by Kat Ross
It was the opening Balthazar had hoped for.
“I’ve always wanted to meet the king,” he said carelessly. “It’s a shame I didn’t manage to secure an invitation.”
“You’re leaving on Sunday?”
He nodded.
“It would be lovely to spend our last evening together.” She set the brush down. “Of course, I already have an escort. Some marquess with fishy breath.” Marisa spun around. “What if I say my dear cousin arrived in town unexpectedly? You could come with me.”
“I hate to impose—”
“Not at all.” She looked happy. “You’re free tomorrow night?”
“I am.” He patted the bed. “Come back here. I’m getting cold.”
She laughed and walked over, laying a palm on his chest. “Cold? Your skin is hot as sin, Balthazar.”
He suddenly wanted to please her. Make her scream his name and remember him on her deathbed. Who knew when he’d ever do this again? He felt no burning lust for Marisa, but he liked her. And it was liberating to make love to a woman and not have it be purely transactional.
He tugged at the sheet until it fell away. Her breath quickened.
“You’re lovely,” he murmured. “Let me teach you some new tricks I’ve learned….”
And so Balthazar passed a more pleasant afternoon than he had for weeks in the Baroness De Smet’s bedroom on the Ixelles Ponds. He departed with a promise to pick her up at seven-thirty sharp the next evening.
Now he had only to deal with Bekker.
“I’m close to persuading her,” Balthazar said.
They stood on the docks watching workers unload cargo from one of Bekker’s barges. Lars hovered nearby, the brim of his bowler hat pulled low over his small eyes. Three other necromancers stood in a loose ring around them, eyes constantly moving.
“How close?” Bekker demanded. “I want an answer.”
“Very close. She adores me.” Balthazar paused. “But I think she’s playing a little game of her own. She wants me to go to some gala tomorrow night at the Royal Museum of Ancient Art.”
Bekker’s eyes narrowed. “It’s in my honor.”
“Yes, she did mention that,” Balthazar said, allowing a touch of reluctance to enter his voice. “I’d prefer to skip it, but I have a feeling she’ll be cross. The baroness is a demanding woman.” He paused. “With prodigious appetites. I’ve hardly slept—”
“You’d better go, then,” Bekker interrupted, lips pursing in distaste. “As it happens, there’s another matter I want you to take care of.”
“Oh?”
Bekker stared out at the quiet water of the canal. “Count Marie Hippolyte Adrien Ludovic d’Ursel.”
Balthazar winced. “That’s a mouthful.”
“He’s the president of the Belgian Anti-Slavery Society. Bunch of meddling Catholics. The group is only a year old, but they have money.” Bekker scowled. “They’re becoming a thorn in my side. D’Ursel will be at the reception, I’ll point him out to you.”
“And what is it you want me to do?”
“Kill him, of course. Make it look like a robbery gone wrong. You’ll have to get rid of his family and the servants, as well. No witnesses.” Bekker might have been discussing the weather. “But I have the utmost confidence in you and Mr. Marchand.”
Balthazar didn’t bat an eyelash. “When do you need it done?”
“As soon as possible. After the reception, if you can pry yourself away from the baroness. Take care of the children and wait for him and his wife to return. Or kill them first, I don’t care.”
“Of course. Anything else?”
Bekker gave him a sharp look. “Are you objecting? I’ve asked very little of you, Balthazar.”
“Not at all. I just want to know when I’ll get those mines you promised.”
“As a matter of fact, I have a new business opportunity that would be perfect for you. We’ll discuss it after you handle d’Ursel. And the De Smet fleet, naturally.”
“I hope so. I’m not here out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Patience,” Bekker counseled. “Soon enough you’ll have all you dreamt of and more.”
“I believe you,” Balthazar said with a thin smile.
He took his leave and went for a long walk through the city, wandering aimlessly in thought. He decided to spare Lucas the details of their latest assignment. It cut a bit too close to the bone. And it didn’t matter anyway. After tomorrow night, Bekker would be dead, or he would.
