The Mask of Night (55 page)

The candlelight illumined the red of a British uniform. “Oh, please,” she murmured. “Don’t get me in trouble. I’m only here because he threatened to tell Mum and Da about me and Davey Underhill Thursday last.”

“You and who? Threatened what?”

“Billy. My brother.“ Mélanie sidled closer to the guard, hands behind her back to conceal her pistol. “He said he’d tell them about me and Davey if I didn’t do it.”

“Do what?“ The guard’s gaze slid over the damp silk of her gown.

She wet her lips. “Slip into the manor house and nip a couple of bottles from the cellar. I told him it was daft, but he said there’d be no one about.”

She lifted her face to the guard’s, eyes very wide. A second soldier came round the corner. “What the—“

“Says her brother made her come in here,” the first soldier said. “To steal some wine.”

“Yes, and I’d never have done it if it weren’t for Davey and Da’s temper being so fearful bad and—“

She spun round, knocked the first guard into the wall and dealt the other a blow to the head with the butt of her pistol. He crumpled to the floor. She snatched up his musket and brought it down hard on the first guard’s head. Satisfied that neither was moving, she ran into the hall.

“He’ll have set the explosives toward the front of the house,” Charles said.

O’Roarke nodded. At least, Charles thought he did, as best he could see in the gloom. They ran down the dark passage, bumping into walls when they misjudged a turn. No need now to fear making noise. Their best hope might be to threaten someone into telling them where the explosives were set.

They rounded a corner and saw light spilling from a door left ajar. O’Roarke turned to him. “Rush them. And hope to hell they can tell us something.”

They charged through the open door to see four figures, two-redcoated, two not. Lantern light jumped over whitewashed walls and racks of bottles. Charles heard a fist connecting with flesh and then a body slamming into flagstones and glass smashing. The light flared and went out as O’Roarke’s blow sent the man with the lantern crashing to the floor.

Charles hurled himself at one of the men not in uniform. Or where the man had been in the instant before the light went out. He caught a handful of soft, wet cloth. The man staggered, recovered his balance, and struck Charles a blow to the jaw. Charles’s boots skidded on the flagstones. Instead of trying to remain upright, he dropped to the ground, dragging his opponent with him. They fell against a rack of bottles. Glass shattered against stone, and the smell of wine filled the air.

Someone gave a grunt of pain on the opposite side of the room. Charles knelt over his opponent, pinning his arms to the flagstones. “Where are the explosives?”

"Charles, for God's sake," said a horse voice.

Though his face was only a few inches from the other man’s, Charles couldn’t see his features. But he knew that voice without thinking twice about it.

It belonged to Oliver Lydgate.

David crossed the room in two strides and seized his father's arm. "Sir, there's no time. I don't know if they'll try to stop us from leaving, but I suggest we have weapons ready—"

Carfax removed his arm from David's grip. "Where the devil did you get this information?"

“From friends.”

“Their names?”

“Sam Lucan and Nan Simcox.”

“Never heard of them,” Vickers said.

"I met them through Charles—"

"I might have known it," Carfax said. "If this is some mad notion of Charles Fraser's—"

"Just a minute," said the man with the cane. "Perhaps—"

The door burst open. David spun round, ready to tackle an attacker, and found himself looking at Mélanie.

“You have to get out of here,” she said. “At once. The house is set with explosives.“ Her gaze fell on David, widened, then moved to Flahaut and the man with the cane. "M. Talleyrand."

“Mrs. Fraser.” The man inclined his head. “This settles it, Carfax. I suggest we leave at once.”

"Charles, no, we're on the same side," said Oliver Lydgate.

"Oliver, there's no time—"

Metal scraped against fabric. “I have a pistol aimed at you, Mr. Fraser,” a voice said behind him. A light voice. A woman's voice. “I admit that visibility is poor, but I wouldn't take a chance on where I might hit in the dark.”

"Sylvie—" Oliver said, a note of anguish in his voice.

"I don't want to shoot you, Oliver, but I will if I have to."

“Got the other one,” a voice announced from across the room. “Don’t move, you bastard.”

“With a pistol to my head, that would hardly seem wise,” O’Roarke said. “I think your friend is unconscious.”

Clever O’Roarke. He’d neatly given Charles the disposition of the three on the other side of the room.

Charles pushed himself up on his hands so he could more easily spring to his feet. “Where are the explosives?”

“The what?” said the man with the pistol on O’Roarke.

“The building’s set to explode,” Charles told him. “If you don’t know that, your employer was planning to sacrifice you and all your friends.”

“They’re bluffing,” Sylvie St. Ives said. “Light the lamp and throw me some rope.”

“What the devil excuse did she give you for coming down here?” O’Roarke asked. “That she wanted to sample the wine?”

“You don't—“

“For God sake, who are you going to trust?” Lady St. Ives demanded. “Two men who attacked you or the woman who’s paying you?"

”But she hasn’t paid you yet, has she?” O’Roarke said.

A moment of silence followed. The sort of silence in which a man might rethink things, might loosen his grip on a pistol held to another man’s head. Sylvie drew a breath, but before she could speak there was a rush of movement and a crash on the opposite side of the room. A bullet whistled against the stone and plaster of the ceiling. Charles sprang at Sylvie St. Ives. A second bullet shattered a bottle.

Sylvie’s hand closed round Charles’s throat. Charles slashed her arm with a piece of broken glass. She screamed, then stumbled, as Oliver grabbed her ankles. Charles threw himself forward and sent Sylvie crashing to the slate floor. Sylvie went still in his hands.

“Charles?” O’Roarke’s voice sounded out of the darkness.

