by Shana Galen
Pierce did not need to be told twice, and from across the room, he said, “Are you intending to force the drawer open?”
“In a manner of speaking.” She inserted one end of the opener into the crevice where the drawer met the frame of the desk. She then bent, and he thought she might have tapped the edge of the letter opener, but he could not be certain, because the next thing he knew she was racing toward him. “Duck!” she screamed, and the room shook.
***
Dominic opened his eyes and immediately attempted to close them again. The world was too bright. He squinted and tried to thrust an arm up to block the light. But he couldn’t manage to make his arm work. He might have wondered at that if his head did not feel like it had an axe sticking out of it.
“Mr. Griffyn,” a voice said. The voice was away from the light, and Dominic turned his face to it. “Thank you, Tolbert. You may pocket the smelling salts and leave us.”
Tolbert, whoever he was, made an unintelligible grunt and walked away. He must have been a large man, because the floor shook with every step. Dominic’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the light, and he realized he was in a room—a drawing room from the look of it—and the room was bright because he’d been seated beside a window. The day was not particularly sunny, and so the fact that he could barely keep his eyes open spoke to the pain piercing his head at the moment.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Griffyn?”
It was the voice again. This time Dominic made a concerted effort to look at the man. He was seated in a chair a few feet away, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. His black hair flowed over his shoulders, long and thick. He was tall and broad-shouldered with light eyes and an air of ennui.
“Who the hell are you?” Dominic asked, his voice raspy. He still couldn’t use his hands, and it occurred to him to look down. They were bound to the chair. Upon further inspection, he noted his ankles were bound as well. “What the hell is going on here?” Anger flared in him, but there was something else as well.
Fear.
“Oh, now, Mr. Griffyn, do I really need an introduction? I should think you know all about me by now. Your betrothed certainly has a keen interest in me.”
“Foncé.”
The man clapped his hands. “There, you see. You do know me. What a pleasure to finally meet in person. Your Miss Bonde has given me quite a time of it lately.”
Dominic’s blood chilled upon hearing the man speak of Jane. For all the man’s charm and affability, Dominic could see in the man’s eyes something was not right. “I’m not a spy,” Dominic said. “I don’t know anything about their plans.”
Foncé waved a hand languidly. “No, no. I did not expect you to provide me with information. I can glean that very well on my own.” He gestured to Dominic, proving by Dominic’s very presence that he could gather information.
“What do you want?” Dominic asked. “I won’t betray her or the Barbican.”
“There is nothing for you to betray. I know it all already.”
That was rather disheartening. Dominic twisted his hands, but the rope with which he’d been bound held. He needed to find a way out of here, to warn Jane and Melbourne.
Jane. If anything happened to her, if this man so much as touched her… Dominic clenched his jaw.
“I merely want to ask you one petite favor.”
“I don’t owe you any favors.”
“No, no, monsieur, you do not, but I can be most persuasive.” He reached into a large black leather bag resting at his feet. Dominic had not noted it before. He did now as Foncé withdrew a long, sharp blade. “Do you see this, Mr. Griffyn?”
Dominic swallowed. “Yes.”
“It is called a scalpel. It will slice you open from neck to navel. Shall I demonstrate?”
“I have the general idea, thank you.”
Foncé smiled. “I thought you might. And now, for that favor…”
Eighteen
Jane paced the empty Barbican offices, her gaze on the bracket clock she’d taken from M’s office and set on the desk before her. Dominic should have returned by now. She’d made three trips to the Dungeon, all of them fruitless. He was not at the secret entrance. Had something happened to him? She was at war with herself, trying to decide whether or not to look for him. But where would she start? And what if he returned while she was out? And where was everyone? She was the only agent in the offices at the moment. Was everyone doing something productive but her? She would have thought Q and Moneypence might have returned by now.
This waiting and wondering was going to drive her mad. With yet another glance at the bracket clock, she decided to make one last trip to the Dungeon. If Dominic was not at the secret entrance, she would leave headquarters and search for him. She had just stepped out of the offices when she heard voices in the stone corridor leading to Piccadilly.
“Finally,” she muttered, not knowing who had returned and not caring. She stopped short when Moneypence and Q approached. Moneypence’s face and chest were covered with smears of black. “You’re back,” she said, meeting them halfway. “Moneypence, what happened to you?”
“Your booby traps,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “You might have warned us.”
She blinked. “Oh, yes. I quite forgot about them.” She waved a hand. “Did you find the document I told you about?”
“Yes,” Q said, moving forward and handing it to her.
Jane read it over quickly, shaking her head when she’d finished. “This isn’t anything new. It appears I sent you on a meaningless errand…although”—she tilted her head so she might see Q’s face better. Was that ink on the woman’s lips?—“it does not appear you lacked for amusements.”
Q touched her lips absently. Moneypence reached into his coat and withdrew another document. “Actually,” he said, “we were rather busy. We searched M’s office.”
Jane frowned. “You did what? Do you realize you might have gone to gaol for doing something like that?” She smiled. “I’m impressed. What did you find?”
“A very old document about our friend Foncé,” Q said. “Apparently, at one time he used a code name.”
