by Lara Archer
Soon she caught sight of another door at the end of the corridor. Thankfully, du Bourge moved straight for it, and when he pulled it open, fresh night air gusted inward. They came out into a drab alleyway beside the house, the sort of place meant only for housemaids and delivery wagons.
At the moment, though, a glossy black carriage stood there, its velvet curtains drawn, with two handsome grays standing calmly in harness. The carriage door was partway open, a stepstool just beneath it. A footman stepped forward and held out his hand to help her up.
He looked vaguely familiar, but the light was too low to make out his face, and she could not place where she’d seen him before.
Clearly the footman did not expect her to object to entering the carriage. Whoever awaited her inside—whoever awaited Salomé—must be someone Sarah knew. But if du Bourge worked for the French, then the person inside must also be an agent of Napoleon’s. Not someone Sarah should have been in comfortable contact with.
“Go on,” urged du Bourge. “You must go. You know I would never see you come to harm.” His voice lacked confidence.
Her mind raced. Perhaps this had nothing to do with the Game at all. Perhaps it was an assignation. A lover Sarah had regularly entertained? But if so, why was the amorous du Bourge delivering her? And why had Sebastian not warned her of the possibility?
Was it an arrangement Sebastian wasn’t aware of?
Panic set her nerves and muscles vibrating again. That carriage could take her anywhere. She had no weapons. If she were carried off, Sebastian would have no idea where she’d gone.
The footman looked concerned. “Miss? Is everything all right, Miss?” She could hear the London streets in his voice. English, not French.
“Bien sur,” she assured the footman. “I am entirely at my ease.” Taking his white-gloved hand, she allowed him to help her up the steps into the coach.
The interior of the carriage was unlit save for a thin shaft of moonlight that struck her side only—she could be seen, but not see. The roar of blood in her ears left her half-deaf as well as blind.
The moment she entered, strong fingers grabbed at her forearm. She gasped. Pulled back instinctively, nearly tumbling back out the carriage door.
“What’s wrong with you?” A harsh male voice. An English voice. Aristocratic. The voice of an older man.
A hard lump formed in her throat. She steadied herself, made her frozen knees bend so she could take a seat. “Nothing is wrong. You startled me, that’s all.”
She wished desperately for more light.
“You’ve been here in Vigo for days, and haven’t sent word,” snapped the man. Not the tone of a lover, that much was instantly clear. This was the tone of a scolding employer.
So she gave the answer normally required by such men: “Forgive me, sir.”
A brief silence, perhaps a slight mollification. And then another harsh outburst. “Did you think you could hide? What game are you playing, girl?”
Cold fear pierced through her chest—all at once, she recognized the voice.
Lord Henry Walters.
She could make out just enough of his outline now to confirm that his hair was gray, his form lean. He was holding something long across his knees. A cane? A sword?
Her blood throbbed.
Breathe. If he meant to kill you, he’d have done it already.
She remembered the strange, demanding look he’d given her back in London at Lady Barham’s. He’d known Sarah. Oh, God—Sebastian knew nothing of this. What had Sarah got herself into before she died?
There was no choice now but to act as though she already knew.
“I do not play games,” she said.
A scoffing breath. “You are nothing but games, mademoiselle. I wonder if anything real exists beneath the surface of a creature like you.”
“My position is complicated, you know that.” Surely, that was guaranteed to be true.
“Explain yourself. You’ve had it more than four months.”
Had it?
What on earth had Sarah had? Good God, could he mean Victoire’s notebook?
And four months? That was not long before Sarah’s death. Surely not a coincidence.
In any case, it gave her the bluff she needed. “I was . . . injured,” she said. “Badly.”
A pause. Suspicious, but considering. “By de Laurent?”
“Yes.”
“So those rumors were true. She tried to kill you. And you survived? Unusually careless of her.” A stretch of silence suggested he was giving her a long, hard look.
