He had broken the seal, read the few scribbled lines, then read them again in disbelief and examined the seal more closely. He had seen it once or twice before, on invitations that came for his mother, on commendations awarded to his older brothers.
It was the royal seal of King George II.
Max paused at the corner of a building, leaning against the brick as if in a drunken stupor. A few yards ahead, on the other side of the street, he could see the heavy tavern sign on an iron bracket, illuminated by an oil lamp. In blood red, it depicted a small bird being torn to shreds by the talons of a larger bird of prey: The Hawk and Sparrow.
He hesitated, wondering again why him? This was the sort of thing his older brothers Dalton, Saxon, and Julian excelled at. He was a simple scholar, not a daredevil adventurer. Since his recovery he had gained muscle, strength, and confidence—thanks to the influence and encouragement of his brothers, especially Julian—but training with weights and riding hardly qualified him for this.
But Dalton was halfway around the world, Saxon was at the family estate in Kent with his wife and their newborn daughter, and Julian…
Max’s throat closed tight. Julian was fighting for his life.
Casting an uneasy glance over his shoulder, he thought again of the terse words that had summoned him here: If you would like to prevent what happened to your brother and his ship from happening again, come to the Hawk and Sparrow on Bishopgate Street, Tuesday next, two A.M. Tell no one. Come alone.
And then below that, underlined, imperative: For the good of England, come.
There was no signature. No name. Only that seal, which spoke louder than any words.
Max stepped out into the street, heading for the tavern, staggering as he scanned the darkness around him. Was it possible, he wondered for the hundredth time, for someone to make so realistic an imitation of the royal seal?
Thoughts of murder and blackmail and numerous other nefarious possibilities chased through his mind. But he kept walking toward the tavern, his hand slipping inside his greatcoat, finding the lethally accurate twin-barreled pistol he carried—the one he had helped design for the renowned firm of Fulbright and Weeks, gunsmiths.
He had no intention of getting himself killed. Not now. Not when he had only just started to live.
Crossing the street, he avoided the lamplight, neared the tavern door and stopped, flattening himself against the wall as drunkenly and casually as possible. Glancing through one of the dirt-smudged windows, he drew his weapon, keeping it within his greatcoat. His heart thudded against his ribs.
The place was deserted but for the tavernkeeper, who sat yawning over a mug of ale before the fire, and a grizzled seaman slurping down a late supper at one of the tables. The sailor’s left leg was a stump that ended at the knee. Neither man looked the sort to have arranged a royal rendezvous.
Max edged toward the door. His mind seemed to be working furiously fast. From boyhood he had secretly dreamed of daring heroics such as this. He had listened to his brothers’ tales of voyages to India and Malabar and Canton. In books, he had sacked Carthage with Alexander, sailed the Mediterranean with Odysseus, fought at Agincourt beside Shakespeare’s Prince Hal.
But he was no prince and this was no dream. It was as real as the weight of the gun in his hand.
Real as the sweat trickling down his back.
He didn’t remember ever reading about a hero sweating this way.
For the good of England, come.
He reached for the latch, but before he could open the door, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Max spun and almost fired.
“Whoa, there, guv’nor!” A haggard young man with watery eyes and a tattered frock coat leaped back, hands raised. “Ye looks like ye don’t be needin’ any more ale t’night. Me coach is fer ’ire. ’Ow about a ride home?” He jerked his thumb toward a hackney parked at the corner.
Shaken, Max released his finger from the hair trigger of his pistol—and cursed himself for being too bloody quick with the gun. “No thanks,” he said curtly.
Before he could turn back to the door, the man caught his arm. “’Ave a ’art, guv. It’s late and I needs the quid, I do.”
Max tried to wrest loose with a drunken curse. This was bound to attract attention. But the insistent driver held on, leaned closer, and spoke under his breath—in a tone that had lost any trace of a Cockney accent.
“They’re waiting for you in the coach, my lord.”
