Sir Henry saw a group of men congregating down the block in front of the Masons’ Guildhall. The men were drinking ale and relaxing after a hard day’s labor. Such gatherings were commonplace and he gave them only a cursory glance and then dismissed them. No one else was about.
He left the window and went to pack his things in a portmanteau. He would give orders for the portmanteau to be delivered to one of any number of locations in the city, to be retrieved at a later date. Henry deeply regretted the loss of his leather satchel, but Alcazar had his satchel, in which he carried valuable notes relating to his experiment. Sir Henry buried the pewter tankard in the satchel under the papers and then went to wash off the blood and dirt and change into elegant clothes that suited the count.
He was putting on his white, gold-embroidered weskit when he heard the clatter of horse’s hooves and the sound of wheels rolling to a stop in front of the hotel. Henry parted the curtain for a look. Two men descended from the carriage and stood in the light of a streetlamp, conversing.
Sir Henry recognized them both. He let the curtain fall.
“Son of a bitch!” Henry muttered.
Coincidence might have brought Captain Stephano de Guichen to this hotel, but Sir Henry had learned long ago to never trust in coincidence. He had to assume, therefore, that Captain de Guichen was on his trail. Henry ran through his plans.
He had purchased tickets for himself and his “lady” for the evening’s performance at the Opera Bouffe. His coach, driven by his agent, was going to take them to the crowded theater. Inside the coach were two more of his agents, dressed as the “count” and his “lady.” Wallace and Alcazar would enter the coach, but his agents would enter the theater. They would mingle with the crowd, go into their box while the lights were up, wait until the lights went down, and then disappear. All the while Sir Henry and Alcazar would be boarding the ship and sailing back to Freya.
Wallace looked back out the window to see Captain de Guichen, and his friend Monsieur de Villeneuve entering the hotel. Wallace knew what they would do, which was what he would do. They would request one of the elegantly appointed tables in the dining room, eat supper, drink wine, and observe all who came and went. He did not fear that either of them would penetrate his disguise as the count, nor were they likely to recognize Alcazar in his face powder, rouge, and curling love locks.
“But should I take that chance?” Henry reflected, pacing the room, talking to himself. “We could leave the hotel by the rear entrance. I’ll have to order the coach to be brought around to the back and that will seem odd, but I can tell the landlord that my lady’s jealous husband is looking for her.”
About to summon the page to carry a message to his coachman, Henry once again looked out the window. The lamplighter had been making his rounds and the streetlamps shed bright pools of light up and down the block. Sir Henry’s eyesight was keen. He knew what to look for, and although the pudgy man in the long cloak and hat was careful never to step directly into one of those pools of light, Sir Henry saw him lurking near a doorway.
Henry drew in a hissing breath. “Dubois!”
The arrival of Dubois, the bishop’s agent, at the Blue Parrot was definitely not coincidence. Wallace now understood everything that had puzzled him. Dubois was the third man at the duel, the mystery man who had shot at Harrington. Dubois must have kept on Harrington’s trail, followed him to Westfirth, and stayed on him until Harrington had led him to Henry, undoubtedly at the cafe. The countess’ bloodhound and the bishop’s bulldog-both hot on Sir Henry’s heels and closing in for the kill. Henry hoped Harrington was suffering every torment Hell had to offer.
Two men joined Dubois. They spoke together for a moment, then the two men left, heading for the hotel’s rear entrance. So much for sneaking out the back.
Henry turned from the window. He had been in tough situations before, but nothing as dire as this. If he was caught on Rosian soil with the missing journeyman, he would be tortured for information (which he would steadfastly refuse to divulge) and then what was left of him dragged to a public execution. His queen would be seriously embarrassed and compromised. His agents left out in the cold. The work of many years would be for nothing. The cunning fox had been run to ground. Henry Wallace was trapped and cornered, surrounded by dogs panting to rip him apart. Worse even than losing his life, he would lose Alcazar and with him the opportunity to give Freya the power to crush her enemies.