A terrible thought hit her: if she was interpreting what Lord Henry said correctly, Sarah had the notebook more than a month before her death. And she hadn’t told Sebastian about it—he’d only learned of its existence from Victoire de Laurent herself, on the night Sarah died. Clearly, Sarah hadn’t told him of her contact with Lord Henry either, or that evening at Lady Barham’s party would have gone very differently.
Sarah had kept critical secrets from her partner. Sarah had been lying to him. Why?
“You seemed hale enough when we met in London,” said Lord Henry sharply. “Explain why you did not send me a message there. If you cross me, girl—whatever else you may have heard of me, I do not tolerate disloyalty.”
Had Lord Henry been the one to give the notebook to Sarah? To have her break the cipher it was written in?
That made no sense. If he worked for the French, why would he need the cipher broken in the first place? And why would he put such a thing deliberately into an English spy’s hands?
But she could think of no other reason he would want Sarah’s services.
“The task is difficult,” she managed to say. “You must trust me, my lord. You must give me time.”
“Hawkesbridge does not suspect?”
Her heart stuttered. How much did Lord Henry know about the work Sarah and Sebastian did together?
And who would have told him? Sarah herself?
Cleary, Lord Henry ordered her to conceal what she was doing from her partner.
Was this somehow an act of treason? Sarah, a traitor?
Regardless, only one answer could be given. “He does not suspect,” she said carefully. “But the marquess was with me almost always. That made things more difficult.”
“Make sure he does not suspect.” Lord Henry leaned forward into the shaft of moonlight, and his face glowed spectral white—a cruel face, unforgiving. She could see now that the object across his lap was a cane. His hands gripped it as if they wished to crush the life out of something. “I heard more odd rumors before I left London,” he said. “Word is that the marquess’s feelings have softened towards you, that you are his mistress now. I saw the way he looked at you that night at Lady Barham’s.”
“Never fear, my lord. It’s all for show.”
“Keep it that way. If I learn that you have breathed one word of this to him or to anyone else, anyone—and you know I will learn—I’ll show no mercy in exacting the consequences I have promised. Make no mistake: I have no softness in me. Lord Hawksbridge will know nothing until I am ready.”
Her expression must have given away some trace of her fear, because Lord Henry’s eyes flashed and his voice grew even more harsh. “You know better than to trust him, girl. You know of his betrayal.”
Her stomach turned to water. Betrayal?
“You know what blood he has on his hands,” Lord Henry continued fiercely. “He’ll turn on you, too, before long. So keep your mouth shut, and I will deal with his treachery when the time comes.”
Blood? Treachery? Dear God.
The world warped as if in a nightmare, the pieces slipping from her grip. She needed to hold on to something, or she was going to slide to the floor.
Hadn’t Victoire hinted at something similar? About the English and their lack of loyalty, about some secret Sal did not know? At the time, she’d convinced herself Victoire was merely bluffing, trying to unsettle her, trying to make her distrust her English p
artners. But now a chill unease crept through her.
“Just get me that translation,” said Lord Henry, his voice a bark. “I need to know what that book says.”
She nearly gasped—it was a book he was talking about, an encrypted book. It had to be the same one Victoire so desperately wanted. And Sarah hadn’t found it—Lord Henry had given it to her.
None of this made sense.
Her brain throbbed with both confusion and fear. But she couldn’t let herself fall apart. Not now. “I will, my lord,” she said firmly, feigning a confidence she could not possibly feel. “It takes time, but I am very good at what I do.”
“Do not fail me then.” Lord Henry’s voice shook with sudden emotion, and his eyes gleamed in a way they hadn’t before. “I will kill her, and you know it.”
The world tilted still more violently, and nausea swamped her.
Her? What in hell? What her was he talking about?
He couldn’t mean Victoire de Laurent? Why would Sarah want to protect a woman who had ordered her death?
“Or perhaps,” Lord Henry drawled, “I will do one better: take her and turn her into a creature like you.”