“Really?” She took the paper and moved closer to one of the wall sconces to scan it. “Did he work for the French? The Ancien Régime?”
“Perhaps he worked much closer to home,” Moneypence said. “His code name was Chameleon.”
Jane rubbed the bridge between her eyes. The name was familiar. “I’ve heard it. You do not mean to say he worked for the Crown?”
“What we mean to say”—Q stepped into the light—“is he was a member of the Barbican.”
***
Dominic’s hands were untied. He considered that progress. A pistol was aimed at his head, and he was relatively certain that was a step back. The bearlike man pointed the pistol at him, while Foncé smiled slickly across the desk. He pushed vellum, an inkpot, and a quill toward Dominic. “You will write.”
“Can’t you write your own love letters?” Dominic asked. He was buying time. What would Jane do? If she were in his place, how would she escape?
“You are being humorous,” Foncé said, “but in a sense, you are not incorrect. I want you to write my love letter to the Barbican group.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Barbican group does not return your affections,” Dominic said with an apologetic shrug. Foncé watched him like a hawk. Somehow he had to work his hands down and untie the bindings on his legs. He had managed to loosen them by straining his legs against the rope, but he needed to slice the knots if he was to free himself. If he could just grab hold of one of Foncé’s shiny blades…
“Write, or I will kill you now rather than later.”
He wasn’t ready to die. Not before he’d seen Jane one last time, held her one last time. “Death now or later, what is the difference?”
&nbs
p; Foncé leaned close. “Later, I will have Tolbert shoot you. Now, I will carve you like a succulent roast.”
Dominic lifted the quill. “I’m ready.”
Foncé nodded. “Begin with My dear Lord Melbourne.” He waited until Dominic scratched the words on the vellum and dipped the quill again. “I have returned your friend, Mr. Griffyn. Before he died, he penned this note. You wish to meet with me? Come to the Palace of Westminster in one hour. I will be waiting.”
At the words, Dominic jerked, and the pen fell from his palm and to the floor. Edgeberry would be in Parliament tonight.
“Did I surprise you?” Foncé asked.
“Yes.” His palms were damp, and he rubbed them on the wool of his greatcoat. He paused when he felt something long and rectangular inside the pocket of the greatcoat. What was that?
“Hands where I can see them,” Tolbert grunted.
Dominic put his hands on the desk. “I wondered why you would want Melbourne to come to Parliament.” What rectangular object could be in his pocket? It felt like a box. Who would have put a box in his pocket?
“How else will they see the fireworks?”
“There are no fireworks tonight.”
“There will be when I am through.”
Who else had possession of the coat? No one but Jane. Jane…Q’s pen! “Who do you think you are, Guy Fawkes?”
“Oh, much better, Mr. Griffyn. Much better. Only by the time your friends with the Barbican reach me, it will be too late. They will explode with the rest.” Foncé looked to his assistant. “You know what to do?”
“Yes.”
Foncé started for the door. “Good-bye, Mr. Griffyn. I’ll see you in hell.” And he strode from the room.
“The devil you will,” Griffyn muttered. He had to lay hold of that pen.
“Finish the letter,” Tolbert ordered. Right. And as soon as he finished, the minion would shoot him.
“I dropped the pen,” Dominic said and nodded to the carpet.
“Fetch it.”
Dominic glanced at his legs. “I’m bound.”
Tolbert looked at the pen, lying beside Dominic’s chair. He was obviously reluctant to bend and retrieve it himself. “I suppose you’re not going anywhere.” He lifted one of the sharp knives Foncé had left on the desk and slit the rope binding Dominic’s legs.
“Thank you.”
“The pen.”
Dominic bent, and while his body shielded his hands, he slid the box from his pocket, opened it, and deftly removed Q’s pen. It shook slightly in his fingers, and he caught it before he could drop it. For a long moment, his heart thudded painfully.
“Write.”
Gingerly, Dominic dipped the metal nib into the ink pot and placed the quill’s tip on the page. He hoped his keeper would not notice the fine peacock feather had replaced the goose feather of the original pen. Carefully, he wrote the letter of the word where he’d left off.
“Faster!”
Dominic jumped and caught himself before he pressed too hard on the pen. “In a hurry?” he asked casually, writing another word.
“I have to kill you and deliver the body.”
“Surely Monsieur Foncé does not want my remains to arrive too early.”
“No, I have to have you there at half six, but killing a man is hard work. I’ll want my supper after I do it.”
“I can imagine.” He wrote the last word with a flourish. Now was the moment. He could easily kill this Tolbert and himself, but then who would warn Jane? Who would save her from Foncé? And he was lying to himself if he pretended this was only about saving her. He wanted to save himself too, because, like it or not, he’d bloody well gone and fallen in love with her. Damned inconvenient to fall in love with her when his death was so imminent. He flicked his gaze around the room, searching for an escape. How would Jane escape? It was now or never. Dominic’s fingers shook as he pressed the tip hard on the paper and broke it. One…
Dominic rose. Two…
“Sit down.” Three…
“I would ask you to kill me standing up.” Four… He backed away from the desk. “Perhaps by this wall.” Five…
“Stop moving.” Tolbert moved in front of the desk. Six…
Tolbert looked to the priming of the pistol, and Dominic backed up farther. Seven…
Tolbert cocked the pistol. Eight…
Dominic knew he was almost to the window. A few more steps. Nine…
He lifted a vase, threw it, and ran. Ten… God, he hoped he’d counted correctly. Tolbert fired, and Dominic couldn’t tell if the ball had hit him or not. He stumbled and looked over his shoulder. Tolbert was coming for him. Dominic cursed.