Henry eyed the satchel containing the tankard thoughtfully, then he grabbed the tankard, thrust it into the portmanteau, closed the lid, and locked it.
“Alcazar! We’ve been discovered!” he said.
The journeyman came running out, half-naked, tripping over his chemise. He looked ready to faint.
“Don’t worry,” Henry continued coolly. “I’m going to get us out of this. I need you to place a magical construct on the lock.” He pointed to the portmanteau.
“What sort of construct?” Alcazar asked, trembling with fright.
“Something that will make the lock impossible to open for anyone other than the two of us. Put a spell on the trunk, as well, just in case someone should try to hack it apart with an ax. And be quick about it!”
Alcazar cast his constructs swiftly and assured Sir Henry that the trunk was now safe from any thief. He gave Sir Henry the key to breaking the magical seal, which was a short combination of finger taps and swipes, and hurried back to finish dressing. Henry stood frowning at the portmanteau.
“Was this my fault?” he asked himself. “I knew Harrington was likely to do something stupid. And I knew I should have taken Alcazar out of the country immediately. I understood I might well be walking into an ambush this evening and yet… What else could I have done? Harrington, with his charm and acting ability and skill with guns and sword, was the best man for the task. I could have forcibly removed Alcazar, but then the unhappy journeyman might have refused to work for the Freyan government and there is no way I could force him. Whereas now, I have him, his brother, and his brother’s family under my control.
“And I could never have anticipated going to a meeting with the Sorceress only to find my nemesis, Jacob Northrop, there. Nor could I have foreseen that I would be attacked by fiends from Hell. If I had it to do over again, I would undoubtedly do exactly the same. I have to leave the Blue Parrot now. I have to leave Westfirth this night. A ship is waiting for us. The only question is: how to slip past the dogs?
“My Lady Luck,” said Henry, “this is for you, you fickle female. Do I go out the front or the back?”
He took out a coin and flipped it. The coin landed on the floor. Henry picked it up, eyed it, and tossed it on the table as recompense for the maid. He rang the bell to summon the footmen to take away the portmanteau. He ordered it delivered to the merchant ship, the Silver Raven, and sent word to the agent who served as his coachman.
The Blue Parrot Hotel had been named for the large blue parrot that squawked loudly from its gold-gilt cage in the front entryway. The hotel was known for the parrot and for the beautiful marble staircase that flowed in polished and lemon-oiled majesty from the first floor to the lobby. Several pages stood at their post near the staircase, ready to rush to perform the guests’ bidding. The office of the innkeeper was off the lobby to the right. The small and elegant dining room was to the left. One of the amenities for the occupants of the dining room was to be able to watch the arrivals and departures of beautifully coifed and bejeweled ladies and silk-caped aristocratic gentlemen.
Rodrigo and Stephano had both obtained rooms. Within fifteen minutes, Rodrigo had endeared himself to half the maidservants and made bosom friends of the Boots. Rodrigo had explained their somewhat rakish appearance, lack of luggage, and the unfortunate state of Stephano’s trousers with a thrilling tale of having been set upon by highwaymen. He and Stephano had received sympathy and towels, copious amounts of hot water, and gossip about all the guests.
After they had both hastily cleaned up and were downstairs
dining on turbot and broiled squab, Rodrigo reported that several of the gentlemen currently residing at the Blue Parrot matched the description of Sir Henry Wallace, but none of the guests came close to resembling Pietro Alcazar.
“Maybe my mother is wrong,” said Stephano as the dishes were cleared away. “Maybe Wallace has nothing to do with Alcazar.”
“A possibility, I suppose,” said Rodrigo, ordering a snifter of brandy. “Though I might venture to remind you that your mother is never wrong.”
Stephano only grunted, then asked, “So what do we do now?”
“Sit here and drink brandy,” said Rodrigo.
Stephano shifted restlessly in his chair. “I don’t want to sit here. We should be doing something!”
“We are doing something,” said Rodrigo. “We are watching for Sir Henry.”
“Who might be disguised as anyone from the blue parrot in the lobby to that venerable old woman haranguing the wait staff. And we’re looking for another man who is apparently not even in the hotel. That sounds like a prosperous night’s work,” Stephano said.
