The Mask of Night (54 page)

Lucan lunged for the door. Worsley caught his arm. "This doesn't change anything. An attack will take too long."

“Well standing about here isn’t doing any good,” Nan said.

“Be quiet,” Bet told her. “What do you want to do, Lord Worsley?”

“I’ll go in. They can’t very well deny me admittance to my family’s home without giving the game away."

"You want to go into a building that's set to explode?" Lucan said.

"If I can get in and explain to my father, it's the fastest way to get everyone out. Assuming it isn't my father who's set the explosion. In which case presumably he'll be long gone, and I'll warn whoever's left in the house."

Tanner watched Worsley with a hard gaze, but it was Lucan who spoke. “And if they take you prisoner, too?”

“Then the rest of you burst in.”

Roth looked at him a moment and slowly nodded. “Most of the soldiers are patrolling outside, aren’t they?”

“That’s how it looked when I was there,” Gordon said.

“And when I was,” Addison added.

“So while Worsley’s distracting the soldiers at the front of the house, we can take out those at the back. That should even up the odds.”

Lucan grinned. “Never thought to hear such sense from a Bow Street Runner.”

“Thank you,” Roth said. “I do my best.”

Mélanie and Tommy approached the manor house through the beech wood to the north. The sky was almost black and only a faint glow from behind the clouds lit their way. She still had her pistol out, but if Tommy ran she’d be hard pressed to hit him in this light. It seemed to have taken endless time to traverse the estate. She tried not to think about candle ends burning down and trails of gunpowder leading to charges of saltpeter. Surely the explosion wouldn’t be set to go off so early. Surely St. Juste's confederate wasn’t planning to blow himself up along with his targets.

They were nearly at the edge of the trees when Tommy grabbed her arm and pulled her back. She stumbled against the bark and then she heard it too. Booted footsteps on the damp ground.

“They’re patrolling,” Tommy muttered in her ear. “We’ll have to draw them off. If I pull their fire, there’s a window straight ahead you can go through. I levered it open earlier before I almost got caught by the soldiers. Do you remember what we did at Almeida?”

She nodded, the memory of the Spanish farmhouse that had been turned into a makeshift headquarters by French soldiers sharp in her mind. Odd that for all his own treachery, Tommy still didn’t know she’d actually been a double-agent in those days.

“I had a look round earlier,” Tommy went on, the vibration of his voice against her skin. “The ground floor looks empty at this end of the house. The cellar's the obvious place to hold prisoners. And lay explosives. Though those must be closer to the front of the house if they want to be sure of getting Carfax.”

She nodded again, already unlacing her half boots. She stripped off her silk stockings and unhooked her pelisse. Pity she hadn’t thought to bring breeches.

Tommy exchanged a glance with her. She offered him his pistol. He shook his head. “You’ll need it more than I will. I hope.“ To her surprise, he squeezed her hand. “Au revoir, pet,” he murmured, and slipped out from the trees.

A heavy footstep, a shout, and more footsteps followed. Ostentatious crashing through the hedge as Tommy led them away. Mélanie darted round the hedge, glanced about, and ran to the house. The window opened as Tommy had promised. She pulled herself over the sill and dropped onto polished wood. A console table. She rolled to the ground just as she heard the sound of boots sloshing through mud in her direction.

“Bloody hell! We’ve lost him.”

She peered over the ledge and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, eased the sash down.If it had been shadowy inside the lodge at twilight, it was velvet black in the manor house with the sun gone down. But just in case her form might be visible through the window, she crawled on her hands and knees, over what felt like Turkey carpet and age-worn floorboards, and felt her way to the door.

She inched the door open. No light or sound spilled in. She got to her feet and slipped into the passage.No candle or lamplight illumined the passage and no moonlight spilled through the windows. The wind tore through ancient brick and timber and the rain beat on the roof and windows, making it damnably difficult to listen for clues to where the guards might lurk. It would be a rambling Elizabethan Manor house, all bends and turns and idiosyncratic angles, instead of a nice symmetrical Palladian structure.

After a moment she could make out doors, table, windows by the wall to the left. Nothing that looked as though it led to stairs, so she felt her way to the right. Footsteps sounded above the wind and the rain. She wrenched open the nearest door and ducked into a dark space the smelled of lavender.

A flicker of light showed against the door.

“See anything?” a voice said.

“Not a hair.”

Silence. More footsteps. A sound that might have been a window being pulled open and a muffled shout of “Find him?”

Apparently the answer was negative, because the window was slammed shut with a decisive crash. “Disappeared toward the trees. Back to our post.”

Retreating footsteps. She counted to thirty and eased the door open. Silent darkness. She conjured up an image of the house. Surely there’d be stairs to the cellar toward the back. Near the kitchens. Damn the damp that made it impossible to smell anything beyond sour mustiness.

She inched along the wall, hearing Charles’s voice in her head. Stupid, Mel. Surely one of us should stay alive for the children. But were their positions reversed, she knew he’d be acting precisely as she was.

The passage veered off to the left and right. The right should be close to the outer wall of the house. She moved left, opened one door onto some sort of large chamber and another onto a cupboard full of dishes and silver and cut-glass. She must be near the dining room and therefore the kitchens. She pocketed a knife.

