Revealed (49 page)

Laurent narrowed his eyes, called over his shoulder. “You brought a friend, pigeon! Care to tell me whom I’m going to be killing?”

“Oh, I’ll introduce myself,” Byrne replied, taking a step into the room. “Byrne Worth. The Blue Raven.”

Laurent’s face registered shock. “Then who . . . ?”

“He’s nobody,” Byrne said quickly. “My associate.”

“They’re brothers,” Leslie piped up, before Marcus held the knife tighter still to his throat.

“Your brother?” Laurent looked amused. “Fitting. Well, my dear,” he said to Phillippa, “it seems you are no longer nearly as useful as previously thought. Pity.”

Phillippa could see his finger on the trigger, and she saw the moment before it was pulled.

Phillippa threw all her weight to one side, rocking her to the side, knocking her into the side table on her way down. The gun went off right before she hit the ground.

After that, several things happened at once, and quickly.

She had aimed as best she could and managed to knock some of the candles off the table, one of them rolling close to her wrist. She maneuvered herself closer to the burning flame, as she watched Leslie break Marcus’s hold on him, withdrawing a short knife from a nearby vase. (She
knew
that was a good hiding place! Mr. Farmapple must have guessed as much as well.) Leslie swung out and tried to cut at Marcus, Marcus deflecting with his own short blade.

Behind her, Laurent tossed the fired pistol aside, bull running into Byrne, causing his shot to go wide. They struggled, fists landing, as Laurent reached into his boot and withdrew a dagger. Byrne rolled as Laurent tried to land the dagger in his flesh, finding his cane in the process.

No one seemed to notice that one of the candles had rolled to the heavy curtains.

After nearly scalding her hand, Phillippa managed to burn through the rope at her wrist sufficiently to break free. She worked quickly, freeing her other hand and then her mouth.

Meanwhile, Marcus had managed to knock the blade free from Leslie’s hand and knocked him to the floor in the process. He looked about him, noticed the smoke, and then Phillippa.

“Look out,” she cried, and Marcus turned just in time to deflect Leslie’s blade with his right forearm, unfortunately ending with the dagger sunk into his arm. Leslie, deprived of his weapon, looked wildly about for some other means of fighting, as Marcus landed left hook after left hook into the man’s face. Thud after thud, he beat him down until he was no longer moving, just twitching. Then Marcus reeled back and turned his attention to Phillippa.

“Your arm,” she cried, as he pulled Leslie’s blade free.

“Its fine,” he grumbled. “We have to get out of here before we burn to cinders.”

Together, they sawed at the ropes binding her legs and her torso, freeing her from the chair. Marcus pulled her to her feet, as painful pricks rushed down her numbed limbs, waking them up. The fire from the curtains was spreading to the walls and furniture now, the room was filling with black, toxic smoke, infiltrating Phillippa’s lungs and eyes. She coughed, great hacking things that felled her to her knees. She could barely see as Marcus dragged her toward the door. As they reached the door, she looked over her shoulder, only to see black smoke, red fire, and Byrne and Laurent struggling against each other in the flames.

They had to keep moving, Marcus knew. He had to get her out. He pulled Phillippa, stumbling, nearly unconscious, out of the room, down the stairs to the outside. Surprisingly, in the mere minutes since they had entered the building, a crowd had gathered. The other tenants of the Weymouth Street house stood gathered in their nightclothes. Some were organizing buckets of water; some were knocking on doors, sending alarms up and down the street.

But what was most surprising was that Lord Fieldstone, in his gold finery, surrounded by members of the palace guard, stood with a bruised and bloody Leslie.

“That’s him!” Leslie cried, pointing to Marcus. “That’s the man who tried to kill me. he . . . he’s in league with the French spy Laurent! He killed Lord Sterling!”

Damn. In his desperation to get Phillippa out, he hadn’t noticed that Leslie was not lying on the floor where he had left him. Marcus tensed in anger, and felt Phillippa shake her head no at his side, but when she opened her mouth to speak, no sound came out.

“He’s mad, I tell you!” Leslie continued. “Lord Fieldstone, he’s been planning this for weeks. I discovered his plot, I tried to stop him, but—”

Lord Fieldstone held up his hand. “Guards,” he ordered, pointing to Leslie. “Arrest this man.”

“What? No! No, its him, I tell you!” But Leslie’s cries went unheeded, as the palace guard collapsed upon him. Fieldstone stepped forward, toward Marcus.

“We could see the fire from the party. I should have taken your suspicions more seriously all those weeks ago. I apologize. But when Miss De Regis told me you had chased after Mrs. Benning, I knew something was wrong. Then Lady Jane Cummings told me about your wounding at the Hampshire event, and finding Sterling’s body, and I—”

As happy as he was to hear this mea culpa, Marcus had no time for it. “Can you look after her?” he asked, nodding toward Phillippa. Phillippa looked up at him wildly as Lord Fieldstone answered, “Yes, of course. But Worth, you . . . you can’t be thinking of going back in there. The whole thing is going to come down in a matter of minutes!”

“I have to,” he answered simply. Marcus had a feeling—he knew his brother, and he feared his intentions. Phillippa clung to Marcus’s neck, buried her head in his chest. “Darling,” he said, untwining her arms from around his neck. “I’ll be right back.” He looked into her eyes, brimming with frantic tears. “I promise.”