Max straightened with a jerk. He took a swig from the bottle of Madeira to cover his complete surprise. “You insol…insolent whelp,” he growled in a loud, inebriated slur, adding in a whisper, “Who is waiting?”
“The men who sent you the note, Lord Maximilian. We needed to make sure you had come alone,” the man whispered back. He gestured toward the coach, bobbing in a bow. “Sorry, guv!” He slipped easily back into his accent, his voice louder again. “Didn’t mean t’ offend yer lordship. ’Alf price, I’ll give ye.”
“Well, then, half price I shall accept.” Max staggered toward the coach, taking the imperious tone of the self-important young lords he met too often. “But take me to Crockford’s. I’m not ready to go home yet!”
“Thank ye, yer lordship. Very kind of ye.” Bowing and smiling and bowing again, the man escorted him to the vehicle—a drab hackney like the scores of others that plied London’s streets—and opened the door. “Crockford’s it is, guv’nor.”
Max ignored the chill shivering down the back of his neck and levered himself up into the darkened coach, surreptitiously drawing his pistol.
He couldn’t see a thing. But no sooner was he seated on the surprisingly plush upholstery than a deep voice sounded from the seat opposite him.
“I must say, the bottle was an inspired touch, D’Avenant. And those clothes and the stubble transform you into quite a believable drunkard. But you really won’t need that deadly pistol of yours. Do you think you might stop pointing it at us?”
“We assure you, you are in no danger,” a second man said from beside the first. “We’ve asked you to meet with us because we require your help.”
Max remained poised on the velvet cushions. He didn’t relax a muscle. “My help is a matter open to discussion…gentlemen,” he said carefully, guessing their nobility from their refined speech. “As for the gun, I think I’ll keep it right where it is.”
A low chuckle emanated from the second man. “Wolf, you chose well.”
“I told you we couldn’t go wrong with a D’Avenant.” Wolf rapped on the roof of the coach with what sounded like a walking stick, and the hackney lurched away from the curb, setting off down the street at a moderate pace.
The second man leaned forward and closed the curtains over the windows on either side, cloaking them from the eyes of the outside world. Then he lit a pair of interior lamps—and Max could see that what he had mistaken for a drab, ordinary hackney was not ordinary at all. The interior was as plush as the exterior was plain.
He studied his two hosts. Both older men. In their fifties, he guessed. Neither matched his height or build, but they looked strong enough to give him a good deal of trouble if it came to that—though the one called Wolf had his arm in a sling. They were dressed impeccably in silk brocade frock coats, ruffles, lace. Powdered wigs. Jeweled stickpins.
“Who are you?” Max asked. “And why the coach?”
“We decided on the coach because we thought you might have arranged for friends to meet you in the tavern,” Wolf explained, “and this conversation must be kept absolutely private. This is Fleming, and my name is Wolf. We represent a special ministry of His Majesty’s government.”
“Why do I doubt that Wolf and Fleming are your real names?” Max looked from one to the other with a skeptically raised eyebrow.
“Consider them our noms de guerre,” Fleming replied with a fleeting, cynical smile. “Our real names are unimportant.”
“The work we do, however, is vital to the interests of the Cr
own.”
“And precisely what sort of work might that be?” Max inquired dryly, already guessing the answer.
“We gather information for His Majesty,” Wolf said. “We protect the interests of England, in whatever ways may be necessary. We are—”
“Spies,” Max finished for him.
“Patriots,” Wolf corrected.
“That still doesn’t explain what you want with me.” Returning his pistol to its hidden pocket at last, Max corked the bottle of Madeira and tossed it onto the seat cushion beside him. “As I’m certain your ‘gatherers of information’ have informed you, I may be many things—but a master of intrigue does not number among them. Exactly what sort of help are you looking for, gentlemen?”
For a moment, there was no sound but the clatter of the coach wheels over the wet cobbles.
Settling back into his seat, Wolf regarded Max with a penetrating stare. “We’ve sought you out because of your brother’s recent misfortune. We wish you to help us prevent it from ever happening again.”
