"Which will enrage the King and Queen," said Lady Julia, amused.
Smythe did not care to be interrupted. "Well, in this case, ma'am," he said rather testily, "their Majesties will not be put out, because their son and his wife will never reach the luncheon. As they leave Leicester House, four of our men, posing as officers of the King's Guard, will ride along the street and the Prince and Princess will be assassinated!"
It was all Falcon could do to lie still. Appalled, he heard the aghast exclamations. Reginald Smythe, he decided, was most definitely as mad as a mangle.
"Both of them?" Lady Julia sounded shocked.
His eyes tight-shut, Falcon could all but see Smythe's narrow shoulders lift in a shrug. " 'Twould be more effective, I do believe. Only think, my friends. 'Tis well known that the King and Queen are at daggers drawn with their son. The King both loathes and fears William Pitt, which is precisely why Prince Frederick befriends the man. When he is murdered, apparently by officers of the King's Guard, the news will sweep England that the Prince was slain at his father's orders! That, coupled with the shameful treachery uncovered at Ashleigh on the previous evening, will cause an enormous public outcry throughout the nation which our people will whip to fever pitch, I promise you."
Kadenworthy argued, "It will take weeks for the news to travel throughout the nation."
"Not so! We have couriers already carrying the word. I tell you that by Saturday the country will be in a state of disorder and anarchy! At exactly three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, a mob will storm St. James's Palace. Simultaneously, our forces attack here"—his long bony finger jabbed at the map— "and here… and here, and—"
"And curds and whey!" Falcon pulled his head up, and said as firmly as he could, "Is that really what your masters have told you, Reggie?"
Smythe shot a malevolent glare at him.
Green jeered, "We are the masters, you stupid clod! Ain't you learned that yet?"
To laugh was not easy, but he managed it. "What stuff! D'you think we don't know this plot is too big for you and your addlepated Squire to have masterminded? D'you think we don't know about your silent partners? The great financiers and bankers who manipulate you all from behind the scenes? Or about Barthelemy and—"
Smythe had looked genuinely taken aback, and now snapped, "Silence that bastard, Hibbard!"
"A moment, Squire," said Joseph Montgomery, tugging at his lower lip uneasily. "Barthelemy? The French have no hand in this, fiend seize 'em! Right?"
Holding off Lord Green, who advanced on Falcon looking murderous, Kadenworthy demanded, "I'd like an explanation, Smythe."
Green bellowed, "He's making it up, you silly ass! To divide us!"
"If there's any truth to it," said Kadenworthy grimly, "consider us divided! I was not unwilling to be rid of German George and his crew. But be damned if I'll help deliver England to the French!"
"Ask her noble ladyship!" Falcon pointed to Lady Julia, who was frowningly silent. "She and her sister arranged the matter with Barthelemy in Suez, three years—"
Green snarled, "I don't believe a word of it!"
Lady Julia stood. " 'Tis perfectly true, Hibbard. And it is truth that we have other and powerful backers, who prefer to remain anonymous."
"Such as the mighty Lord Eaglund," murmured Falcon, drawing a bow at random.
Kadenworthy's brows lifted in surprise. Smythe's face was unreadable.
"But Marshal Barthelemy does not act for France," added Lady Julia, her voice rising above more consternation. "He is with us for his own ends."
Smythe said quickly, "And brings us munitions, troops, and five hundred thousand louis! A good deal of which we will divide amongst us, my friends."
It was a vast sum, and a telling stroke. Falcon saw their faces, and knew he had lost.
Kadenworthy wandered back to his chair.
His little eyes alight with avarice, Joseph Montgomery took Falcon's chin in a bruising grip. "One more word out of you, Mandarin, and you won't live to see the candle gutter!"
The candle was still burning at midnight when Falcon awoke and dragged out his watch. He had to blink to see the dial. Before they left, Smythe had given the members of his committee permission to exact whatever personal vengeance they felt due them. Falcon had been mildly surprised when Kadenworthy had not taken advantage of the offer. Lord Green, however, had made up for that lapse, until Lady Julia had protested angrily—or at least, he thought hers was the last voice he had heard.
