Sharon Sobel (31 page)

Lark’s eyes widened in sudden realization.

“Nor was he in the American campaign,” she said with certainty.

“Of course not. He had better things to do for his country.”

Lark, knowing she had little to lose, risked it all. “Like murdering his king? I fail to see how that will benefit England.”

“Even an Englishman might dispute you on that, my lady,” the man she knew as Colonel Wayland said with a grin. “But my country is not England.”

She gazed at the man, in his Napoleonic finery and recalled wisps of conversation they had shared during simpler times. “You are French.” It was not a question.

Colonel Wayland bowed low. “At your service, madame. Or should I say ‘
petit garçon
’?”

“You can say whatever you want, sir. It does not change the fact that you are a collaborator and a murderer. When Mr. Queensman—”

“I would not count on Mr. Queensman for anything just now,” Mr. Siddons reminded her.

Lark closed her eyes, allowing the horrible words to wash over her. Benedict Queensman was dead. He had gambled and
lost. And she, who had held him at arm’s length in the stupid name of honor, already forfeited her one chance of happiness, her one hope for love. What harm could the evening’s consequences bring upon her now?

“Thank you for your advice, sir,” she said haughtily. “Now if you would pardon me, I believe it is time for me to quit the palace and return to Knighton’s.”

As she started to walk away, Mr. Siddons reached out and grabbed her.

“You are quite accustomed to having your way, are you not, missy? What would you know of sacrifice and deprivation, and commitment to a cause? I am sorry to disoblige you, but like other young boys, you shall be pressed into very immediate service.”

“What have you in mind, Siddons? She is probably good for nothing,” murmured Wayland, ignoring Lark’s look of indignation.

“I disagree, man. She demonstrates a fair degree of versatility. She would be an excellent asset to our cause, if only we could trust her.”

“You will not trust her!” Wayland said in some dismay.

“Of course not! But she will serve us just the same. Think of the scandal, the shame upon her family, when it is revealed that the lady Larkspur was part of the conspiracy to kill the king. And how her recent history of deception was no more than a ploy to set herself up in Brighton. All her family will be marked, including her pompous brother-in-law Southard. In fact, the more I think on it, the better it seems.” Mr. Siddons chuckled maliciously. “You see how much your company is desired, pretty boy,” he said, twisting her wrist mercilessly.

“Why should I do what you ask?” Lark argued.

“To save the life of your Mr. Queensman. At least there will be one who will remember you fondly.” Mr. Siddons sighed dramatically.

Lark blinked several times, trying to make some sense of the web in which she was entangled. She shrugged off Mr. Siddons’ hand.

“You have already told me he is dead. I believe you have gambled away your only chip, sir. There is nothing you can do to threaten me into a treasonous act.”

Mr. Siddons’ face turned bright red as he spat at her feet.

“Get moving,” he said roughly. “You will do as I say.”

Lark walked between them, hastened by Siddons’ angry thrust. Her eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, looking for some avenue of escape, but she knew there was nothing, so framed as she was by her enemies and so unfamiliar with the palace layout. She tried to calm herself, knowing that any move would be precipitous. She must await an opportunity.

They entered a long corridor, so modest in its appearance that it did not seem to be part of the palace design. A young woman passed before them, carrying a wet cloth.

“My good woman,” Colonel Wayland called out and she stopped, looking uncertainly at the three of them. Lark tried to give her some sign of her distress, but the woman’s attention was all for the older gentleman. “We have been momentarily detained. Is the king’s party already retired to the dining hall?”

“They are just leaving the ballroom, sir, and a few of the guests have returned to the dressing rooms. If you please, sir, would you like direction?”

Wayland smiled and pressed a coin into her palm. “We shall manage just fine. Our young cousin here was ill, but is sufficiently recovered to rejoin the guests. We shall do so immediately.”

The maid passed indifferent eyes over Lark, seemingly more interested in the generous gift in her hand.

“You will find your way shortened if you pass through the courtyard to the north stairway. It is little used, but will bring you to the dining hall.”

