by Gaelen Foley
“Where is the usual butler?” he asked cautiously.
“It’s Mr. Hattersley’s day off, sir. I am Talbert, the underbutler. May I be of assistance?”
“I am Lord von Dannecker. I am here to fetch Lady Glenwood.”
“Ah, yes, of course, my lord. Would you care to wait inside for Her Ladyship?” He opened the door wider and stood aside with a smile of bland politeness.
Bardou gave him a wary look and stepped into the entrance hall; then the world exploded into fireworks before his eyes as a shattering blow hit him in the side of the head. He crashed against the door, falling, too stunned to reach for his weapon, completely ambushed; then Lucien Knight was standing over him, pointing a loaded pistol right between his eyes.
Bardou’s dizzied gaze zigzagged from the muzzle of the gun to the murderous silver eyes pinning him in a stare full of white-hot hatred. “Bonjour, Monsieur Bardou,” Knight said, his lips curving into a bitter smile. “What a pleasant surprise to see you again.”
He started to get up, but Knight punched him across the face, just as Bardou had so often punched him. Bardou cursed after the thunderous blow, which was followed by a kick in the ribs. He balled up on the floor, sprawled against the door. He looked up at his former captive, suddenly afraid. His heart pounded; his chest heaved. He touched the blood that he felt trickling from the corner of his mouth.
“Get up,” Knight ground out.
Bardou realized the restraint his enemy was using. He climbed cautiously to his feet and looked around at Knight’s men, all of whom tracked him with their pistols.
“Step away from the door,” Knight ordered.
Bardou gritted his teeth, hatred churning in his belly and flaming in his eyes, but he obeyed. The young “butler” slammed the door behind him, and Knight stepped closer, resting the muzzle of his gun against Bardou’s temple.
“Jenkins, shackle him. Don’t move, Bardou, or this bullet is going into your brain.”
Bardou’s mind swam. He could not let them put shackles on him or he was doomed. As the seconds ticked by and the young man cautiously came toward him with the wrist irons in his grasp, Bardou struggled to decide which of them to attack. There were four besides Knight. Even the “butler” was holding a gun on him. Bardou stood there fuming, his chest heaving. He refused to accept that he was caught. He glared in warning at the young man who had been ordered to shackle him, when suddenly, his salvation came walking down the staircase.
“Karl! Lucien! What is the meaning of this?” Caro demanded in shock, several steps from the bottom.
“Caro, stay back,” Knight warned through gritted teeth.
“My lady, help me!” Bardou panted. “Call off your jealous fool before he pulls the trigger!”
“Lucien, have you gone mad? Put your weapons down, all of you! There is a child in this house. I will not have guns drawn here.” Bardou stared at her, his heart pounding with renewed hope as she came rushing down the steps.
“Stay back,” Knight ordered her as she ran toward them. “Caro, no!” Knight roared, throwing up his hand to ward her off, but he was too late.
Bardou shot out his hand and grabbed her by her hair, yanking her toward him. She shrieked as she stumbled against him, but he whipped out his pistol before any of them could stop him and put the gun to her head.
Caro screamed.
“Stay back or she dies,” he warned with a wolfish grin.
“Karl! You’re hurting me!”
“Shut up,” he growled at her.
“Bardou, let her go,” Knight said in deadly quiet. “This is between you and me.”
“And Sophia, too, yes? I’ll see you tonight, old friend,” he threatened softly, then kicked the door open and dragged Caro out to the waiting carriage. “Wake up, Stafford!” he bellowed.
Sitting in the driver’s seat of his fast drag-carriage, Stafford turned around in question. His face went ashen when he saw that Bardou had taken Lady Glenwood hostage. “What on earth—”
“Shut up and drive!”
“Von Dannecker—”
“Don’t question me!” he roared. “Do as I say unless you want us both to hang! You’re in too deep to back out now, so just bloody drive!”
He clapped his hand over Caro’s mouth when she drew breath to scream. She fought and clawed at him every step of the way, but he was relentless, hauling her out the door, down the front steps, and across the pavement toward the waiting carriage. Her feet barely touched the ground as he hefted her like a rag doll in his grasp, but he didn’t take his eyes off Lucien Knight and his men as they followed him like a pack of salivating dogs closing in on a stag at bay.