Where was the explosion? Damn, Q!
And then the world burst into flame.
***
Jane stared at the document in her hands, barely lifting her head when the door to her uncle’s office opened. M took one moment to note Q, Moneypence, and Jane inside, and thrust his hands on his hips. “What is the meaning of this? I did not give you leave to enter this room.”
Ignoring her uncle’s protest, Jane lifted the paper. “What is this, Melbourne?”
He sighed. “Good God, now what?” He crossed to her and snatched the paper from her hands. With a glance, he took it in. “Lists of code names for past Barbican agents. Did you take this from my files?” He gave Moneypence an accusatory glance. Moneypence did not shrink back. The expression on his ink-stained face remained cool and stern.
“Yes,” Jane said. “I sent Q and Moneypence to our town house to look for a document in my room.”
Melbourne looked at the two of them. “Looks like they found more than they bargained for. Q, is that ink on your lips?”
She blushed then cleared her throat. “When we didn’t find anything in Jane’s room, we searched your library.”
“What?” He slammed his fist on the desk, but behind the anger, Jane saw a flicker of apprehension.
“They found this.” Jane nodded at the paper he still held, not waiting for him to peruse it again. “Why did you never tell me Foncé worked for the Barbican group? Why didn’t you mention that he was one of ours?”
It all made sense now. Why had Foncé been so successful at picking off and killing the members of the Barbican? Because he knew their methods. He’d trained with them.
She watched Melbourne’s expression crumble. He passed a hand over his eyes, and when she saw his face again, it was the face of an old man. “Yes, Foncé was one of ours. He was our best and our worst.”
“What happened?” Jane asked. “Why did he turn?”
Her uncle held up a hand and arrowed for the glass decanters on the walnut side table behind his desk. But he ignored all of them and opened a cabinet underneath, pulling a bottle from it and pouring the contents in a small cup. “Whiskey, anyone? It’s Irish.”
“No,” Jane said. Moneypence shook his head.
“I’ll take a tot,” Q said. Jane blinked at her. Q shrugged and took the tot from Melbourne.
“It’s been an interesting day.” Her gaze slid to Moneypence, and her cheeks turned pink again.
M sat at his desk and put his head in his hands. His voice was muffled but audible. “Marcel Foncé was one of our best. He was the first agent I trained when I took this post. He amazed me with his skill and his cunning. He was like a son to me.” He glanced up at Jane almost apologetically.
“You never saw his dark side?” Jane asked.
“Oh, I saw it,” M said, “but I preferred to justify his actions. It soon became clear he was not stable. His mental state was…precarious. I had to terminate his position with the Barbican.”
“And he never forgave you,” Moneypence whispered.
“But it’s more than that,” Jane added. “He wants revenge now. He wants you and the Barbican annihilated.�
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“Yes, he hates me. He wants to hurt me, watch me fail on an enormous scale, kill everyone I care for. That’s why I sent you away, Jane.”
“No, it’s not.”
Melbourne’s gaze narrowed.
“You sent me away because you didn’t want me to learn the truth. That you’d failed with Foncé. That you are responsible for the danger all of us—all of England—is facing right now.”
“Now wait here, young lady.” M rose.
But she faced him, ignoring his protests. “You said he was like a son. Am I not like a daughter? And as such, I understand what Foncé felt. You know that all I ever wanted from you was love. Affection. Acceptance. Instead, you turned me into an agent. All I care about is all you ever cared about—the mission. You don’t care if I live or die. Except if I die before I carry out the mission.”
“That’s not true, Bonde. Why do you think I wanted you to marry? I want more for you.”
“Is that so? Or was it just a convenient method of sending me away? I know you never had a love affair with Lady Edgeberry. You helped her cover up a murder and allowed her to blackmail you because it served your purposes to send me to Kenham Hall.”
“I wanted you safe.”
“You wanted me to remain ignorant!”
His face was purple with anger. “What do you want from me, Bonde? My resignation? My admission of failure?” he roared.
“I want you to call me by my name. I’m Jane.” The two stared at each other for a long moment. No one in the room dared breathe. And then someone cleared his throat.
“Jane?”
She whirled and saw Blue standing in the door. Behind him a few other agents peered in curiously.
“Blue, this is not the time,” M said, voice weary now.
“Actually, I didn’t come to speak to you.” His vivid blue eyes never left Jane’s face, and she felt a frisson of fear race up her spine. “The other agents are waiting to give you reports, but I have news for you, Jane.”
“What is it?”
He hesitated, and she saw something like compassion in his eyes. Oh, no. She did not want compassion. She did not want pity. “Spit it out, Blue. Say it.”