by Gaelen Foley
“Take your hands off me!” Still seated firmly in the saddle, she kicked him in the chest and flung him back, but about that moment, her horse was inspired with a similar idea.
Bloody-Nose Man was obviously not having a good day. The horse jumped; and the unfortunate fellow suddenly went flying backwards with a yelp. Thanks to a well-aimed kick from her angry mount, he was flung against the brick wall of the alley, where he crumpled to the ground, out cold.
“Good boy!” Gin started to praise the gelding with a startled laugh, but unfortunately, the horse was angry at her, too, no doubt for stealing him and dragging him into this unpleasant business.
Nick let out a shout of fear as the horse bucked her off its back. Her borrowed sword clattered to the ground as she went flying, too—only to land more or less in the arms of the cold-eyed Frenchman.
She gasped with relief that she hadn’t broken her skull, but as the horse bolted, leaving her to her fate, she felt the Frenchman’s grasp tighten around her and suddenly found she had a gun to her head.
“I take it this belongs to you?” he said to Nick.
Nick stopped fighting immediately. “Limarque, don’t hurt her.”
“The book, please.”
“Nick, no!” Gin cried.
“What’s this? I thought his name was Jonathan,” her captor said mildly. “Jonathan Black, non?”
Gin winced at her mistake. Nick or whatever he wanted to call himself today was glaring at her, his obvious message to her clear: Shut up.
She did. But as she pressed her lips together, her scowl likewise informed him: I was only trying to help you!
“The book,” Limarque repeated more insistently. “Fancy a swap, Englishman? Whatever your real name is. She’d fetch a pretty penny at the auction.”
Nick’s chest heaved with exertion. “Not if you value your life.”
“It’s that book I value. You don’t even know what you’re fighting for. Or, do you?”
“It’s worth a lot o’ money,” he growled.
“It’s worth far more than that, but only to someone with the right connections. You don’t have them, Black. It doesn’t concern you, anyway. Now give it here, or we take your little hellcat home with us and take turns having our fun with her until she’s out of tears. Then she dies.”
“You’re vile,” Gin hissed at him.
“Shut up.” He jerked her arm.
“You’ll let her go?” Nick barked. “I have your word? One hair on her head, and this is war. Do you understand me, Limarque?”
“Give the book to Cagnard.”
“No, don’t listen to them! Nick!” she protested in dismay as he reached into his waistcoat and took out her father’s journal, handing it over to the square-headed blond man with a black look.
Satisfied, the leader shoved her forward, releasing her, true to his word—much to her surprise.
Stumbling when he pushed her, Gin tripped on the hem of her blasted skirts. But just as she caught her balance, she looked up and gasped to spy the Bloody Nose man standing right behind Nick.
Apparently, he had recovered from the horse’s kick while no one was looking. He raised his weapon.
“Nick, look out!” she yelled, too late.
The man clobbered him over the back of his head with a brick he had found in the alley.
“Stop!” Gin screamed as the man bashed him a second time, snarling vengefully.
Gin cried out as Nick crumpled, bleeding from his head.
“Make him stop!” she pleaded with the leader as the vicious brute hit Nick a third time to make sure he stayed down.
He was unconscious.
“Nick!”
“Cagnard, give me the book. Brou, finish him,” the leader ordered, to Gin’s horror.
“Gladly.” Brou tossed the bloodied brick away and paused to reload his pistol.
Ashen-faced, Gin turned to the leader. “You can’t kill him. Please! Trust me, you don’t want to do that.”
“Why not?” Limarque asked pleasantly, holding up a finger to stay the execution for a moment. “Tell me why I ought to spare him.”
She swallowed hard. “Not for his sake but your own. Believe me, you don’t want to tangle with his friends.”
“His friends? Ah, I see. Well, my dear, the only way they’ll be able to trace his death back to me is if we leave any witnesses alive. Easily remedied, non? Maybe I’ll just kill you both right now—”
“You mustn’t! Don’t you see that would be foolish?” she insisted, heart pounding as she found herself begging for both their lives.
“Foolish?” Limarque a brow.
She nodded fervently, knowing this was a desperate ploy. But he was intrigued. Obviously, it was a waste of breath to try to inspire this cold-eyed man to mercy. She had to appeal to his self-interest.
“How’s that?” he inquired.
“That book you’ve got—it’s all in code. But I know what it says. Spare him, and I’ll give you all its secrets.”
Limarque eyed her warily. “You can decipher it?”
“I’ve been working on it for months.”
“It was in John Carr’s possession.”
“We were supposed to share the money we’d get from bringing it to this auction. But that little thief double-crossed me and stole it. When I tracked him here, I met this Jonathan person. He told me his name was Nick—typical man, liar. But I persuaded him to go after Carr to get it back for me. He looked like he could do the job.”
“Persuaded him how?” he drawled.
“How do you think?” she retorted. “That’s the only reason he was there in that hotel, aside from the Bacchus Bazaar. Other than that, he’s got nothing to do with any of this. The book is mine.”