With that, he tore himself away, grabbing a blanket from one of the onlookers as he hurled himself back into the inferno.

He threw the blanket over his head, favoring his left arm as he cautiously moved up the stairs, now weakened by the spreading fire. An old, rickety building like this caught fire as easily as tinder. He made it to the top of the stairs, just before they gave way entirely, trapping him on the second floor. But he would worry about that on the way down. He made his way past falling debris and pushed his way into the room where Byrne and Laurent still struggled.

They didn’t notice him. They were too intent on killing each other. They rolled along the floor, narrowly missing a burning couch, the flaming remains of Phillippa’s chair. Laurent swung a dagger, Byrne swiped at it with his cane. Both men gained their feet. The Frenchman, unsteady on his feet, lunged forward, only to have his dagger knocked out of his hand by Byrne’s cane.

Laurent weaved, a stupid grin on his face. “We are done with this nonsense,
oui
?” Byrne didn’t respond. “Luckily, I still have one pistol left,” he sneered, reaching underneath his coat, patting his side, and then patting again, frantically. Nothing was there.

“Looking for this?” Byrne replied, holding up the second silver-handled pistol. Laurent let out a tired, desperate laugh, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat. “You think by killing me, you’ll stop us? There are far more of us than you think.”

“I don’t care. I just want to know one thing.” Byrne cocked the pistol. “Who was it I killed last year at the inn?”

Laurent’s smile disappeared. “I had a brother once, too,” he answered. Then, after a moment, “I don’t suppose we could work something out? As gentlemen.”

“No,” Byrne replied. “I’m tired of being a gentleman.”

The gunshot barely made a sound in the crackling of the inferno. Red spread across Laurent’s chest, as he dropped to his knees. He fell forward, slumped over on his side like a sleeping child.

Byrne threw the gun to the side and fell to his knees beside him.

And didn’t move.

If Marcus hadn’t seen the final moments, he would have thought Byrne dead. But not yet.

Marcus crossed the room, beams cracking under his weight. “Byrne!” he yelled. Byrne’s head snapped up. “Byrne, this place is about to fall—we have to get out of here.”

“I’m done, Marcus,” Byrne said, his voice resigned, defeated.

“No, you’re not,” Marcus yelled back. “Come on, let’s go!” He pulled at Byrne’s arm, to no avail.

“No,” Byrne grunted, dragging his arm back.

“Byrne, come on!” he said, using all his strength to pull his brother’s skeletal frame up off the ground, to his feet.

“Why?” Byrne yelled back, his eyes meeting Marcus’s, pleading for an answer, for a reason.

“Because if you die here, I die with you,” Marcus answered. “I’m not leaving you. Do you want my death on you, too?”

Byrne slowly shook his head no. Before he could argue further, Marcus wrapped his arm around his brother, drapping him under the blanket. “The stairs are gone,” he said, “We’ll have to use the window.”

Byrne nodded, and they made their way to the window, where Byrne had managed to climb some vines on the wall, gaining entrance. The vines were long gone now, but they were only on the second floor.

And so, brother looked at brother, and they made a running leap.

Phillippa couldn’t think. She could only look at the fire that consumed the house where she had been held captive. Marcus was in there. How was he going to get out? The entire structure was engulfed. Men with pails of water, coming from who knows where, threw the contents of the buckets on the flames, a futile effort. Fire marshals had arrived by now, pouring bags of sand onto the flames, along with Totty, Lady Jane, and half the Ton, all gold-clad, all running from the Gold Ball, music still audible in the distance. Totty held Phillippa’s hand as she kept her eyes trained on the building. There was still no sign of Marcus.

Suddenly, a gasp arose from the crowd, as two blanketed figures came flying out of the second-story window.

They landed with hard thuds, rolling into the street. Phillippa broke free from Lord Fieldstone and Totty, running for the figures. They wobbled to their feet.

“Are you all right?” she could hear Marcus say.

“Yes,” Byrne croaked, his voice raw from smoke.

She reached them, throwing herself into Marcus’s arms. “You came back,” she rasped. And then, she couldn’t help it, the tears began to flow in earnest. “Marcus, I’m so sorry, I was so stupid, I should have never followed that man—” But there, her voice gave out. Marcus held her close, kissed her eyes, her wet cheeks.

“You’re not hurt?” he asked gruffly. She shook her head no.

She saw, as Marcus glanced over at Byrne, something passing between them. But before she could ask about it, Totty and Lord Fieldstone had caught up to them.

“Mr. Worth!” Totty exclaimed. “Thank God you’re all right. Thank you, thank you, you brought my Phillippa back to me!”

“Mrs. Tottendale, could you do me the great favor of taking Phillippa home?” he asked, smoothing his hands over her hair.

Totty murmured that of course she would take care of her, but Phillippa objected, shook her head. “I . . .”
I want to stay with you,
she tried to say, but her voice had completely abandoned her.

“Shh,” Marcus replied, kissing her forehead. “I have some things to take care of.” His glance shot unconsciously toward Byrne, who was wrapped in a blanket, being shuffled about by Lord Fieldstone. He shifted his gaze back to hers, his eyes softening. “Don’t worry, I’ll be along.”

She looked at him solemnly, gauging whether his words were a comfort or a promise. Then she allowed Totty to take her by the hand and guide her away.