“Stay back or I’ll shoot the bitch!” he yelled, sweat beading his forehead. Wrenching open the carriage door with one hand, Bardou backed in, pulling Caro in after him. Stafford whipped the four-horse team, and the drag tore off down the quiet, residential street.
“Which way should I go?” Stafford asked.
“Head east. Weave your way toward the river and try to lose them in the City if you can, then take the Ratcliffe Highway. You claim you’re a good driver. Let’s see how good you really are.”
“All right,” Stafford said grimly, his expression hardening with resolve. He brought down his whip on the horses’ backs and the drag shot ahead, zooming down Brooke Street. Crossing Grosvenor Square, they swerved around slower traffic in the road, scattering pedestrians out of their path. Bardou looked out the window and saw Lucien on a large, black horse, riding hard after them with his men, in hot pursuit. Bardou knew how to slow them down. Right in the middle of Grosvenor Square, he took aim and shot at Knight from out the carriage window. The bullet went wide, but the shot had the calculated effect. Though it did not discourage Knight and his men, he saw their furious looks. They slowed a bit, letting Stafford’s carriage widen its lead on them rather than risk an exchange of gunfire in the midst of city streets crowded with civilians.
Their lead increased as Stafford veered the drag into a sharp right turn onto Bond Street. They went thundering past gigs, wagons, and a mail coach, pounding down the busy main artery of the fashionable shopping district. Bardou’s pulse was racing with glee as he took another glance out the window. Caro was crying, her face ashen with fright, her cosmetics smearing down her cheeks. She held onto the leather hand strap for dear life.
“Von Dannecker, what is going on?” she wailed.
“My name is Bardou, and you are my hostage,” he said coldly. “Your lover took my woman from me. Now I take his woman in return. But never fear, he will come to save you, and when he does, he will die.”
“He is not my lover!” she cried as the carriage took another jarring turn.
He scoffed at her lie.
“It’s true! I mean nothing to him!”
“He is following you," he pointed out. He took another glance out the carriage window and grinned. “Keep going, Stafford! You are doing well. We’re losing them.”
“Von Dannecker—Bardou—you must let me go. You’ve made a mistake,” she insisted, wiping her tears; then she let out another yelp as the carriage rocked up onto two wheels, tearing around the corner at Piccadilly, then crashed back down onto all four and kept going.
“What mistake?” he growled.
“Lucien Knight was never in love with me! It’s my sister-in-law he’s mad for—Alice!”
“What is this you say?” he asked dangerously, recalling the moody allure of the young blue-eyed blond. She was, like Lucien Knight himself, a mysterious creature of quiet elegance. “You told me he was so desperate to have you that he stole you away from his brother.”
“Well, yes, that’s what I told you, but that is not what happened. Alice is the one who captivated him, not me! Last week she didn’t have influenza, as we told everyone. She spent the week at his house. She is his lover—his mistress! I was merely covering up for her.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”
“No! I lied before, I admit
it—I wanted to make you jealous, and I didn’t want you to notice her, only me. But this is the truth!”
“You lied to me?” he snarled, incredulous as he realized that she had fooled him. She was useless to him. It was the little blond that he needed.
“I had to! Now you have to let me go, don’t you see? It’s Alice that you want!”
“You deceitful bitch! You wasted my time!” He backhanded her hard across the face.
She flew back against the squabs with a shriek as they lurched onto the Strand, but rather than easing his tension, hitting her only whetted his appetite. He picked her up and slapped her again. “Go on, cry, useless bitch. Cry all you want.”
“Von Dannecker!” Stafford yelled from up on the driver’s seat. “What are you doing to her? Stop it!”
With blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, Caro blubbered in terrorized self-pity at Stafford’s attempt to interfere.
“You’re right, Mr. Stafford,” Bardou murmured. “It’s time to silence her lying tongue. Good-bye, Lady Glenwood,” he whispered, leaning toward her.