“I see. Well, fair lady, I’m sure you can be very persuasive.” His downward glance skimmed her body. “I suppose if he wants you back, he can buy you at the auction—after you’ve decoded all the secrets in the journal for me.” He leaned down to whisper a warning in her ear. “Try anything stupid, and you die. Slowly.”
“I won’t, I understand.” She swallowed hard. “Just leave him out of this. I don’t want his blood on my hands, and neither do you, if you’re smart. He’s very well connected.”
He seemed amused by her attempt to come across as fierce. “Clever girl. I think I rather like you. Cagnard, get the carriage. Brou, drag that English bastard into the passageway where he won’t be seen until we’re gone. But leave him alive,” he added crisply.
“Limarque! He can’t be trusted!” Brou objected with his nose swelling by the minute and beginning to look a little like an eggplant.
“Of course not,” Limarque replied. “Nevertheless, the hellcat has a point. I don’t need a war with Angelique’s army of mercenaries. He’s not worth it. Allons. Let’s get out of here.”
Mere moments later, Gin was pushed into a closed carriage that pulled up to the mouth of the alley. Limarque got in beside her, her father’s journal tucked inside his waistcoat.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, but the tremble in her voice gave the lie to her defiant mask of bravery.
“That is none of your concern.” Limarque tied a blindfold around her eyes, then set his hand possessively on her thigh, and ordered his henchman to drive.
Chapter 17
Nick slowly opened his eyes and found himself looking up at the blurry oval of a face. Someone was anxiously peering down at him. “Doctor, he’s awake!”
Barely.
Movement shuffled about in the room. It all seemed far away. He blinked a few times, struggling to shake off the confusion as a second pale, blurry oval appeared and hovered over him.
“Young man, can you hear me?” a kindly, aged voice asked with a thick French accent.
He nodded slightly, gl
ad to find at least his neck still worked.
Where am I?
The smell of good food that permeated the building and the familiar softness of the bed where he lay hinted that somehow he was back in their room at La Maison de Maxime. He had no idea how he might have got there.
As his vision cleared, the two faces came into better focus. The first belonged to an old French surgeon with a white goatee, who was squinting at him in a scientific way.
“Can you tell me your name?” the doctor tested him, holding his chin up to look in each of his eyes.
Nick struggled with the question, but not for the reason the doctor probably thought. Countless names and identities he’d used over the years tumbled through his pounding head like a rockslide. Who am I, again?
It alarmed him that he could not remember under which alias he had registered at the hotel. But it wasn’t Jonathan Black, obviously.
Black was wanted by the gendarmes as a known associate of the quasi criminal Angelique.
“Your name?” the surgeon repeated in a steady tone. But the other person nearest him was apparently so distressed by Nick’s silence that could not help himself. “He is Baron Forrester of England, sir! He’s my mother’s friend.”
With that, the familiar boyish voice penetrated the dark fog of his likely concussion, and Nick sat bolt upright—which in turn brought on the sensation that his head had just exploded.
“Thank God you’re alive!” Phillip cried.
Skull throbbing, Nick glared at the boy in disbelief. “Of course I’m alive,” he muttered. “What . . . are you doing here? Your mother’s going to kill you,” he grumbled, then his stomach clenched as the sickening memory returned of how everything had gone awry in the alley, and he nearly groaned aloud in panicked anguish as he remembered they had taken her.
He immediately started to get up, but the doctor pushed him back gently to the pillows propped against the headboard. “Not so fast, monsieur. Lie still. You need to rest—”
“I have to go,” Nick informed him, heart pounding with horror at the thought of her held captive, while the room spun and black dots zigzagged across his field of vision. “I just need a moment . . .”
Phillip frowned, watching him.
“Nonsense,” the doctor answered. “Look here. Follow my finger.”
Nick scowled but obeyed, trailing the doctor’s fingertip slowly back and forth. “How did I get here?”
Phillip nodded across the room. “Carr brought you in.”
“Carr?” Nick followed his glance and was mystified to find John Carr sitting in the armchair with his shoulder bandaged. He was silent, watching everything unfold, his expression a mix of relief and sullenness.
“It’s a good thing he did,” the doctor informed him. “You were still unconscious when I arrived. Monsieur de Vence sent Georges to fetch me,” he added.
“Ah,” Nick answered, scanning the chamber.
Good God, the room was full of people. The hotelier stood a few feet away, looking personally stricken and aggrieved at the attack on one of his guests.
A woman Nick supposed was Maxime de Vence herself stood in the doorway, holding a cheesecake as if she had brought it to him for its medicinal properties, while her gangly son Georges peered, wide-eyed, over her shoulder.
Bloody hell.
Monsieur de Vence stepping forward, hands clasped in distress. “I am so sorry this has happened to you, monsieur. I must apologize for my city! Mon dieu, this is outrageous! That you, a visitor, should be attacked in broad daylight! Rest assured, we’ve called the gendarme. He should be here in a moment. Now that you’re awake, you can make a report. Whoever has done this to you and the young monsieur, he must be punished!”
Nick tensed at the news that the Paris police were on their way—as if finding Gin missing and himself in this vulnerable state were not already horrible enough.
“Well,” he managed, “it seems I owe you all my thanks.” He gave Carr a guarded nod, which the blond lad returned.