He was lying against the wall, beside the credenza. They'd taken the chairs out but the other pieces of furniture remained; not that they'd be of much use as a refuge since the rats obviously scaled them easily enough. He peered around the room fearfully. The creatures had evidently not come after him since the committee had left. Smythe had said they wouldn't.
"So long as your candle burns, my dear fellow they won't attack." He'd added with a sly grin, "Though I fear the flame cannot last all night. Especially since 'tis always night down here. Are you still as afraid of rats as you used to be? Well, take heart. They don't really want you. They'd rather eat grain or insects. Just try not to startle them; they do bite if they're startled. But 'tis very doubtful they'll bring about your demise. You will expire, my dear fellow, from thirst or starvation—if you don't suffocate first. There is very little air in here, as you'll have noticed. Which helps to keep our meetings brief. And in case you're wondering, the only way to open the door is by the use of our tokens which we will, of course, take with us." He'd gone on to describe the last moments of the hapless prisoners who'd been left here to die in "the good old days." Some of the details so horrible that Lady Julia had demanded he stop.
Falcon had been sick with fear at that point, but rage had lent him the strength to drawl, "No, never deny him, ma'am. His circle of friends is small, but 'tis quite logical he should be intimately acquainted with rodents."
Smythe hadn't liked that, and had turned to the door, calling, "Your turn, Hibbard. Adieu, dear Mandarin. You cannot know how the contemplation of your fate lightens my spirits."
His fate…
Falcon strained his ears. Had that been a scampering? He sat up and huddled against the wall, shivering. How bitterly cold it was. And how crushing the silence. When the candlelight was gone and he had to face death all alone in suffocating blackness, he would surely go mad. The impulse to beat on the walls and scream for help was strong but he fought it, knowing it was useless and that he would use up too much air. The words of the Cornish curse echoed in his mind. "A slow and painful death…" It would be that, all right. Unless he found a way out. There must be a way out! Irritated, he thought, "Well don't just sit here trembling! Find it, you silly clod!" He dragged himself to his feet. It was too painful for him to stand straight, but he began to hobble about, poking, scratching and knocking. And two hours later, breathless and exhausted, his nails torn, and the candle much lower, he acknowledged defeat and clambered onto the credenza rather than sit on the floor.
The loathsome Hibbard, curse and confound the creature, had left him with a galloping nosebleed. It was staunched now, but Smythe had said that when the rats came—
He cut off that line of thought, but the one that succeeded it was not much better. Was it becoming harder to draw a breath? Surely not. But clearly, there was no way out.
No way out.
He was entombed in this stinking, frozen silence.
And nobody knew he had come here—or would care if they did know. Unless—might she care? Just a trifle, perhaps? His precious Smallest Rossiter?
He leaned his head back against the cold stone blocks, aching with the longing to see her sweet face—just once more.
He must stop being so damnably selfish, thinking only of himself. He must shut the coming horror out of his mind. He thought of the men he had not wanted for friends, and who were the best friends any man could have. He thought of his beautiful sister—whose heart he had broken. And of his dear and foolish sire. All doomed, as he w
as doomed.
He closed his eyes wearily and wished he didn't hurt so much.
He must have dozed, because when he looked up he saw with a sickening jolt of fear that the candle was guttering.
He had not known real terror since Smythe had put the dead rat on his pillow at school. He knew it again. Paralyzing, demoralizing, stark terror.
Panicked, he got down from the credenza. He must not let the candle go out! He must find something to burn!
The candle flame flickered again.
Gazing at it with wide, horrified eyes, he had the first faint intimation that he was no longer alone in the room.
A soft rustling… and the clicking of claws…
Chapter 15
They had left Town before the household was stirring, and without stopping for breakfast lest someone attempt to detain them. It was a gray, chilly morning, with occasional raindrops carried on a rising northeast wind. Despite the hour, they encountered heavy traffic on London Bridge, and by the time they reached Wimbledon and stopped at a likely-looking posting-house to change horses, Gwendolyn was very hungry. So was Tummet. So was Apollo, who made his needs known so loudly that the ostler reaching for the reins of the leader leapt back with a yelp of fright. It was all Tummet could do to calm the man, but when he attempted to take Apollo "fer a nice little trot" the dog showed him such an expanse of teeth that he withdrew his generous offer.