“No—no! Get away from me—”
Her protest ended in a sudden choking sound as he grasped her throat, a snarl fixed on his face. She clawed at him, gagging and slowly turning blue as he strangled her with one hand, his grip unrelenting, his stare as cold as stone, until after a minute or two, her struggles ended. He dropped her then, and looked at her crumpled body in contempt.
“Whore,” he whispered.
Less than ten lengths behind, Lucien and his men chased the drag as it thundered down the Strand and into Fleet Street. A world away from Mayfair’s elegant avenues, the noisy, mercantile city was a medieval maze of narrow, crowded, zigzagging streets. Lucien yelled to his men as Stafford veered right at New Bridge. Immediately upon rounding the corner, a cold, November wind rushed up from the broad river ahead, riffling through his hair. Ahead, the Thames was dull pewter, busy with boats of all shapes and sizes moving upriver and down, their white sails bowed. New Bridge Street bustled with wagons and vendors taking their goods to Fleet Market, just up the road behind him, but the working day was ending early and there was a holiday atmosphere in the air. Everywhere people were starting to get ready for the Guy Fawkes Night celebrations. At this time of year, night came early. Already the sun had begun to set.
Lucien narrowed his eyes against the gritty, blowing wind, then cursed, signaling his horse just in time to jump a vegetable seller’s wheelbarrow that nosed out of a side alley without warning into his path. The vendor yelped as the black stallion arced gracefully over the cart; then he cursed Lucien as the horse landed neatly on the pavement and raced on.
Stafford did not cross the imposing Blackfriars Bridge that spanned the Thames straight ahead, Lucien saw, but instead made another reeling, right-hand turn onto Earl Street, which became Upper Thames. Lined with industrial wharves and yards, various workers’ halls and the occasional brewery, Upper Thames hugged the curves of the river. They passed the waterworks and London Bridge, where Upper Thames turned into Lower Thames and things got decidedly seedier. Stafford made a sharp, unexpected left turn by St. Dunstan’s workhouse and suddenly disappeared.
“Damn!” Lucien whispered, his heart pounding. He scanned the buildings and licked his dry lips, feeling them becoming chapped in the wind. Kyle and the others reined in and looked at him in question. “Spread out,” Lucien ordered in a low tone. “We’ll box him in. Whoever sees him first, yell for the rest of us. Lady Glenwood’s life depends on us, lads.”
He hoped they were not already too late.
They nodded grimly and rode off in separate directions to close off the area, but Lucien urged his horse into the deserted alleyway. Suddenly, down a dark, garbage-strewn lane adjoining the alley, he saw Stafford’s drag flash by.
Bardou leaped out of the moving carriage and ducked into the gloom of one of the dilapidated building’s overhanging eaves. Lucien’s eyes flared. Dimly aware of Kyle’s shout some distance away as the lads spotted the carriage, he made a split-second decision, biting back the shout on the tip of his tongue.
Bardou’s move was a ruse designed to make Lucien and his men chase the empty carriage when Bardou had already escaped. Ethan Stafford probably didn’t even know that the Frenchman was no longer in the carriage.
Let the bastard believe he has made a clean escape, Lucien thought, his heart pounding. Sophia had warned him that Bardou had explosives stored in a warehouse by the river. Lucien had a strong suspicion that Bardou was headed for his lair. Lucien decided to follow him alone because if he shouted to his men, Bardou would be alerted that he was still being followed and thus would not go to his headquarters where the explosives were stored.
At the same time, he realized with sickening certainty that Bardou would not have abandoned a usable hostage. It could only mean that Caro was already dead. Oh, God, he thought, slammed by the realization that he was too late.
He drove his heels into his horse’s sides and started after Bardou, only to rein in a few paces later. Stealth was impossible with the horse under him. Its clopping hoofbeats echoed too loudly throughout these quiet back alleys. They would alert Bardou to his presence; besides, Bardou would surely dart indoors soon at one of the riverside warehouses.
While his men chased Stafford’s carriage back toward London Bridge, Lucien slid down off his horse and stole after Bardou on foot. He steeled himself against the realization that he was leaving his proud, loyal steed unattended in a rookery of thieves, but all that mattered was getting Bardou. With rage in his heart, his pistol in his grasp, and his nemesis in his clear line of fire, the only thing that stopped him from shooting Bardou in the back was the knowledge that the man might have other accomplices besides Ethan Stafford, who might still carry out his plot even if Bardou himself were killed. The only way to eradicate the threat completely was to find Bardou’s headquarters and learn his plans.