“Did you know your friend was also wounded in the robbery?” the doctor remarked. “You must have got the club while he got the bullet. He’s lucky, though. His is just a flesh wound. You’re the one we were worried about. We’ll have to keep an eye on you over the next twenty-four hours or so to make sure this mild concussion of yours does not bring on any latent effects.”
I don’t have twenty-four hours.
He wanted her back safe, now.
“Any double vision? Strange taste in your mouth?”
“Honestly, I’m fine.”
“It took ten stitches to stop the bleeding.”
Nick scowled. “Bloody hell.” Raising his hand, he gingerly fingered the bandage tied around his head.
“Georges, run to the icehouse and fetch more ice for the gentleman.”
“Oui, Maman.” The hotelier’s son dodged off while his wife stepped forward.
“Poor monsieur!” Maxime exclaimed, bringing him the cheesecake, much to his bemusement. “Cheesecake always helps,” she said fondly, following his bemused glance at her offering.
“Thanks, ma’am.”
“D’accord.” She set it on the table. “How do you feel?”
“Like a lion has been gnawing on my skull,” he admitted ruefully.
“I am not surprised. You bled all over our lobby.”
“Sorry about that. We’ll pay for any damages—”
“Nonsense,” she declared.
“Ugh.” Nick closed his eyes as a wave of pain hit.
“You see?” the doctor chided. “It isn’t good. When the boy brings the ice in a cloth, keep it on your head. That will help to keep the swelling down. I’m afraid we cannot let you go back to sleep for several hours, though. That could be dangerous.”
“I understand.” He did not open his eyes. It was hardly his first concussion, nor the first time he’d ever been beaten senseless.
He didn’t recommend it.
“Here. Drink this,” the doctor ordered.
Nick dragged his eyes open and stared at the offered glass skeptically. “What is it?”
The old man shook his head. “A headache powder dissolved in some nice English tea for you. What, do you think I will poison you just because I am French, eh?”
Nick gave him a sardonic look and took the glass, downing the stuff. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“That should help to dull the pain,” the doctor said with a satisfied nod.
As Nick swallowed the medicine, Phillip could no longer contain himself and worriedly demanded, “Where is my mother?”
Lowering the glass from his lips, Nick faltered. He had no idea what to tell the boy, especially in a roomful of people.
“Carr claims he hasn’t seen her, but you never know with him. Then Monsieur de Vence said she ‘borrowed’ a horse from right out in front of the hotel and went galloping off without explanation. That’s odd behavior, even for her!
“Don’t worry, I paid for the horse, so the gendarme won’t arrest her when he gets here,” Phillip added with a dismissive wave. “I just want to know if she’s safe! Please tell me she wasn’t with you during the robbery!”
Robbery. So that’s what we’re calling it. All right.
“No, no, of course not,” Nick soothed. “She said she was going out. She’s probably shopping or something.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Madame de Vence, clutching her bosom in relief. “I’m so glad to hear your wife wasn’t there.”
“She’s not his wife,” Carr spoke up.
His low, cynical drawl embarrassed everyone in the room.
“Thanks for that, John,” Nick muttered, flushing at the bald accusation after he had lied to these good people—and especially after the sort of brazen conjugal sport that had gone on in this very bed, around which all o
f his visitors had gathered with such tender concern for him.
He hung his head and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Ah, monsieur, this is Paris,” Maxime replied with a discreet wink. “We understand such things.”
“So, she wasn’t with you when this happened?” Phillip asked beseechingly.
Nick strove to clear his head. With the gendarme on the way, he had to get his story straight now—and best to keep it simple.
The sooner he could get rid of the policeman, the faster he could get on with rescuing Virginia. He did not want the Paris gendarmerie poking their noses into this.
Even if he managed to keep them from finding out he was also Jonathan Black, they were unlikely to take his side.
Napoleon’s ex-military police were famous for their corruption. And given Limarque’s connection to the powerful Truveau clan, chances were high that Limarque’s gang already had some sort of understanding with the local police force—bribes, to make sure the law left them alone.
“No,” he assured the lad. “She wanted to go out and visit some of her favorite shops along the Champs-Élysées. Carr and I had no desire to go shopping with a lady, obviously.”
Monsieur de Vence let out a sympathetic humph.
“So, where did you go?” Phillip persisted.
Nick hesitated, racking his addled brains and wishing this conversation would simply go away. “To a place where you don’t bring a lady,” he mumbled.
But apparently there was little point in trying to shield the lad by speaking in delicate terms.
Phillip scrunched up his nose in disgusted understanding. “You two went to a brothel while my mother was out shopping?”
“Ahem!” Monsieur de Vence interjected. “Well, that would explain the attack. Bands of footpads have been known to wait outside such places to, er, rob the gentlemen as they’re leaving.”
“In the middle of the day?” Phillip shook his head at Nick in reproach. “I knew you weren’t good enough for her!”
Nick gave him a pained look. And to make matters worse, at that moment, the gendarme arrived, smart and polished in his uniform. The soldier-policeman knocked curtly on the open door, then entered the bedchamber with the strut they all had, all these French veterans who had ever stood within a ten-mile radius of Bonaparte.