the flamboyant jewellery worn by both women and men alike. A perfect opportunity for someone with nimble fingers and few morals, Jareth thought, with a wry smile to himself. Then he caught a glimpse of a camel coat, disappearing into the refreshment room.

Now the crowd flocking toward drinks and snacks was to his advantage. He moved steadily forward, careful to keep to the same pace and do nothing to attract attention, at least, no more attention than he could help.

Liveried attendants expertly wove through the crowd, distributing vibrant green drinks, wine evidently laced with absinthe, while others carried trays of orange tinted gin punch and glasses of ratafia for the ladies.

Winthrop was bent over the food table, helping himself to a plateful of dainty morsels, choosing a selection of cold meats and tasty pies. A minder stood at his back, facing the crowd and fending off anyone who got too close. Dressed in a pale brown suit to match his employer, he'd forgone the addition of a mask. Presumably he wanted nothing to interfere with his field of vision.

Jareth positioned himself as near as he could to the pair without causing the minder to intervene, apparently queuing for his turn at the food. While he was waiting, he took a small jewelled snuff box from his coat pocket, pinched some of the contents between his fingers, and with his other hand, took a glass of gin punch from a server. Then disaster struck. He stumbled, spilling his drink and flinging out his right hand to stop his fall.

"Frack!" swore the woman standing in front of Jareth. She had copped most of the cocktail down her back.

"I'm so sorry!" Jareth apologised profusely, helplessly offering a large white handkerchief, which was irritably refused. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the minder rapidly ushering Winthrop away from the chaos.

Seconds later, Winthrop clapped a hand to the back of his neck and swore, took a step forward, then fell heavily to the floor. The minder spun around, his eyes wide, torn between searching for a possible assailant and tending to his fallen principal.

Attention moved immediately from Jareth's small drama to the far more exciting crisis across the room. People pushed past to get a closer look and Jareth seized the opportunity to step quietly back, away from the scene. He left discreetly through a side door, and found his way to the front entrance.

"Send someone to fetch an apothecary!" he shouted at the doorman, who was craning his neck to discover what the commotion was about. "There's been an accident!"

A line of steam carriages was already waiting in the street, hoping for passengers when the party wound down. Jareth seated himself in the first one, just as the trickle of departing guests became a flood. Evidently, the thrill of a sudden death had faded and fear of involvement had taken over.

He leant back in the seat, trying to get comfortable, as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones.

Jareth allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. For once, everything had gone to plan. He took out the jewelled snuff box and checked its contents. Two golden scarabs glinted in the box, their tiny metal legs still intact despite his hasty removal of one of their companions earlier.

When he'd pretended to stumble, he'd flung his tiny weapon at Winthrop. The scarab had landed on his coat and quickly made its way to the nearest heat source; Winthrop's exposed neck. And the slap Winthrop had given it, had only served to drive the poison home further.

When you had a face that looked like Jareth, you had to resort to subterfuge to get the job done.