Fleming took up the explanation. “The attack on your brother’s East Indiaman was not carried out using an ordinary weapon—”
“Everyone in London is aware of that,” Max bit out. “My brother is barely alive, one hundred of his crewmen are dead, another twenty survivors are horribly burned, and there is nothing left of the Rising Star but ashes. All of which happened in a matter of seconds. I think that’s demonstration enough that this was no ordinary weapon.”
“Indeed,” Fleming said calmly. “You have our condolences on Lord Julian’s injuries. I understand he was blinded.”
“Temporarily,” Max replied firmly. “He’s expected to regain his sight.”
“Yes, certainly.” It was clear from Wolf’s placating tone, that he didn’t believe that any more than anyone else in London. “But let us keep our discussion on course. The fact that the French chose to test their weapon against a merchant ship rather than a man-of-war shows that they were not entirely confident of its capabilities. Which means that it is still relatively new.”
“And why haven’t they used it again, since it was such a bloody smashing success?” Max asked the question that obsessed everyone in England. “It’s been a fortnight. What are they waiting for? Why haven’t they wiped out half our navy by now?”
“They appear to be experiencing some difficulty with this new discovery of theirs,” Fleming supplied with a hint of satisfaction. “Our operatives in France have been able to obtain only sketchy information at best, but it seems this new weapon is a chemical compound—”
“A chemical?” Max’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Yes. At least a hundred times more powerful than gunpowder. Invented by one of their scientists. When ignited, the compound causes a flash of fire unlike anything seen before. One spark and a mere ounce of this mixture—”
“Is enough to destroy an entire ship and all aboard.” Max clenched his fists against the velvet upholstery. “Before they even know they’re being attacked.”
“The French require only a small blunderbuss and a single volley of grapeshot.” Wolf nodded. “That’s how your brother’s ship was caught unaware.”
A chill shivered through Max. “They could slip inside our lines with a few small brigs or cutters. Even rowboats. And wipe out—”
“Everything,” Fleming confirmed darkly.
That single word hung in the air for an ominous moment.
“The Royal Navy is England.” Wolf’s voice sounded unnaturally calm. “Without it, our entire Empire, even England herself…” He shifted in his seat, holding his injured arm. “To put it succinctly, the French could finally achieve the goal they have been hungrily contemplating for more than a hundred years. Invasion.”
Max stared at him, unable to summon a single word in reply. Invasion. It was unthinkable. So foreign a thought to the English mind that it was in the realm of nightmare. To think of Britain overpowered by the French…subjected to foreign rule…defeated. “Good God,” he said hoarsely.
“To be completely honest, we don’t understand why the French haven’t proceeded already.” Fleming’s expression was grim. “They tested their weapon only that once and haven’t made a move since.”
“It’s possible that they had only a limited supply of the new chemical. Enough for that one test and no more.” Wolf shook his head. “But the only clues we have are those obtained from the chemist’s laboratory. Our men in France tracked him down in Versailles, where he was working with the minister of the French navy, but he fled to his home in the countryside. They followed him there—and found themselves in an unexpected battle with French agents.”
“Unfortunately, the French set the place afire before we could get anything useful. Both the house and laboratory burned to the ground.” Fleming withdrew a packet from his frock coat and handed it to Max. “Our men were able to salvage only these few notes.”
Max accepted the sheaf of papers and unfolded them. Some were half burned away. All were blackened around the edges…and stained with rust-colored splotches.
Blood.
He subdued a shudder.
“Two of our men were killed in the gun battle,” Wolf said quietly. “The third made it to England with those before he died. What do the notes tell you, D’Avenant?”
Max felt his gut clench. A man had died getting this information to London, given his life for his country. If all the Crown wanted from him was his scientific expertise, it was the least he could do. Reaching into his coat, he fished for his spectacles in the pocket of his waistcoat and put them on. Forcing himself to look past the bloodstains, he focused on the writing.
