by Lara Archer
But the next second betrayed everything: her face paled, the jubilation changed to fear. Her hand jerked—the impulse to hide the book behind her back cut off just a little too late to conceal her true intentions.
No.
He saw her mouth move uncertainly as she tried to formulate a lie, and he knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d been at the Game too long to miss the signs.
His limbs went rigid and cold.
No. No. No. No.
It was all happening again. Another innocent-seeming girl, playing a far deeper game than he’d ever suspected, making a fool of him. How had he missed it this time?
Even now, his instincts played him false—he wanted to believe her, in her goodness. Did believe in her goodness, with every pulse of his stupid, benighted heart. But the evidence of his own eyes was undeniable.
“Sebastian . . . ” She said his name as if she actually expected him to trust her, as if there were still intimacy between them.
He shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t lie.”
She stood still as granite, wearing that same virginal, white nightrail she’d worn last night when he had burst in here to save her life, and wound up making love to her.
Tears gathered in her eyes. Crocodile tears, no doubt.
He struggled to make sense of this. How long had she had the notebook? How had she got hold of it? Had she been making a dupe of him since that very first interview in Helm’s office, when he’d believed she was a prim and innocent nun? Someone else must have gotten to her first, even before Helm found her in Lancashire.
Who? Lord Henry Walters?
Sarah?
Purely mad thoughts began to run through his head—she was Sarah. There’d never been a twin. Sarah had always had the notebook, and for some reason she chose to lie to him about everything.
But no—if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that this woman before him was not Sarah. Every instinct, every one of his senses told him she was different.
Whoever she was, though, she had betrayed him. Something vital was draining from him, as sure as if he’d been slashed deep by a knife.
“Tell me,” he said. “You have one chance to tell me absolutely everything.”
She swallowed. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her eyes went wide with her fear, and her breathing quickened.
Damn it. Why had she done this? Why?
And why had he let himself care so much about her?
Why had he let himself fall in love with her?
He couldn’t stand here another moment in this room where he’d kissed her, caressed her skin as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He had to get out of here, free of her snare.
His focus narrowed to the practical: there was the notebook in her hand. And there was the key to her room, the one he’d sent to her such a short while ago as a gesture of trust, still laying on her bedside table, next to his lantern.
For just an instant, he was tempted to see that as a sign of her innocence—that she had no reason to think he would lock her in again. But, no. It was merely a proof of over-confidence. His head ached as if it would crack in two. She thought she had fooled him so thoroughly.
In one swift movement, he darted to her side, snatching up the key in one hand and the notebook in the other.
If he’d needed any other proof that she was working against him, he had it then—she shrieked and grabbed for the notebook, fighting to get it back as if her life depended on it.
But he had one clear advantage over her—his body, at least, was stronger than hers.
Ignoring her desperate blows and scratching nails, he gave her one hard shove that sent her sprawling back on the bed. He snatched up all the papers he could find with the black code written on them, and the lantern for good measure, then retreated, pulling shut the door after him.
And locking it firmly.
She wouldn’t be getting out again, not by his hand.
* * *
It was almost a relief when one of Will’s men brought a message.
Sebastian had been all but paralyzed, staring into the flames of the kitchen fire. His body ached inside as if the glass shards Rachel once pulled from his shoulder had instead been pushed inwards, and multiplied, flaying him inch by inch. He needed something he could do.
The messenger handed him a folded paper. “From Diego Escobar,” he said. “He says another boy approached him in the street with instructions to give this to the hawk, and only to the hawk.”
The hawk. Another message from this stranger who knew his true identity. Encoded like the others, no doubt. It felt like a cruel joke. And now, with Rachel lost to him, he had less hope than ever of reading it.
The weight of the notebook he’d taken from her hung heavily in his pocket.
How much did she know? Could she read the secret code the French were using? Why, why, why had she deceived him?
No, he had to stop asking himself that. The question would drive him mad.
Resignedly, he unfolded the message—and immediately his pulse began to beat more vigorously again. It was written in plain English: I will tell you where you can find Victoire de Laurent at 9 o o’clock tonight. Of course, I will have something from you in exchange. We can negotiate exactly what that is when we meet, but you must come yourself this afternoon. A door will be unlocked from the garden.
An address was scrawled beneath that—not far from the Calle Alameda, in a wealthy neighborhood that abutted the poorest part of town.
Well. That was promising at least. But who in blazes was the sender? When was anything, any of this, going to make sense?
The sender of this letter was someone with access to French intelligence clearly, since the earlier messages were written in the black code. And someone who knew not only his real name, but his mission. Knew he wished to find Victoire de Laurent.
Hell, it might well be Victoire de Laurent herself, trying once more to lure him to destruction.
But that didn’t matter. There was no time left for caution. Napoleon would arrive soon, and if there was any chance the message was trustworthy, any chance it would help him damage the French, he had to go. His life made little difference to him anyway.
He dashed off a note for Will, who’d sworn to return the moment he had Rosa and Eva safely away, relaying the content of the message and ordering him not to allow Rachel out of her room. He could offer explanation later. Then he shouldered into his coat and headed out, trying to keep his thoughts away from the woman locked away upstairs.