Balthazar stuffed his hands in his pockets as he strolled past the baroque steeple of the Église du Béguinage and down towards the opera house. Brussels was a graceful city, full of old churches and palaces and wide plazas with fragrant flower markets. At the Place Royale, he paused in front of the museum. He’d stopped in years before to see some of the paintings. The only one he remembered was The Fall of the Rebel Angels by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a rather grisly work based on the Book of Revelation. It showed the Archangel Michael casting Lucifer and his minions down from heaven for the sin of pride.
When he’d had lunch with the black market art dealer Garlen Janssens afterwards, Janssens had said it was part of a trio painted in the sixteenth century for the same collector. The others were Dulle Griet, depicting a virago who leads an army of women to plunder Hell, and The Triumph of Death. Now Balthazar wondered if that unknown patron had been Jorin Bekker.
He gazed up at the opulent façade of the museum, built in 1801 by Napoleon Bonaparte. Balthazar’s mouth twitched. Well, let it be Bekker’s Waterloo.
16
Balthazar admired himself in the dressing room’s full-length mirror. He wore a snowy white officer’s coat with a stiff collar and two rows of gold buttons. On his left breast was pinned an eight-pointed star, the Grand Cross of the Royal Hungarian Order of Saint Stephen. Lucas helped him adjust the sash, crimson trimmed with green, worn over the right shoulder.
“What else do we have?” Balthazar asked, surveying a table covered with various medals and badges.
“Um, Imperial Order of Franz Joseph…. Cannon cross…. Commemorative medal for the 1864 campaign in Denmark…. Order of the Golden Fleece…. Ah, here’s a few for the defenders of the Tyrol.”
“Let’s see the Golden Fleece.”
Lucas held it up.
“Good God, that’s flashy. It is an actual sheep?”
“I think so. Rather a droopy one. Seems a bit depressed.” He glanced at Balthazar. “Any more would be overkill, my lord. You look perfectly majestic as is.”
“I look like I should be on horseback waving a saber in the air. Speaking of which, did you get it?”
Lucas cast him an affronted look. “Of course. I would have mentioned it if I hadn’t.” He returned a moment later with a beautifully made sword, engraved with an eagle, flowers and foliage, and the motto Honor i Ojczyzna, meaning honor and country in Polish. It had a curved blade and cross-guard, with a nickel-plated stirrup hilt bound with brass wire.
Balthazar drew it from the scabbard and ran a finger along the blade. Where it tapered at the point, the sword became double-edged. He adjusted his grip and Lucas stepped out of range as Balthazar made a few whistling cuts through the air.
“Ah, that’s the sound,” he said.
“Tachikazi.”
“Hmmm, yes. The sword wind. Line the edge up precisely and it’s just … lovely.”
“It is, my lord. This one’s similar to a katana. You’ll do well.”
Balthazar returned the blade to its scabbard and belted it on. “When you get to London, you’ll need to dispose of Count Koháry.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He’ll die tragically. At sea, I think. A drunken topple from a yacht should do. The estate will go to a distant cousin.” He grinned. “Me.”
“It’s already arranged. I have only to sign the papers for you.”
Lucas prepared for such an eventuality years ago. Balthazar had a dozen different identities in a dozen countries, rea
dy and waiting.
“I still wish I could be there,” Lucas said. “You might need me. Remember the cats?”
Balthazar sighed. “If there was any way…. But there isn’t. I was lucky to get my hands on the one invitation. And it will be locked up tight with the king there.”
Lucas watched him in the mirror, saying nothing.
Balthazar made a tiny adjustment to the sash. “Listen. When Bekker is dead….”
“What, my lord?”
“I was thinking, yesterday.” The words came out in a rush. “What do you want to do with your life?”
Lucas frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re young. You should be … I don’t know. Getting married or something. Having children.”
Lucas’s dark eyebrows rose. “What brought this on?”
“You owe me nothing,” Balthazar persisted, picking a tiny piece of lint from his sleeve. “I’ll set you up with a fortune. Anywhere you want. But this isn’t…. It’s not healthy.”