She opened the next door. Cold air, rising from below. She crept forward, felt a newel post, a railing. She hit the first step a little too hard. It squeaked. She felt her way to the wall, where the wood should be more solid. One step at a time, despite the fact that every nerve in her body screamed at her to hurry.

Ten steps, a half landing, ten more steps. A dank smell, sharper than above. Cold, slithery flagstones. She felt her way along the wall. Stone, covered with rough plaster. Seemingly endless feet of it. And then wood and an iron door handle. She risked a low sound her husband would know instantly, though it was designed to pass as a thrush’s call. (Actually, Raoul had taught it to her and she’d taught it to Charles.)

A slow drip of water that indicated a leak. Nothing more. She crept further on, found another door, gave the call again. Her throat hurt.

Silence. And then, an answering sound. Not from this door, but farther down the passage. The wind? A trick of her desperate mind? She followed the sound, found a third door, gave the call again. This time the answer was unmistakable.

Air rushed into her lungs. The door was bolted. Thank God she’d thrown her picklocks into her reticule. It took several fumbling tries to find the right implement and then jiggle it correctly. Her fingers were shaking, as though she were a foolish girl trying to undress her first lover. But at last the lock groaned and she fell against the door, pushing it inward.

Her husband’s arms closed round her. At least, she hoped it was her husband. Yes. She caught the familiar scent of sandalwood beneath the damp and grime.

“There may be a time when I was happier to see you,” he said, his lips in her hair, “but I can’t think when it was.”

“A timely appearance. But then you’ve always had a knack for them,” said another voice from a tactful distance off. Raoul’s voice.

Charles released her.

She put out a hand. “You’re—“

“Alive. And still on your side.“ His hand closed hard round her own.

“We don’t have time. The building’s mined to explode.”

“Where?” Raoul said.

“I’m not sure, but somewhere in the cellars is a good guess. The soldiers may not be real soldiers.”

“How long do we have?” Charles asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Right,” Raoul said. “You two find Carfax and the others and get the house cleared. I’ll find the fuse.”

“You can’t—“ Charles said.

“It’s foolish to risk all of us looking. I can pick a lock and snuff out a candle as well as either of you.”

Charles touched Mélanie’s arm. “You go. I’ll help O’Roarke. Give me your picklocks.”

“Charles—“ she and Raoul said in almost the same breath.

“There’s no bloody time to argue.”

She reached into her pocket, gave Charles her picklocks and Tommy’s pistol, and gave the knife to Raoul. “If you can’t find the fuse in ten minutes—“

“We can take care of ourselves. It’s up to you to take care of everyone else.“ Charles pushed her toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”

Chapter 37

I don't ask that you agree with me or even like me. But I do ask that you recognize what it is to be a Mallinson.

Lord Carfax to David Mallinson,

2 April 1810

David climbed the steps of Spendlove Manor. Rain spilled from the sky, and the only light came from a faint glow behind the mullioned windows.

Simon, Roth, Lucan, and Addison were round the back of the house, drawing off the soldiers. Bet and Nan Simcox, Hortense Beaulieu, Trenor, and Gordon were spread out behind the hawthorn hedge at the front of the house. He was supposed to whistle if he wanted them to act. It had all sounded vaguely sensible in the parlor of the White Hart. Now it seemed mad. As they were leaving the inn, Simon had grabbed him behind the door and given him a quick, hard kiss. “Be careful,” he’d said. Only dire circumstances could have driven Simon to give advice that was so obvious.

“You there.” A man in a British uniform stepped away from the shrubbery by the house. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Worsley. I’m here to see my father.”

“Your father?”

“Lord Carfax. I believe he’s in the house.”

The soldier hesitated. David climbed the stone steps and pushed open the heavy front door. Two more soldiers stood in the hall. Three of the fifteen accounted for.

“I’m here to see my father, Lord Carfax. Where is he?”

The soldiers exchanged glances.

“Upstairs? I’ll find my own way.”

Torches in the wall sconces cast fitful light on the dark oak staircase. David was two steps from the landing when a door opened and he found himself staring Neil Vickers in the face.

“Worsley. What the devil—“

“Good day, Vickers. I’m here to see my father. I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

“How the devil do you know—“

David pushed past him into the sitting room at the head of the stairs. Lord Carfax stood by the windows with the Comte de Flahaut and another man, a generation older, with graying hair and Gallic features. He leaned on a cane.

Carfax spun round at the opening of the door. “What the devil are you doing here, David?”

“Warning you. Sir—“

Vickers entered the room behind him. “I tried to stop him—“

“Look, there’s no time for long explanations,” David said. “The building's set with explosives."

Carfax strode forward. "What—"

"The soldiers downstairs aren’t real soldiers. They’ve been replaced by a gang from Seven Dials. This was St. Juste’s plot. Unless I've got it twisted round, and you hired him yourself.”

This was not the first time Mélanie had reconnoitered a dark passage by memory. She ran along the slippery flagstones, catching herself once against the rough wall when her foot skidded, and started up the stairs. She could hear the drip of water on the roof but no other sound.

Up to the top of the stairs and down the passage the way she had come. She turned toward the front of the house and met a flash of candlelight. “Who the devil are you?” said a sharp voice.