"I quite fails ter see, Miss Gwen," he grumbled, "why we brung this hound of the devil along wiv us. Trouble, he'll be. Nought but trouble!"
Gwendolyn took up the trouble-maker's lead. "We brought him because he is Mr. August's dog and dogs are said to have especially gifted nostrils, so 'tis my hope he will find his master, even if we cannot. Do you go and order some food for us, and a bone for Apollo whilst I take him for a walk."
Tummet hesitated uneasily. Cap'n Rossiter wouldn't like him to let Miss Gwen walk about alone. And Mr. August had made it all too clear what he'd do if his "imitation valet" ever again allowed her to endanger herself. He fingered his throat reminiscently.
Reading his thoughts, Gwendolyn smiled. "Never worry, my loyal friend. Apollo would devour anyone who tried to harm me."
That was very true. And she had called him her loyal friend! "Cor!" he thought and, beaming, went into the posting-house.
Apollo had been confined and inactive for a much longer period than he liked. There were several promising trees and shrubs requiring immediate attention, but when Gwendolyn then found a sturdy stick he was willing to play. She threw it a good distance down the hill behind the posting-house, and he went thundering in pursuit and came thundering back, grinning happily and with much flapping of ears. She confirmed his belief that he was a good dog, and he relinquished the stick and then went tearing after it again. The minutes passed, but he did not reappear. Gwendolyn waited. Perhaps he'd lost the stick. Curious, she walked a little way, calling his name, and then halted in dismay.
He had found a new game. A nun stood at the foot of the hill, trying to coax a tiny white dog back to her, while her pet flirted and Apollo pranced and leapt about and generally showed off for his new friend's benefit. The nun was evidently quite young, for her figure was slender even in the bulky habit, and she moved gracefully and was surprisingly undaunted by the big hound.
Gwendolyn limped to the rescue, apologizing as she reached for the stick. She had not brought her cane; the sloping, uneven field was her undoing and she lost her balance. She righted herself quickly, but the nun snatched up the stick, and proffered it, turning away shyly so that her face was hidden by the deep coiffe of her habit.
"Thank you," said Gwendolyn. "My wretched dog! But he has been in the carriage for some time and—"
"Yes," said the nun in a charming, husky voice. "I know."
She must have seen them drive up and watched that silly business with the ostler. Gwendolyn said sternly, "Apollo! Down, sir!"
At the top of the hill, Tummet brandished a large bone and called, " 'Pollo! See wot I got fer you, horrid hound that you is! Look!"
That evidently struck a promising chord and the dog abandoned his new acquaintance and raced up the hill.
"Throw it in the coach!" called Gwendolyn at the top of her lungs, then thought, "Good gracious! The Sister will think I'm a real hobbledehoy!"
"If we don't"—she explained, turning— "we'll never get him away from—" She checked, and stood rigidly still. The nun was facing her squarely, and surely there had never been a nun like this. Delicate features in a pale oval of a face with great sad dark eyes and a lovely mouth that trembled on a wistful smile.
The faintly accented voice said, "Ah, you know me, I see. You are the sister of Captain Gideon Rossiter, yes?"
Gwendolyn drew a deep breath. "And you are Maria Barthelemy—or I believe you called yourself Benevento at the time when you shot Sir Owen."
The dark eyes closed very briefly. When they opened the lashes shone with tears. "Oui."
"And now you are a nun." Gwendolyn's lip curled. "Is it a danger to me that I have seen you in your new disguise? Perhaps you mean to shoot me, too."
Miss Barthelemy shrank as though she had been struck. Her head bowed, and slender hands covered her face. "Do not… I beg you! I—apprehend how you must despise me, but—"
Gwendolyn gave a disgusted little snort and turned away.
At once the other girl caught her arm. "Please—I implore you! I have waited so long to—"
"If you do not let me go I will call my servant."
"I will do whatever you say. I shall down upon my knees fall, if you ask it. Only please—please Miss Rossiter! If you have ever loved—give me a moment. A moment only."