“She’s unconscious.“ Charles had his fingers against Sylvie's throat where he could feel a pulse beating. “Oliver? Do you know where the charges are?"

"No. But Sylvie's not the sacrificial type. She'd have given herself time to get away.”

Oliver struck a spark and lit the shattered lantern. The fitful light showed one guard slumped against the wall, and O'Roarke holding a knife to the other guard's throat.

The conscious guard cast a glance at O’Roarke. “You weren’t bluffing?”

“No. Where did she set the explosives?”

“Don’t know. She told us she was here to check on the prisoners and fetch up some wine.”

O’Roarke stripped off his cravat and the lashed the guard’s hands behind his back. “See if you can wake her up, Charles. I’ll start searching."

Charles tossed O’Roarke the picklocks. Oliver slapped Sylvie across the face.

Her head flopped from side to side, but her eyes remained closed.

Charles grabbed a bottle from the rack above, smashed it, and threw the contents in Sylvie's face. She stirred.

Oliver shook her. “Sylvie.”

No response. Charles tossed some more wine into her eyes. Oliver slapped her again, gripped her shoulders.

Her eyes blinked open, clouded with confusion.

“You’re still in Spendlove Manor,” Charles said. “In the cellar. With the explosives.”

She struggled to sit up. “How long—?"

Oliver pinned her against the flagstones. “Long enough for your fuse to burn down.”

“What—“

“Damn it, Sylvie.“ Oliver dragged her up by her arms. "O’Roarke will find the fuse sooner or later. Unless we all blow up first.”

“I can’t—“

Oliver pulled her closer, his face inches from her own. “There’s no time.”

Sylvie's gaze flickered over his face. Anger, frustration, fear. She released a breath that sounded as though it came through gritted teeth. “A cupboard at the end of the passage. Second to last door. Barrels packed with saltpeter.”

“Where’s the fuse?”

“Inside an empty barrel at the back.”

“O’Roarke—“ Charles called.

“I heard.“

A door opened. “Got it,” O’Roarke said, a few moments later. “We had about five minutes more, I think.”

Chapter 38

Pay particular attention to Talleyrand in Vienna. His skills at deception may be even greater than my own.

Lord Carfax to Charles Fraser

5 June 1814

Mélanie stumbled out of the house. Talleyrand and Carfax were behind her, followed by David, Flahaut, and Vickers dragging the two unconscious guards. By the light of the lamp Carfax had snatched up, she saw Simon, Addison, and Roth holding muskets on four more guards. Simon’s gaze went straight to David. She could have sworn she heard him sigh, though it was nonsensical that the sound would be audible over the hammering rain and tearing wind.

Roth came toward them and glanced at the unconscious guards. “This makes six accounted for. Lucan’s gone to round up the stragglers. The others are round the front.“ His gaze slid to Talleyrand and Flahaut.

“Jeremy Roth of Bow Street,” Mélanie said. “Prince Talleyrand and the Comte de Flahaut. Have you seen Charles? Or O’Roarke?”

Roth shook his head.

“Get everyone away from the house. I’ll find them.”

David caught her arm. “Stay here, Mélanie. I’ll go.”

“Thank you, David, but I can—“

“No time for arguing.“ Simon pushed past them.

But as he spoke, Charles and Raoul stumbled out of the house, followed by two other men. Charles was in his shirtsleeves, soaked through with something she feared was blood then realized was red wine. A scrape showed on his cheek and a bruise was rising on his temple. Raoul still had his coat on but had lost his cravat. He was favoring one leg and bleeding from a gash over his right eye.

She was suddenly able to breathe again, though she hadn’t been aware she’d stopped. If she’d been a girl like Lucinda she’d have run into Charles's arms. As it was, she simply met his gaze for a moment in the swaying lamplight. His eyes glinted and his mouth lifted in a smile.

She looked at Raoul, then turned her gaze to the other two men. Oliver and— Lady St. Ives? Mélanie blinked, sure she must be seeing things, but it was undoubtedly she.

"Oliver," Carfax said in a pleasant voice. "I wasn't aware you were coming down here."

"It was a sudden decision. Lady St. Ives needed my escort."

"I see. And what—"

He broke off as Bet and Hortense came round the side of the house. Flahaut drew a strangled breath. Hortense went still, her gaze fastened on his face.

“Might I suggest we adjourn inside to sort matters out?” Charles said.

Talleyrand looked from Flahaut to Hortense. “Yes,” he said, “I think that would be best. Carfax, I fancy we could all do with a drink.”

The light from two Argand lamps and a trio of silver gilt candelabra reassured Charles that O’Roarke’s wound had not started bleeding again. At least O’Roarke was not dripping blood all over the crimson velvet upholstery and polished oak floor in the first-floor sitting room to which they had adjourned. The two of them were sitting on a sofa with Roth and Mélanie (who kept glancing between him and O’Roarke as though checking for injuries).

Carfax was pouring out sherry for the company. David was stirring the coals in the fireplace to a blaze. The firelight flickered over Trenor, Bet, Nan, and Gordon, seated on a second crimson velvet sofa, and Simon, Vickers, and Flahaut, perched on shield-back tapestry chairs.

Flahaut was attempting to stare straight ahead, but his gaze kept straying to Hortense, who sat on a settee beside Sylvie St. Ives. Oliver hovered behind the settee. Charles couldn't tell if he was trying to protect Sylvie or guard her. He suspected Oliver didn't know himself.

The supposed soldiers were gathered in the hall downstairs, guarded by Lucan. The two unconscious ones had come round. One had a sprained wrist, which Mélanie had bound with Simon’s cravat, but no permanent damage seemed to have been done. None of them had voiced accusations against Lady St. Ives. Yet.