“You’re in a bad mood, so you’re obviously feeling better,” Rodrigo observed, ordering more brandy for himself and one for his friend. “Miri’s yellow goo may offend the nostrils, but one has to admit its effectiveness.”
“I don’t like leaving our friends on their own,” said Stephano. “Not with demons around. I keep thinking about that poor murdered girl-”
“Lower your voice,” Rodrigo said quietly.
Stephano picked up the snifter of brandy, drank it, and motioned for a refill. “God! I wish I hadn’t seen her!”
“It was pretty awful,” said Rodrigo, pouring more brandy.
“I’ve seen worse on the battlefield,” said Stephano, tossing down the biting liquid. “But I keep thinking about what Father Jacob said, about that man drinking her blood-” He poured himself another glass.
“You might want to take it easy on the brandy,” said Rodrigo.
“This is the last,” said Stephano. A clock in the hallway chimed ten. He drank the brandy and stifled a yawn. “I’ve got to get some sleep. If Wallace was ever in the hotel, he’s probably gone by now.”
“I will remain here with this excellent brandy,” said Rodrigo, taking his time to savor a mouthful.
Stephano was rising to his feet when the doorman entered to announce that the coach for Count Fairhaven had arrived. The doorman summoned the page, who went dashing up the stairs to alert the count. The landlord, hearing his distinguished visitor was departing for the opera, came out of his office to bid his well-paying and noble guest a good evening.
Stephano decided he might as well wait to see this Count Fairhaven. He glanced at Rodrigo, who raised his eyebrows. They both watched as the count came down the stairs, escorting his female companion.
Stephano studied the count. The brim of his hat and the feathers that adorned it concealed much of the man’s face, as did the curls of the white powdered wig and the frilly white lace at his throat. Stephano caught a glimpse of an aristocratic nose and thin mouth, a black mustache and goatee. The count was elegantly dressed in a black silk cloak, a red waistcoat with overlarge sleeves embroidered with gold stitching, an embroidered weskit, lace cuffs, silk stockings, and buckled shoes. He had one hand solicitously on the arm of his lady. He was speaking to her in Rosian, his accent indicating he came from the eastern region, perhaps somewhere around Haerigan. His voice was high-pitched, thin, affected.
“That’s not him,” said Stephano.
“But that is her!” Rodrigo exclaimed.
“Her? What do you mean her?” Stephano asked, puzzled.
“The love of my life,” said Rodrigo.
“Oh, good God!” Stephano looked at his friend in exasperation. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can. I am!” Rodrigo gazed, smitten. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful creature!”
The count’s lady was slender and graceful. Long curling locks of blonde hair fell over white-powdered shoulders. She wore an elaborate headpiece with feathers and jewels that artfully concealed her face and was dressed in an exquisite gown. Her eyes, what could be seen of them behind the large feather fan she held, were lustrous. Her face was powdered and rouged, her lips touched with red. She seemed shy and timid, for she clung closely to her companion.
The count and his lady reached the bottom of the stairs and were crossing the lobby. The count stopped to assist the lady with her cloak, then walked over to exchange greetings with the landlord. The lady stood a short distance from him in front of the parrot’s cage. She looked exceedingly pale and nervous. The hand holding the fan trembled.
The parrot had been asleep with his head beneath his wing. A sudden noise-perhaps the landlord’s loud laughter at something said by the count-woke the bird. He let out a loud and raucous squawk. At the unexpected sound, the lady gasped and dropped her fan.
Like an arrow shot from love’s bow, Rodrigo leaped from his chair and ran to the lady’s side. He picked up the fan and, sinking to one knee, held it out to her.
“I give you your fan, my lady,” he said and added in a low voice, meant for her ears alone, “And with that fan my heart, if you will take it.”
The lady stared at Rodrigo with wide, frightened eyes. She was trembling all over now, probably terrified of her lover. But the count was either not the jealous type or he did not consider Rodrigo a threat. He glanced with some irritation at his lady and said sharply, “The gentleman has picked up your fan, Imogene. Thank him, my dear, and allow him to get up off his knees.”
