Anne O'Brien (30 page)

‘I will wait for you.’ Sarah still resisted, her eyes wide and frightened on his face.

‘I know it.’ Joshua nodded to Nick, who was quick to see the need to get Sarah away. ‘Expect me before dawn.’

Then without another word, Joshua turned and vanished into the shadows of the rue de Richelieu in the direction of the fleeing assassin.

Too many minutes had passed since the assassin had fled the scene. But even more would pass before the Garde Royale was called out and the blood-chilling news of the attack was spread around the city. There was just a chance, Joshua decided, that he would pick up a trail before the murderer went to ground.

In the rue de Richelieu the night was still young, groups of pleasure-seeking people still strolling, laughing in these final days of Carnival before the dour austerity of Lent settled with its heavy hand. News of the terrible event in the rue de Richelieu had not yet percolated. Cafés still plied their trade. The man who had wielded the dagger to such effect could be anywhere, in any group, watching the harmless boulevard entertainments with dwarves and conjurors and fairground slides, or sitting alone to drink a final celebratory brandy in any one of the cafés. Joshua glanced about with keen eyes to where torches illuminated faces. A wild goose chase, if ever he had seen one.

Behind him, as expected, he heard running footsteps as the guard from the opera was at last dispatched to search the streets. And raised voices telling of the terrible crime. Heads turned on all sides, shock registering on faces.

And a man stood at the entrance to the Arcade Colbert, just a dark outline against a darker background. Waiting. A carriage came slowly down the Boulevard des Italiens. The man stepped out into the light.

And Joshua recognised him. Slight, thin-faced, nothing to draw attention, but an air of suppressed excitement about him.

It was the supreme anticlimax to the chase. A ridiculously easy matter to overpower him, requiring no heroic feats of strength or tactics. A short scuffle, an unequal exchange of blows, and the man lay insensible on the pavement. The assassin might have struck down a claimant to the throne, but he did not have the physique for physical combat, even against a man with a wounded arm. Besides which, there were plenty of willing onlookers. With enthusiastic assistance from a waiter from the Café Hardy, where the man had indeed been taking a brandy,
apparently in all innocence, it was simple to bind him and deliver him into the hands of the guards who dragged him off to the Opera again with rough but belated efficiency. He had been far more effective in his crime than in his attempted escape.

Which left the carriage. It had come to a halt on the boulevard. Then, at a whispered instruction from passenger to driver, would have moved off again had Joshua not been sufficiently alert and interested to step up and signal the driver to halt. Without compunction he flung open the door, to recognise the figure shrouded in a dark cloak, the hood pulled up over dark hair.

‘Well.’ Joshua bowed with formal mockery. ‘You surprise me. To murder Bourbons? I would never have suspected it.’

The Countess of Wexford looked at him with a faint smile on her shadowed face, in no way discomfited. ‘Why not? They dishonoured France far more than Bonaparte ever did. I lost members of my own family at their careless hands.’

‘But what is your interest, Olivia? Surely you have more political astuteness than to wish to bring Bonaparte back?’

‘True, he is old and sick.’ The distant torches picked out the gilt highlights in her dark eyes. They shone with a fervent belief. ‘But what price for idealism, my dear Joshua? A desire to see wrongs put right. Revenge. It is very simple.’ Her smile became a little sly. ‘But what are we talking of? You have no proof of my involvement. The assassin is captured. I am merely making my way home from Madame de Staël’s salon.’

‘I doubt you were ever at Madame de Staël’s this night. My wife was there, with her sister.’

‘But would the little housekeeper remember me?’ The sneer was well marked, forcing Lord Joshua to keep hold of his patience.

‘Oh, yes. I think Lady Faringdon would remember your presence very well.’

‘So do I.’ The Countess laughed, a glint of white teeth. ‘Your wife and I would never be friends, would we? What could we possibly have in common? What possessed you to marry her, Joshua?’ She leaned toward him and touched his cheek with a
satin-gloved hand. ‘But no matter. You still have no proof of my interests.’

‘You think not? Could you not possibly have been waiting here to take up the murderer when his vicious work was done?’

‘Of course not. I know nothing of it. But I suppose you will have your revenge, my lord.’