Lucas was silent for a long minute. When he spoke, his voice was grave. “Do you know, I thought you’d come to kill me.”
Balthazar met his eyes. “You never told me that.”
“I fought you. I remember.”
“Yes. You did, at first.”
“You were so strong. You just held me until I stopped.”
Lucas had never spoken of that night. Not once.
“Bekker was there,” he said quietly. “When I heard his voice at the warehouse, I recognized it.”
Balthazar had always assumed Bekker sent men to do the job for him. He waited in silence, his hands going still at his sides.
“They were all eating dinner downstairs. I’d been ill with a fever. I was still taking broth in bed. Then a knock came at the door. I heard voices, angry voices. So I crept out to the landing to listen.” Lucas swallowed. “My father gave the talisman to him freely. He wouldn’t have…. He knew what might happen if he didn’t. But it made no difference. Then I heard screaming and footsteps coming up the stairs. I hid under the bed. One of them found me. He was dragging me out and I bit him on the hand. He threw me down. My face struck the edge of the bed. I remember seeing a tooth fly out. I could hear my sisters down there….” His face was very pale. “When you arrived, I thought they’d come to finish me.”
Balthazar sank back against the dressing table. “It’s my fault,” he said wearily. “None of it would have happened if not for my own thoughtlessness.”
Lucas stared at him with haunted eyes. “Don’t be stupid. You didn’t kill them. Bekker did.”
Balthazar turned away. “I’ve been a poor guardian.”
“You haven’t,” Lucas said savagely. “You’ve been….” He drew a sharp breath. “Very good to me, my lord. In all ways.”
“But don’t you want a normal life?” Balthazar asked with a touch of exasperation. “Has it never crossed your mind?”
Lucas began gathering the medals and dropping them into a velvet bag. “No. It sounds boring.”
Balthazar laughed softly. “I’ve ruined you.”
“I’m afraid you have, my lord.” He rummaged in his pocket. “Biscuit?”
“No, thanks.” It was his automatic reply when Lucas offered him a digestive. Now Balthazar hesitated. “Oh, give it here. I’ll try one.”
They sat on the bed together eating biscuits.
“They’re not so bad,” Balthazar conceded. “More like cookies.”
“You’re getting crumbs on your sash,” Lucas said.
He brushed them off and checked his gold pocket watch. “Seven-fifteen. How do I look?”
“Like an arrogant prig, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Balthazar strode to the door. “I’ll meet you in London, after.”
Lucas nodded solemnly. “Break a leg,” he said. “Or don’t. Let’s just say…. Good luck.”
Gabriel regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror, examining the nose from various angles. “What do you think?”
“Not bad,” Anne conceded. “You’re certain Balthazar won’t be there?”
True to his promise, Gabriel hadn’t mentioned the wayward count once in the last two days. Now he shook his head. “Julian looked into it. He’s been seen at several functions with Bekker, and he’s staying at the Metropole Hotel with his protégé Lucas Devereaux, who’s going under the name Marchand. But neither of them are on the guest list for tonight. Nor are they listed among Bekker’s security detail.”
“Good.” She hesitated. “Has it occurred to you that he might be after Bekker, too?”
“Naturally.” Gabriel’s face darkened. “But he’s been in Brussels for a month and Bekker is still alive.”
“Maybe he hasn’t had a chance yet.”
“Maybe,” Gabriel said dubiously. “But he’s always blown with the wind. Balthazar only cares for himself. I’ve heard rumors about what he does to stay so young-looking. I’ll spare you the details, but that pretty face doesn’t come cheap.”
She frowned. “He kills people?”
“No. But if you share his bed, you’ll get more than you bargained for. And I don’t mean the pox.” Gabriel dabbed powder on the nose and blended it with a sponge. “Though I wouldn’t rule that out either,” he added uncharitably.
Anne had never heard of such a thing. “It could be idle gossip,” she said with a look of reproof.
Gabriel smiled. “You know what Wilde says. Hear no evil, speak no evil, and you won't be invited to cocktail parties.”