Then and only then, Lucien promised himself blackly, he would blow the bastard’s head off. As he gave chase, his heart thundered with blood lust that was not tempered even by the sight of St. Dunstan’s weightless Gothic bell tower and serene religious statues as Bardou ran into the church. Lucien noticed Bardou’s slight limp as he raced in after him. The Frenchman seemed to favor his right leg. Inside the ancient stone walls of the church, a few old ladies were dusting the pews and chatting in low tones. Unnoticed, Lucien glided silently through the gloom of the church; Bardou exited on the other side of the nave.
Plunging outdoors once more into the noise of the city and the cold overcast afternoon, Lucien trailed Bardou as the man ran down St. Dunstan’s Hill and back to Lower Thames Street. To his surprise, the son of a bitch backtracked to Blackfriars Bridge and crossed it on foot.
So, he’s not working out of the City, he realized in surprise. No wonder the constables’ sweep of the riverside warehouses turned up nothing. He’s working out of Southwark or Lambeth, on the other side of the river.
Lucien trailed him as he reached the south shore of the Thames and made his way down Albion Street, making a quick right turn onto Upper Ground Street, which soon turned into Narrow Wall Street. Everywhere, the wheels of industry were turning, getting in their last hour of production before the holiday. The smells of the fishing docks and the various factories clustered in the area filled the cold autumn air. Bardou pressed on with a purposeful stride, his limp becoming more pronounced as their walk dragged on. He passed the old Barge Brewery, the cloth manufactory, the iron foundry. Lucien shadowed him through the busy timber yards until, at last, Bardou hurried toward a dilapidated brick warehouse that sat alone, overgrown with weeds, at the river’s edge. Though it looked abandoned, there was smoke rising from the chimney.
Keeping to the shadows of the high fence that surrounded the adjoining timber yard, Lucien glided closer, studying the situation as dusk fell. A rifleman stood guard at both of the warehouse’s corners that were visible from his standpoint. Bardou returned their salutes
as he ducked furtively into the building.
Lucien could only assume that there were men posted on the other two corners, as well, but he doubted there were many more inside. On enemy ground, a wise agent winnowed his forces down to the smallest number of the most highly skilled men he could acquire. Lucien was very interested to know what was inside that warehouse, but first he had to get rid of the guards.
Mayhem glittered in his eyes and the siren’s call of revenge sang in his blood as he holstered his pistol and slid his dagger out of its sheath with a soft whisper of metal. He clung to the fence’s shadow, then moved from cover to cover, inching closer like a lion in the grass. His heart thundering, he used the cast-off chunks of factory machinery strewn here and there—a great capstan from some long-rotted hulk, a broken-down wagon, a pile of bricks—to conceal his approach. He picked up a handful of pebbles as he crept into striking distance.
A few moments later, the first guard turned in the direction of a small, suspicious sound. When he turned his back, Lucien materialized behind him, grabbed the man from behind, clamping his hand over his mouth, and cut his throat without a noise. Almost with a kind of elegance, he set the body down silently, thrusting it well out of view, then faded back into the shadows of the building’s edge. Rage chanted through his spirit like his minions in the Grotto at their most intoxicated, their most ecstatic, even as he struggled to hold Alice’s love in his heart, fueling him to justice, not the cruelty that his hatred would prescribe.
In under five minutes, the second guard met a similar fate, but as Lucien stalked up behind the third, the man turned and saw him.
The guard let out a yell as Lucien knocked the rifle out of his hands. The fourth shouted from fifty yards away. Lucien yanked the disarmed guard in front of him just as the fourth guard fired his rifle. The bullet struck the hefty Frenchman instead of him. Lucien dropped the third man, smoothly pulled out one of his pair of Manton pistols, and took aim before the fourth guard could reload. He saw the man’s eyes widen in dread, frozen in his sights; then he pulled the trigger.