The address was easily reached, and just as easily he vaulted the low stone wall of the garden. The requisite door at the back of the house was indeed unlocked.
A sense of foreboding filled him as he put his hand to the latch, but he would not turn back. The door swung open into what he expected to be a kitchen, but instead he found himself in what appeared to be a sort of potter’s shed. Empty terra cotta planters stood in stacks along bleached-wood tables, and the smell of loam rose from barrels of soil that stood in the corners, bright metal scoops stuck in the rich dirt.
Hardly a sinister-looking place.
At the farther end of the room, though, another door stood open.
He could only suppose he was expected to continue on through it. A patch of gleaming oak-plank floor showed beyond the threshold, and a stream of sunlight through a high clerestory window, but no sign of furniture. Or of human beings.
What was he walking into?
Well, whoever sent that message must have a better idea of how to find Victoire than he did. And if that person meant to kill him, he’d put up one hell of a fight.
He stepped through.
And was somehow not at all surprised to find that the room he had walked into was a wealthy gentleman’s fencing studio—a large room with open-beamed ceilings and a gallery above. Tall mirrors lined one wall, and racks of gleaming blades and masks lined the rest.
And he was not surprised either to find a particular wealthy gentleman waiting for hi
m just in front of one of the mirrors, unblunted rapier in hand.
Lord Henry Walters.
“Of course,” said Sebastian. He bowed low. “Lord Henry.”
Lord Henry bowed in return, making a gracious sweep with his weapon. “Lord Hawkesbridge. How good of you to meet with me.” He smiled, but his eyes were hard and cold—the look of a man who wanted to kill, just as Rachel had said when they left Lady Barham’s what seemed like a hundred years ago.
At least she hadn’t been lying then.
“I suppose,” Sebastian said, inclining his head at the blade, “that is poisoned, too.”
Lord Henry gave him a look of revulsion. “Not poisoned. I am a man of honor.” He gave Sebastian a pointed glare. “Unlike some men I could name.”
What was the meaning of that? Did Lord Henry believe he lacked honor?
Interesting.
Perhaps now at least he would learn the source of the older man’s animus toward him. Lord Henry reached over to one of the weapon racks and drew a second blade. He tossed it to Sebastian, pommel first. “Rest assured,” he said, “your sword is as good as mine.”
“But unfamiliar to me. And I’ve had no chance to warm my muscles.”
Lord Henry sneered. “You managed well enough last time we fought. En garde.”
And just that fast, he was dueling Lord Henry Walters again, but with unbated weapons this time.
“May I ask,” said Sebastian coolly, as their blades closed, “why we are fighting?”
Lord Henry struck hard, leading from the outside. The attack was clean, but the look on Lord Henry’s face was suddenly one of angry confusion. “Are you playing me for a fool?”
Sebastian had to move fast to fend him off. “All I want,” he said, “is to find Victoire de Laurent. Can you tell me where?”
“Yes,” said Lord Henry, driving at him again. “And I’d be glad to have you kill her. Defeat me, and I’ll tell you.”
“And if you defeat me?”
“I have my revenge.” And now there seemed to be a fury driving the older man. The urge to hurt was plain in his eyes, and this time nothing was held in store. Sebastian’s forearm was beginning to ache from deflecting the blows.
In a brief gap between them, Sebastian made a hard drive with his blade, forcing Lord Henry to retreat a few steps towards the garden door. “Revenge for what?”
The look of fury deepened. “You know full well!” A flurry of strikes rained down as Lord Henry pushed Sebastian in turn back towards a heavy rack of swords.
“I assure you, I don’t.” Sebastian feinted left, trying to win himself a little more maneuvering room. With a twist of his body, he reversed their positions. Lord Henry had his back to the mirrors now. “You’ll have to tell me what I’ve done.”
“Treachery.” His opponent spat the words. “Betrayal.”
“Are you mad? Whom have I betrayed?”
“Robert Ehlert.”
“Robert Ehlert?” Sebastian nearly dropped his guard for a moment, the name was so unexpected. “Robert Ehlert was my friend. He chose to go over to the French. He betrayed me.”
Lord Henry snarled and unleashed an offensive that nearly knocked the blade from Sebastian’s hand. Bloody hell, the man was strong.
Sebastian’s lungs were beginning to burn. “If you want to blame someone, blame Victoire de Laurent.”
“You still must answer for your part in his death.” The man hardly seemed winded, and the blows did not stop. “You came to arrest him.” It was an accusation.
“I had to,” said Sebastian, parrying madly, looking for another opening. “He was a traitor.”
“He was a good man. The best of men.”
“He was. And I fell into the same trap he did.”
Sebastian had had enough. Lord Henry spoke of honor, and seemed to mean it. He’d promised to tell him where to find Victoire if Sebastian defeated him.
With a grunt, he knocked Lord Henry’s blade aside and put all his will into a fresh attack. He lashed out with every last ounce of power he had, driving Lord Henry to the wall again. For Sarah.