The lady stammered something incoherent. She took the fan from Rodrigo with a hand that was shaking so much that she nearly dropped it again. Rodrigo rose to his feet, made a gallant bow to her. He bowed to the count, who bowed back.
The count took hold of the lady’s arm and guided her firmly toward the door and their coach that was waiting outside. Stephano went to join Rodrigo, who was standing by the parrot, gazing after the woman with love and longing.
“She comes into my life for a brief moment and is gone,” said Rodrigo.
“Funny how that always seems to happen,” Stephano remarked. “I’m off to bed.”
He had his foot on the marble stair. Rodrigo remained in the lobby, yearning after his lost love, who was standing on the sidewalk. The coach driver was opening the door, when the count gave a loud shout, “Assassins! Help!”
Men armed with clubs were attacking the count. He had drawn his sword and was fending them off, all the while trying to drag his terrified lady toward the coach. One of the thugs grabbed hold of the woman and tore her away from the count. She cried out in terror and dropped, senseless, to the ground. The other thugs redoubled their attack on the count. He clouted one with his fist and thrust his sword at another.
The doorman rushed out in the street, shouting for the constable. The landlord stood in the lobby wringing his hands. The parrot screeched. The page boys went running to the windows to see the fight. The maids screamed in horrified delight, and Rodrigo went bounding out the door to save the lady.
“Rodrigo!” Stephano cried. “Are you mad? Oh, for the love of-He’ll get himself killed!”
Drawing his sword, Stephano ran after his friend.
The count’s blade flashed in the lamplight. He jabbed and stabbed with expert skill, but he was hampered by his efforts to protect the lady, who was lying on the pavement. The coachman was on the box, yelling for the count to get in. The horses were stamping, their eyes rolling.
One of the thugs made a dart at the lady and grabbed one arm, apparently with the intention of dragging her away. Rodrigo seized the lady by her other arm and a tug of war ensued, both of them pulling at the poor woman, yanking her back and forth.
“Let her go, you bounder!” Rodrigo cried angrily.
In answer, the thug aimed a blow with his club at Rodrigo’s head. Stephano’s blade sliced through the meaty part of the man’s hand. He dropped the club with a cry, but co
ntinued to stubbornly hang onto the lady.
Stephano held his sword poised over the man’s arm. “Let go of her or end up minus a hand!”
The thug apparently decided Stephano meant what he said, for he let go of the woman and ran away. Stephano turned to see the count still fending off two attackers.
“Carry the lady to the coach, Rigo,” Stephano shouted. “I’ll help the count.”
Rodrigo endeavored to lift the unconscious woman, only to find the delicate beauty much heavier than he had anticipated. He staggered and nearly dropped her. “You are a sturdy little thing, aren’t you my love?” he said, gasping.
Unable to lift her, Rodrigo was forced to half-carry, half-drag the lady to the carriage. He shoved her hurriedly inside and turned to await developments.
“Go to your lady, my lord!” cried Stephano, coming to the aide of the beleaguered count. “I will hold them off.”
The count thanked Stephano in a few brief words, then jumped into the coach and slammed shut the door. Stephano shouted at the driver, who cracked his whip. The coach lurched forward and rushed off with such speed that the wheel narrowly missed crushing Rodrigo’s foot.
The instant the coach departed, so did the thugs, vanishing into the darkness, taking their wounded away with them. The piercing screech of whistles announced the coming of the constabulary. Rodrigo was standing in the gutter, gazing woefully after his lost love. Stephano seized hold of him and dragged him off down the street.
“But I haven’t finished my brandy-” Rodrigo protested.
“If we stay to be questioned by the police, you’ll be drinking your brandy in a jail cell,” said Stephano.
“Ah, good point,” said Rodrigo.
“Walk. Running looks suspicious.”
The two sauntered down the street, pausing as any curious bystander would pause to watch the constables race by. An officer skidded to a stop in front of them.
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