Lark sensed the look that passed between the two men, but did not know what it could mean. Perhaps it figured into their plan, and the unsuspecting maid had just given them confirmation of what they already intended.

“Excellent! We shall hasten to join the party,” Colonel Wayland said graciously. “I do, however, have a favor to ask of you. Our cousin is somewhat embarrassed by her … his illness. Will you say nothing of it to anyone? If we meet the others shortly, they might never suspect our brief absence.”

This time, undoubtedly prompted by Wayland’s slip of the tongue, the maid looked at Lark more closely. Seizing on the small chance, Lark shook her head, releasing several locks
of her long red hair from under her cap. She started to pull away, so the young woman would see how tightly she was held prisoner, and tried to mouth the word “help.” The maid returned a blank stare.

“I will say nothing,” she said softly.

Lark was drawn away, knowing the full failure of her small attempt at freedom. The maid must be very carefully schooled in her behavior to secure a position at the palace, and undoubtedly had witnessed other men manipulating young girls to their advantage. The king himself was probably guilty of such charges.

Wearily, she started up the long staircase with her two guards, wondering what she might say or promise to persuade them to release her. Would they want money? Position? Weapons? What did she know of such matters?

“Sir!” A loud feminine voice rang out beneath them. Siddons and Wayland turned in unison, surely each unaware that the other had just released Lark’s wrist from his tight grasp. Lark, unthinking, turned also and looked down into the face of the maid. The woman’s indifference to her plight had been a ruse, for she now looked very alert as she shouted, “Run!”

Lark did not need to be told twice. She stepped back from between the villains and dashed up the stairs.

“Get her!” Siddons growled, and Wayland cursed colorfully.

Lark wasted not a second to witness their dismay or to thank her cunning savior. She ran with all the unfettered freedom of a young boy in trousers, taking two steps at a time.

She reached the balustrade, feeling the painful strain upon her lungs. But hearing footsteps just beneath her provided the antidote to her distress, and she rushed down the hall in the direction of light and noise.

Pausing only to fling a vase behind her, in an attempt to slow the passage of her pursuers, she raced headlong, thinking of nothing but what must be done in the name of honor and patriotism. Of her own risk, she thought not at all, for anything would be preferable to remaining prisoner at the treacherous hands of Mr. Siddons and Colonel Wayland. And on Ben Queensman and his profession of love for her, she could not bear to reflect. He might be dead, but so might she be by the evening’s end.

“My lady!” Wayland shouted, but she would not be tricked by the same stratagem employed by the maid. “You are too late!”

Too late for what?

She reached the end of the hallway, barely ahead of her pursuers. As she turned the door handle, she heard a little click and thought for one horrible moment it was locked. But when it yielded to her touch, she immediately improved upon her own impetuous plan and slipped through.

Throwing herself against the solid oak door from the inside, gasping for air, she quickly fingered the heavy brass-work until she touched the reassuring outline of a key, and turned it against her enemies.

Almost immediately, she felt the impact of their bodies smashing into the outside of the door, and she trembled at the thought of how close behind her they actually had been. A stream of vile language oozed through the wood, full of promises as to the injury to befall her once they caught her again.

She stepped away, and the noises ceased. But all at once she became aware of other voices, sounds of a more agreeable sort. Certainly of a nature more familiar.

Lark turned into the great dining hall of the Pavilion and realized she was above the main floor, along A balcony too narrow for musicians and too modest for the king’s guests. Perhaps it was a servants’ passage or—more likely—a viewing gallery for those who could not be a part of the affair but were nevertheless privileged to look upon it. In any case, she seemed to be its only occupant, though the sole privilege she owned was the respite with which she might catch her breath.

Treading carefully on her suddenly aching feet, she leaned against the balustrade and gazed upon the dizzying sight beneath her.

It was glorious, the very stuff of legend. Brilliantly costumed guests moved gaily about, their jewels sending off reflective flashes against the candlelight. Feathers tickled partners’ noses, gloved hands reached for each other. An array of historical personages preened for the general delight. Laughter mingled with the charming music.