That she was distraught there could be no doubting, and she looked quite ready to fall on her knees.
"If you have ever loved."
Gwendolyn suffered an anguished pang, and said in a less stern voice, "Very well. But only a minute."
Five minutes later, sitting on a bench under the deep eaves of the posting-house, Maria Barthelemy said, "I loved him so much, do you see? But my brother—all my life he has guarded and cared for me. We are so close, so—belonging. Sir Owen had that horrible Agreement that my Jean-Jacques had signed."
"To join with the League of Jewelled Men in attacking my country," said Gwendolyn.
"Oui. This is truth, and I fear utter folly. My brother had won the support of some very, very wealthy Frenchmen. But he acted not as a representative of King Louis. If the Agreement were made public, he would have been disgraced, ruined, guillotined. This was very bad, I know. But"—Maria spread her hands helplessly—"what am I to do?"
Gwendolyn tried to put herself in the same predicament, making a choice between August and Gideon. She shivered. " 'Twas a terrible decision. But—could you not have shot at Sir Owen's foot or—"
"I aimed at his arm." Maria sighed. "He thought, I suppose, that as a woman I could not shoot, and he—what is it you say?—he dodged. And oh, Miss Rossiter, I have been half mad with fear and repentances, wondering each moment of the day and night how he is. I could not bear it, so I went back to France to see my brother, only to find he was gone—somewhere. I left him a note, telling him that Sir Owen is my love—my life, and I came to London, to beg his forgiveness."
"But Owen said he did see you, and that you rushed away before he could talk to you."
"Yes. My servant was with me. He is very faithful, and there was a soldier beside Sir Owen, and Louis was sure Sir Owen would have me arrested as a spy, so he pushed me into the coach and we drove away. My poor Owen looked so ill— and then I was ill because this climate of yours is very horrid. I beg your pardon, but so it is. And then I waited and waited, hoping to see Zoe Grainger, who might, I think, understand, but never do I find her. I have to be very careful, for I could be arrested, you will know this."
"No, ma'am. Sir Owen refused to bring charges 'gainst you. London still knows you only as Maria Benevento."
Miss Barthelemy's ruddy lowe
r lip dropped, and her eyes opened very wide. She clasped her hands prayerfully, and whispered, "He did this? Ah, can it be so? My gallant mon homme, comme il faut!"
"Quite so," agreed Gwendolyn. "Sir Owen is a fine—"
Maria caught at her arm tempestuously. "You do not understand! Il y va de sa vie!"
"All our lives are at stake! We are even now trying to find August Falcon. If you know where they meet, I implore you—"
Horrified, Maria exclaimed, "They have him? Ah, mon Dieu, but they hate him! If I knew where he was I would tell you, I swear this! I have been watching Falcon House and I hear there is a terrible tragedy. And then, at last, this morning I have seen you, and we follow, mon Petite and me. Are you going to search for Monsieur Falcon?"
"Yes. At Buckler Castle, for—"
"No, no!" Maria shook her head. "It is not there where they meet. This I do know. And now I beg of you—how may I find Owen? He must be warned not to go to the party!"
Gwendolyn stared in mystification. "Party? What party? I do not understand."
"Then you must warn your brother. All of them. The party, it is not—" Her eyes had moved past Gwendolyn. A look of fear came into them and she gave a little gasp and stopped speaking.
Gwendolyn followed her gaze. Ostlers were running to change the team of an arriving coach, and a lady who had been calling to her coachman was in the act of drawing back inside the carriage. There was nothing else to be seen that might have alarmed Maria, but when Gwendolyn turned the girl was hurrying off. Following quickly, she called, "Wait! Pray do not go away, Miss Barthelemy."
"I must. I dare not— She must not see me." Maria walked on, her little dog prancing ahead happily.
Gwendolyn ran to put a detaining hand on her arm. It was shaken off. The French girl said low and urgently, "There is one who can help you! But be very careful. Go. Talk to her!" And she was gone, almost running in her anxiety to get away.
Gwendolyn stared after her. "There is one who can help you… ?" Bewildered, she hurried across the yard.
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