A creature like you? Victoire de Laurent was already a creature like her. Like Salomé, anyway. So who in God’s name was Lord Henry talking about?
Had he somehow learned Sarah had a twin? Had he threatened—her? Rachel?
Panic and hilarity mixed in her chest, a terrible, shuddering urge to laugh. If Lord Henry was referring to her, she’d already made good on his threat for him.
But who would have told Lord Henry that Sarah even had a twin? Not Sarah, surely.
But if he wasn’t referring to Sarah’s sister . . .
Whose life was in her hands?
Her lungs thickened with fear. She needed light, she needed air. She had to get out of this carriage.
“Get me that translation, girl, and get it soon. I need to know exactly what it says, every word.” Lord Henry gave a sort of shudder, and plunged one hand into his hair, pulling fretfully at the roots. His voice vibrated with a horrible passion. “I need to know.”
He thumped on the door with his cane, and the footman opened it. The moment she was down, she stumbled towards the shadows of the house, pulling in great gulps of the cool breeze.
The carriage, thankfully, drew away before she fell on her knees near the door and vomited into the bushes.
Chapter Twenty
Sebastian sat at Rosa’s kitchen table in his evening clothes, rubbing the grit of exhaustion from his eyes.
Rachel had gone to bed the moment they returned from the baronesa’s, looking scarcely able to hold herself upright anymore, but no one else in the house could rest. Rosa puttered about, alternately polishing copper pots that already gleamed and trying to push everyone to eat something. Emilio and Eduardo sat in the corner playing an endless, desultory game of cards. Even Eva seemed too agitated to sleep, and Will, in that oddly comfortable way he had with her, had let her climb into his lap while he thumbed through the pages of unreadable black runes yet again with a scowl on his face.
Eventually, even Will could not sit still. He rose with the child in his arms and paced back and forth across the tiled floor, crooning what sounded surprisingly like a lullaby. Since when did Will know any lullabies?
Still, Eva’s bright, dark eyes did not shut, but gazed over Will’s enormous shoulder with a look of unsoothable worry.
Time was running out. They all felt it.
Sebastian flicked a fingernail against a pewter saltcellar in time with Will’s singing. “There’s something else we’re missing.”
Will instantly broke off his song. “Obviously,” he growled.
“Someone besides Victoire de Laurent is playing the Game here. Someone who finds it amusing to send me messages I can’t read. Until we can break that code—”
“Napoleon will be upon us soon. At least that renders the rest of our worries moot.”
Sebastian hit the saltcellar hard enough to send it scuttling across the table and nearly crashing to the floor.
The look of alarm in Eva’s eyes intensified, and she wriggled her way out of Will’s embrace. “I should take some food upstairs,” she said with sudden conviction, sounding remarkably like a tiny version of Rosa. “She hasn’t eaten anything tonight, and she may have woken up.”
Lord, they were scaring the child. “Good idea, Evangelina.” He reached into his pocket. “And while you’re up there, would you give Sal this?”
He put a key into the girl’s hand—the key to Rachel’s room. He hadn’t thought before doing it, yet it felt right. Good. A small salve for all the suffering he was putting Rachel through, but it was all that was within his power: a promise not to lock her in.
Eva laid the key on a tray, hastily piled some dishes of food around it, then vanished through the door to the stairwell.
Will watched her go with sober eyes. “We should get them out of Vigo. I shouldn’t have waited this long. If anyone finds out Rosa and her family have been harboring British spies—”
“Where? Moving them will be dangerous.”
Will’s jaw muscles tightened and twitched. “Everything is dangerous now. Rosa’s sister lives up in the hills. If we can get them there, there are caves to hide in, if anyone comes. Until we can get them to England. I’ll go make the arrangements, and get them out tomorrow, if I can.”
“Eduardo and Emilio will refuse to go. They’ll stay and fight.”
“Rosa will agree, though. For Eva’s sake.”