One last thrust and he saw his opening—he caught Lord Henry’s blade from below, knocking it from the older man’s grip with a ringing clang. It slammed into a mirror, pommel first, and the glass cracked into a spider’s web.
His blade was at Lord Henry’s throat.
“Now,” Sebastian said, panting. “Tell me where Victoire de Laurent is hiding.”
Lord Henry stood with his arms stretched wide in surrender, palms out-turned. He made no more effort to resist, but the look of hatred on his face did not soften. “Not yet,” he snarled. “You don’t deserve it yet.”
“Why don’t I deserve it?”
“You could not give Robert a chance to explain himself, to make amends for what he did. He risked his life for England for so many years—you could have spared him for the sake of all he did, let him go abroad. But you hunted him down like a dog. He deserved better, especially at your hands. He was your mentor. He trained you.”
A shock went through Sebastian. “How do you know that?” There were perhaps a half dozen people in the world familiar enough of the inner workings of the British spy network to know of his history with Ehlert. And one of those people had given the details to Lord Henry.
Rachel knew.
Sebastian pressed the blade harder under Lord Henry’s chin. “How do you know Robert Ehlert was my mentor? Who do you work for? The French?”
Lord Henry laughed.
More pressure—the blade drew a thin line of blood. “Did you report us to them in London? Did you send a French ship to attack the Calliope when we were crossing to Spain?”
“I did neither,” said Lord Henry, with remarkable calm. “Though if you were fool enough to advertise where you were going, you deserve whatever you got.”
“God damn you, tell me who you work for.”
Lord Henry spat. “No one. I work for no one. I’m no lapdog. I gather information for myself. And use the power it gives me as I like. Only simpletons like you see things in such primitive terms: the English, the French. Petty loyalties. Who cares?”
Information. Power. Helm had been right to want to question this man. “Robert Ehlert cared. He served England loyally for many years, at least until Victoire de Laurent worked her witchcraft on him. You think he was a fool?”
“No.” The older man’s voice was fervent. “Robert was only a fool at the end.”
“You say you don’t work for the French, but you know where to find Victoire de Laurent? How?”
“I know how to find turncoats. Or turn loyal agents into turncoats. Everyone has weak spots, to the man who knows how to collect their secrets.”
Turncoats. Even the most loyal could be turned, with the right pressure. Robert Ehlert and . . .
The bitter truth hit him all at once. “Salomé Mirabeau.”
“Yes,” said Lord Henry with cruel satisfaction. “I wondered when you’d figure that out. In retrospect, it was a brilliant piece of work on my part, to make your partner false to you. So you would know something of the pain I feel.”
Sebastian’s mind was fogging. The notebook.
Sal had the notebook before she died, and she hadn’t told him about it. She’d kept him in the dark, deliberately. Because of some power Lord Henry held over her? “Why? What did you have to offer her? Or—no, not an offer, was it? You could have nothing Sal wanted. You threatened her. With what?”
“Does it matter? Everyone is vulnerable at one point or another. She’s been my creature for months now. And lying to you.”
Sal had lied to him. Sal had someone or something she was trying to protect. And Rachel—how much had she known?
She’s been my creature for months now.
Those words drummed in his head. For months now.
Ah—Lord Henry assumed Sal was still alive.
Sebastian fought to keep all emotion from his voice. “And you think she’s still loyal to you?”<
br />
Lord Henry’s grin was smug. “Of course. I met with her just the other night. To see how her project for me was progressing. She was most cooperative, as always.”
Lord Henry had met with Rachel. Good God.
No doubt he’d repeated his threat, whatever it was. And Rachel had been frightened, just as Sarah had . . .
Over what? What would Rachel need to protect, enough to make her hide the notebook?
And how had she got hold of the damned thing in the first place?
The book was written in the French cipher, and contained secrets Victoire de Laurent would kill to protect. But Sal had concealed it from the French, just as she’d concealed it from him. She hadn’t betrayed England.
What had Lord Henry said? English and French were primitive terms; he worked only for himself?
Lord Henry was studying his face now, watching with glittering eyes.
Of course. “You’re the one who gave that notebook to Sal,” said Sebastian. “You wanted her to decode it for you.”
The man nodded. “Robert trained you well.”
“Where did you get it in the first place?” He turned the blade at Lord Henry’s throat so the man had to raise his chin to escape its bite. “If you were close enough to the French to steal it, why didn’t you know how to read it?”
“I don’t need to explain anything else to you,” said Lord Henry with a sneer. “And I wouldn’t expect you to understand what drove me. I doubt you’re capable.” His eyes showed no trace of fear. They looked, if anything, triumphant.
Sebastian growled, and gave the blade another twist, drawing a thin stream of scarlet. “May I remind you I’m a quarter inch away from ripping your throat open?”
“May I remind you I have information you desperately require—the location of de Laurent?”
Clearly, another strategy was required. “You told me on your honor you’d give me that information if I defeated you. I believe you are defeated.”
Lord Henry’s eyebrows raised. “Keep your own promise first.”
“What promise?”
“To tell me exactly what happened when Robert Ehlert died.”
“What are you talking about?” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “I never made you a promise.”