But nowhere did Lark see a tall man in green, sporting a cap upon his dark hair. She noticed Lord Raeborn, standing very
closely to the diminutive Miss Hathawae. She recognized an elderly gentleman who had once or twice visited at Knighton’s. And she saw several people known to her from parties in town. But none of them mattered if Ben Queensman was missing from their company.

Again, she felt the great ache of emptiness and despair, brought on by the almost certain knowledge that he was lost to her, no matter the outcome of this night. He might be suffering and alone, in pain or dying. He might be dead.

The wood behind her splintered, and she became acutely aware of her current danger. Siddons and Wayland had nothing to lose by murdering her; they had made that quite clear. And how easy it would be to push her over the balustrade to certain death below.

Her eyes scanned the upper levels of the great hall until they alighted upon a narrow staircase, neatly camouflaged against the painted molding. Steadying herself against the rail, she moved quickly around the perimeter, distancing herself from her pursuers, though she knew they would be able to spot her almost immediately once they smashed their way inside.

The staircase was rickety, unacceptable in a modest townhouse, let alone a royal palace. As Lark descended, overstepping an array of small hand tools and pots of paint, she suddenly realized the purpose of the curious structure and why it was not entirely integrated into the general grandeur of the place. It was a workmen’s scaffold, still in active use but likely to be dismantled once the painting of the ballroom was completed. She wondered if Colonel Wayland and Mr. Siddons knew of its hazards.

Her foot touched the smooth surface of the dance floor in a darkened corner of the room, and she doubted if anyone noticed her arrival. If so, she surely would be dismissed as someone of no consequence, for her costume had none of the distinction of the others. Nor would anyone be looking particularly for the lady Larkspur—except for two men.

But here, among the guests of the king, sanity finally prevailed, and Lark was able to think clearly about her circumstances.

To Siddons and Wayland she was nothing more than an obstacle, a thorn in their sides. Their objective—their target—was the king himself, and anyone who stood in their
path needed to be cut down. Ben Queensman was such a one, and he had undoubtedly been killed for his tenacity. Lark proved to be another, and she somehow had managed to elude them.

But they aimed for the king.

Ducking beneath the outstretched arm of a harlequin figure, Lark searched the throng for their unsuspecting host, hoping his costume did not overly obscure him. But when her eyes finally found him, it seemed exactly the opposite was true.

The king’s costume obscured almost nothing, revealing a good deal of flesh and bulky form. He looked to be a cherub of some sort, though utterly lacking in physical attractiveness. If Janet were here, she would certainly share a giggle in the corner and then dutifully remind Lark that to do so was surely treasonous. Lark thought it would hardly improve on her present troubles as an uninvited guest.

Her rushed thoughts and impressions were interrupted by a crashing sound from above. She looked up quickly to see the stumbling entrance of her two pursuers through the barrier she had erected for them no more than five minutes, before and their almost immediate surveillance of the scene below. As they walked, catlike, along the scaffolding, she moved stealthily behind those guests most likely to hide her, and made her way into the royal presence.

Then, suddenly, she saw Mr. Siddons raise a pistol and take aim at varioius points around the room until it seemed to stop just ahead of her. She turned slightly, revealing herself, and knew it was just as she guessed: He targeted the king.

She cried out and started to run, and saw only the open-mouthed, startled faces of those around her. Surely they thought her a madman—which might explain why someone decided it wise to put out his cane and trip her up. The wood bar came across her shins like a knife edge, and she stumbled blindly before she fell on the person in her path.

And just as she—and he—fell to the floor, she heard a bullet whiz over her head and shatter the exquisite stained-glass window behind them.

She became immediately aware of the smell of wine, and hairy flesh, and being wrapped in some diaphanous fabric that
clung to the rough wool of her trousers. All around her people were screaming and running, though they did not seem very interested in the tangle of limbs and clothing on the floor.

Lark struggled to a seated position and looked dazedly around her.