The notations were all in French, in a neat, elegant, almost feminine hand. He studied them for a moment, silent. “They’re notes about experiments with various forms of wood shavings.” He skimmed the papers and shrugged. “Why the devil would he have been working with wood shavings?”
“Obviously one of the ingredients in the compound,” Fleming commented. “But we have no idea how the wood shavings were used. Or what else the chemical may have contained.”
Wolf leaned forward. “Those notes are all we have, D’Avenant. We need more information. Much more. But we’ve only two dependable men left in Paris. Three were killed in the disastrous affair at the laboratory, and our sixth man…”
The sentence hung unfinished. Max lifted his gaze from his perusal of the notes. “What about the sixth man?”
“The sixth man has disappeared,” Fleming said. “We assume he’s dead as well.”
“Though there is a chance,” Wolf admitted, “that he is now working for the French.”
“A turncoat?” Max couldn’t stomach the thought of a man who would hand over his own country and his honor for a few pieces of gold.
Fleming nodded. “We’ve had doubts about him for some time. We were preparing to…deal with him when all of this unexpectedly occurred.”
“Fleming, you’re digressing again.” Wolf shot his companion an annoyed glance. “The point is, D’Avenant, we’ve learned through our last men in Paris that the French have this ‘genius chemist’ of theirs, a man by the name of Armand LeBon, locked in the Bastille. He was arrested twelve days ago, after the gun battle at his home. He tried to flee with his two sisters, but there was…” He paused. “That is to say…”
“There was an unfortunate carriage accident,” Fleming continued for him. “LeBon escaped harm and was promptly taken into custody by the French, but his youngest sister was killed and the other one badly injured. At present, our men report that she’s been placed in an asylum in Paris, suffering from a head injury and a complete loss of memory.”
Max tossed the packet of notes back to Fleming. “I’ll be sure to convey my condolences to LeBon,” he growled. “Forgive me if I find it difficult to feel sympathy for his loss—when he’s responsible for creating a weapon that killed a hundred men in less than a minute.” Max yanked off his spectacles. “Gentlemen, you obviously d
on’t require my expertise to explain what little is in those notes. This is all very informative, but what does it have to do with me?”
“A great deal, my lord. A very great deal.” Wolf withdrew another paper from his coat and handed it to Max. “Allow me to present the older sister, Mademoiselle Marie Nicole LeBon.”
Impatiently, Max unfolded the page and put his spectacles back on. It was a pen-and-ink sketch of a young woman’s face. An unremarkable face. Straight hair, large eyes, rather a squarish chin with a small cleft in the middle. “Plain little thing,” he said with a shrug.
“Indeed. But there is a great deal more to the mademoiselle than meets the eye,” Fleming said slowly.
“Three days ago, one of our operatives uncovered a piece of information that may give us a vital advantage over our enemy,” Wolf explained. “We know that this LeBon fellow is locked in the Bastille, evidently under great pressure to reproduce his remarkable compound—but thus far he has proven astonishingly incompetent.”
“The French probably assume he is being purposely uncooperative,” Fleming continued, “but our man has learned that there is a reason why he’s failed. The fact that all the notations recovered from the laboratory were in the mademoiselle’s handwriting was our first clue—”
“Then our man tracked down a serving woman who worked for the family. She needed only modest financial compensation to discuss her former employers at great length—”
“Fascinating length—”
“And what we’ve learned is that this LeBon chap doesn’t know the first thing about chemistry,” Wolf finished with satisfaction. Leaning forward, he tapped the paper Max held. “She is the scientific genius who invented the weapon.”
Max looked up, stunned, then dropped his gaze to the sketch again. “Impossible,” he choked out. “How could this…this slip of a girl possibly know enough about combustion and dephlogistication and—” He lifted his head again, anger crowding in on his astonishment. “Good God, what kind of a monster is she? How could any woman create a weapon capable of killing thousands?”
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 3