‘Yes. For spreading rumours of me having blood on my hands. You caused my family much heartache. And my wife, beyond measure. So revenge will be sweet, my lady. I think you will find that you are no longer welcome in England. Unless you wish to be taken up and questioned about your dubious political affiliations. Wycliffe will not be amused with the deception. The betrayal.’

‘No, he will not. I fear that the delights of London will be barred to me now.’ Her smile vanished to be replaced by a tinge of regret. ‘I do not suppose I could tempt you to throw in your lot with me? What collaborators we would be. And I would be delighted to make it worth your while.’ She held out her hand in blatant invitation. ‘I think you do not find me unattractive, dear Joshua.’

‘No.’ The hand was ignored. She saw a flash of contempt in his eyes, but his words were soft enough. ‘I am flattered by your invitation. But you can offer me nothing.’

So Olivia’s answering laugh was bitter. ‘I see that the little housekeeper has won. Who would have thought that so insignificant a woman would have the means to steal your heart and make you captive.’

But Olivia had made a mistake, a terrible misjudgement, to direct her barbs at Sarah Russell, and she knew it instantly. Joshua Faringdon’s whole body stiffened, alert and prepared to attack, as a wolf prepared to defend its mate. Eyes hardened to glacial ice, his lips thinned, he now made no effort to disguise his contempt for the woman who would drag Sarah’s name down to her own level. ‘How dare you criticise my wife to me?’ His words were little more than a whisper, but deadly in the
quiet of the street. ‘She is so far above you in spirit and integrity. You are not fit to speak her name. She would never stoop to the deceits that you would use. She is all goodness. Something, I suggest, of which you have no understanding.’

‘Well.’ Olivia’s lips twisted. ‘She has you well and truly wound around her fingers, does she not?’

‘No. It is nothing like that. My feelings for her are beyond your comprehension, Olivia.’

‘Poor Joshua.’ The Countess tilted her head, a parody of rueful amusement. ‘So you actually love her.’

‘Yes. I love her.’ It was, he realised, the first time he had spoken the words aloud, except when Sarah slept uncomprehendingly in his arms. How ridiculous, he thought, that his confession should be to the Countess of Wexford. He bit back a harsh laugh.

‘And does the inestimable Sarah love you? Does she know about your less than honest activities? How entertaining it will be if she falls in love with a man whom she considers to be a hero.’ Her smile became sly with a hint of threat. ‘Only to discover as many lies and deceits in his past as there are in my own.’

Joshua was not to be drawn by the deliberate provocation. ‘No, she does not know. But, yes, Sarah does love me. I believe that she does.’
Am I not gambling everything on that one admission, uttered without conscious thought as she fell into sleep?

‘Then you are fortunate indeed. I wish The Chameleon well of his marriage.’ For the Countess knew that she had lost. She lifted her shoulders in a typically Gallic gesture of rejection of the whole matter. Her expression hardened, now all practicality. ‘What now?’

‘I will leave you to work out your own salvation in France. I am sure you will be able to keep your involvement secret unless the assassin talks under persuasion. And as you say, I have no proof.’

‘I should thank you, but I will not. Besides, the Duc de Berri is dead or as good as. So we have succeeded despite all your efforts to save the despicable Bourbons.’

‘He is not yet dead.’

‘He will be fortunate indeed to survive a knife in the chest.’ The glitter in her eyes was suddenly cold and cruel.

‘True. But whatever the outcome, your role to undermine British espionage is ended, Olivia. Enjoy your victory if you can.’

‘Oh, I will. Never doubt it. Not returning to England will be a small price to pay for the death of de Berri.’ The sudden smile that touched her mouth held a clear threat. ‘I could, of course, make life very difficult for you, Joshua, if you threaten my freedom. It would be so easy for me to reveal your identity and so tear your cover to rags. The value to Wycliffe of The Chameleon would be destroyed overnight.’

His instant laugh, the flare of intense satisfaction in his eyes, startled her. It was not what she had expected. ‘Do it and be damned, my dear Olivia. I am not open to blackmail.’

‘I think you do not realise the consequences, my lord. I can hurt you. I can tell your innocent wife of your true involvement.’

‘No. You cannot hurt me. And I shall tell Sarah myself.’ If anything, she saw pity in his eyes. ‘It no longer matters to me what you say or do.’ He bowed formally, an elegant mockery of respect. ‘Because tonight The Chameleon dies. You can no longer harm me or mine. Your disclosures—to my wife or to the world at large—will be irrelevant. Good night, my lady Wexford.’