Anne laughed despite the knot in her stomach.
Gabriel buckled on the sanctus arma and straightened his coat. “What time is it?”
“Seven-fifteen.”
He caught her eye in the mirror. “I should go.”
They’d visited the museum together the day before pretending to be French tourists. Gabriel had used a watch as they discreetly paced the galleries, timing distances between various points and marking every exit. It was impossible to know exactly which way Bekker would take, but Gabriel had planned for a number of contingencies.
“I wish I could go with you,” she said.
He clasped her hand. “I know. But it’s impossible.” Gabriel looked at her for a long moment. “I love you, Anne,” he said softly.
Her throat hurt. “I love you, too. Come back to me.”
“I will.” Gabriel kissed her. He stepped away and smiled. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. Then he was gone.
Half an hour later, Anne stretched out on her stomach between Miguel Salvado and Jean-Michel Fanastil. From the edge of the rooftop, they had a clear view across the park and the Place de Palais to the front steps of the museum.
“There’s a slight breeze,” Miguel muttered. “Southwesterly. We’ll need to compensate a few degrees.”
Anne glanced at the pocket watch in her hand. Seven forty-five.
It was agony to lie still. She wanted to pace. She wanted to be inside.
“Tell me about the gun,” she said tightly.
Miguel glanced over. His wavy chestnut mane was pulled back in a tail to keep it out of his eyes. For once, he looked dead serious.
“Springfield 1884 model. Breech loader with a thirty-two-inch barrel. A redesign of the ’79. See this?” He touched the rear sight. “It’s the main improvement. When it’s down, the rifle is set for point blank shooting. But you raise the leaf and it gives you graduations from two hundred to fourteen hundred yards.” He lovingly stroked the walnut stock. “Fires ten rounds per minute, if you’re quick. The older ones couldn’t handle more than three.”
Anne nodded. “Keep talking.”
Miguel slapped the breechblock. “Chambered for a .45-70 cartridge. Minimal recoil for such a large bullet. It goes in here. Looks like a hinged trapdoor. That’s why Springfield called them Trapdoor rifles.” He paused. “Want a look down the sight ladder?”
Anne shifted on the hot tiles. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”
&nbs
p; Miguel laughed and rolled to his back, cradling the rifle across his chest. “Anyone have chocolate?”
“Sorry, I’m all out.”
Jean-Michel snorted. “He wouldn’t eat it anyway. He’s fasted since last night. Claims it brings him to a higher state of consciousness.”
“I just wanted to smell it.” Miguel closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. The breeze ruffled his hair. “Two, maybe three knots,” he murmured.
“This one might be all yours,” Jean-Michel said, peering down the sight of his own rifle. “It’s a tough shot. The park’s in the way. The tops of those trees…. I can’t make any promises. Not with the wind.”
Miguel only smiled.
The minutes ticked past. Anne’s eyes narrowed. A contingent of soldiers had arrived from the palace next door. They lined up on the steps. Then the first carriages started to line up. Couples descended and were met by footmen in livery. Anne checked the watch.
She nudged Miguel. “Wake up. It’s starting.”
His eyes opened. They were a rich caramel with thick lashes, clear and sharp.
“Muy bien,” he muttered, rolling over. He fitted the stock against his shoulder and propped the long barrel on the edge of the roof. His body settled into stillness. “No more talking,” he said gently, thumbing the hammer back. “Just call time for me.”
17
Balthazar offered his arm to the Baroness De Smet as their black landau halted in front of the Royal Museum of Ancient Art. Footmen directed the city’s wealthiest and most prominent citizens up the flight of wide stone steps, where Rijkswacht gendarmes in red and black uniforms trimmed with gold braid stood at attention.
The baroness sailed up the steps and gave their names to an officer at the middle entrance. He checked his list and frowned. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but this says you’re attending with the Marquess of Ruffo de Bonneval de la Fare.”
Baroness De Smet made an irritated sound. “There’s been a change. My escort is Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry. I informed the organizers yesterday.”