Sebastian nodded, his heart heavy. They were so close to defeat here. With the British army gone, they could do nothing to stop Napoleon’s arrival.
But they could still deal heavy blows to his intelligence network, if they could find the proper targets. Then at least Napoleon would be coming in blind. Spanish patriots might have a sporting chance against him.
But until they broke that code, the British were blind as well.
* * *
A knock sounded at Rachel’s bedroom door.
Not Sebastian, she prayed. She’d managed to evade all his questions on the carriage ride home, claiming utter exhaustion. She’d gone to her room and collapsed on the bed, too tired and confused to move.
Either Sarah had been lying to Sebastian, or Sebastian had done something to betray Sarah. Or maybe both. And Rachel had no way to find out. Not without knowing what was in that wretched book.
The knock came again—persistent, but light and undemanding. Not Sebastian after all.
“Come in,” she said, resigned to whatever it was.
To her surprise, it was Evangelina, up far past midnight and carrying a little tray, with a steaming porcelain teacup, and a china plate with slices of buttered toast. She set it carefully on the table beside the bed.
“Thank you,” Rachel said, grateful indeed for the kindness and comfort, more than for the food. “But what are you doing awake, sweetheart?”
Rachel looked more closely at the tray, and noted a metal key on the tray, next to the little bowl of sugar lumps. The key to her room, no doubt.
Eva saw her looking at it. “Sebastian told me to bring you that.”
Rachel’s heart twinged. It was a peace offering. For whatever that was worth right now. Lord Henry’s words rang in her head: Blood on his hands. Treachery. You know better than to trust him. “Thank you, sweetheart. For that more than anything.”
She smiled at Evangelina, expecting the girl to turn and go.
But Evangelina didn’t leave. She stood there by the side of the bed, tense, licking at her lower lip, her eyes strangely bright. She had a child’s sweet face, the rounded cheeks and silky eyelashes, but there was something somber in her, something preternaturally intelligent in her gaze, that made her seem much older.
“What is it, sweetheart? Is something wrong?”
The little girl’s lower lip was trembling.
“What?” Rachel sat up in bed, put an arm around the child, and drew he
r to sit down on beside her on the mattress.
Tears sprang into the child’s eyes. Her voice broke into a sob. “Where’s Sal?” she cried. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Rachel’s heart plunged. Oh, God. What had the child sensed?
And what was she to tell her now? Sebastian had said none of them were safe if Rosa or the others knew the truth. “Sweetheart,” she said. “Don’t be silly. I’m right here.” Her throat burned with the lie.
The child stayed rigid in her embrace. The look of conviction on her face didn’t falter.
“I’m here,” Rachel repeated.
Eva gulped against her tears. “Yes, you’re here.” She shook Rachel’s arm off her shoulders, and stood again, facing her, a fierce challenge on her face. “You’re here—but I don’t know who you are.”
“Of course you know me. What on earth makes you say such a thing?”
“I knew it when you came into the kitchen that first night. You called me ‘sweetheart.’” The child’s mouth twisted, as though that were a disagreeable word. “You—hugged me.”
Rachel was silent for a long moment. She’d done precisely those things. If Sarah cared for this child, wouldn’t Sarah have done the same? “I’d missed you, that was all.”
“How could you miss me?” Powerfully perceptive black eyes locked on Rachel’s own. “You’d never met me before that night.”
Rachel’s mouth went dry. “Oh, come now, Eva—”
“Please,” begged the child, “don’t keep pretending. You’re not Sarah. You look like her. And you sound like her. But you don’t—you don’t smell like her. And you don’t move like her. I can’t figure out who you are, or how your face is so much the same, but you aren’t Sarah. .”
“Oh, Eva,” she said, desperately. What on earth was she to say to the girl now?
The child just kept staring, her little chin lifting, the fierceness in her intelligent gaze disconcertingly familiar. Clearly, she was not about to be deceived.
They’d reached a point of no return.
Further attempts to lie would only make things worse.