Lord Joshua stepped back, not waiting for a response, and watched the carriage draw away.

Knowing with a certainty that this evening marked the end of another chapter in his life.

It was long past the late February dawn when Joshua returned to the Faringdon residence. The day was as chill and grey as the mood of the inhabitants attempting to discover an appetite in the breakfast parlour, too worried to do more than drink a cup of coffee and look up in expectation at every sound in the street below their windows. But eventually Joshua put in an ap
pearance. Bloodstained and dishevelled, clothes the worse for wear, face as pale and grim as Nicholas had ever seen it, and with shadows beneath his eyes.

Sarah immediately sprang to her feet and advanced. Joshua took her hands with a quick smile, raised them briefly to his lips but with no further intimacy. Indeed, he quickly put her from him.

‘Well?’ Nicholas had also risen to his feet.

‘Dead. Some time after six. A long and agonising death. The knife missed the heart, but pierced the lung. There was never any hope.’ Joshua flung himself into a chair with a groan, easing his wounded arm as the movement tore at the damaged flesh. He rubbed one hand over his face, then awkwardly took the cup of coffee poured for him by Thea. For a long moment there was a stunned silence in the room. The attractive royal couple with whom they had been speaking only a matter of hours ago, now destroyed. The young man struck down before them.

‘How is the Duchesse?’ Thea asked.

‘Distraught, as you would imagine.’

‘And the assassin?’ Nicholas queried.

‘Captured. Louis-Pierre Louvel.’ Joshua put down the coffee untasted, stretched the taut muscles of back and shoulders. He would say nothing of his own part in the event. ‘I know nothing of him beyond his name. He was being questioned last I heard in the guardroom of the opera. But it could be that he has succeeded in bringing to an end the illustrious house of Bourbon. The Duc and his Duchesse were the only remaining hope of producing a male heir for the next generation. After Louis’ brother Charles, the Bourbon line is at an end.’

He retrieved the cup again and sipped the coffee in abstracted contemplation, then looked up at Nicholas, decisions made.

‘I want you to leave Paris. This morning. As soon as you can gather the minimum of necessities together.’

‘That bad, is it?’

‘Impossible to say, but likely to ignite at any moment. The
Garde Royale is called out to search for accomplices and the city is swept with a torrent of reaction. Emotions are running high in the cafés—fights and duels even though the day is young—who knows when it will become riots in the streets? Whether the King is strong enough to enforce order and win over those who have no love for the Bourbons, I doubt. So I want you to go. Today. You will get to Calais and can wait for the next tide and fair wind.’

‘And you?’ They were the first words uttered by Sarah since her lord had entered the room. She searched his face. ‘What will you do?’ He looked tired. Drained of energy. Moved by some emotion that clouded his eyes and which he was clearly determined to hide from her. Her inclination was to touch him, just to give him comfort, but there was something in his demeanour that held her back.

‘I have some unfinished business here.’ He did not look at her beyond a fleeting glance. Dared not, fearing that his resolve to leave her for one last time in Nicholas’s care would weaken.

‘Then I will not leave. Not until you are ready to come with me. Besides, you are wounded.’ She gestured towards the bloody binding around his sleeve. ‘Your arm needs care.’

‘A flesh wound only—easily remedied. My valet will deal with it. I would rather you made all haste to leave Paris.’ He rejected her offer of help; his manner was cool, the discussion a mere matter of organising travel arrangements. ‘I need to change my clothes and go out again. If you will come with me, Nick, I will give you some documents to take to England with you.’

He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door, teeth set against the gnawing ache of the knife wound. It seemed to Sarah that he actually walked around her. He would have done exactly that—it was certainly his intent—but at the end could not leave her with such a depth of anguish in her eyes. Could not leave her without touching her once more. So with reckless longing he moved back to her, closed his fingers around her wrists in a strong grasp, his own anguish mirroring hers.

‘Go with Nick and Thea, Sarah. Go back to London.’

They might have been alone in the room. His hands, gentled at last, moved in one long caress from wrist to shoulder to finally frame her face. ‘Sarah.’ His mouth took hers, soft and cool. He lifted his head and allowed his fingers to outline where his mouth had rested. ‘Sarah. Go home.’