Argent (Hundred Days Series Book 3)

by Baird Wells

  She strained her ears, trying with every fiber of her being to hear what transpired outside. All she could hear were two voices.

  First an unidentified man, then Silas. Alix could hear their tone, but not the words. They climbed one another until it peaked with shouting. There was a horse's anxious shuffling, and then a man-sized thud. Silas went on yelling, the other man escalating to shrill screams. Then it was only Silas and a repetitive, meaty thump that seemed to go on forever. Alix swallowed down a wave of bile, staring at Spencer without blinking.

  A moment later Silas appeared in the doorway, blotting out the last burning ripples of sun. Huffing, he dragged something behind him that Alix couldn't bring herself to examine.

  “We agreed on a goddamn price!” A meaty blow, boot against flesh, reached her ears. “Don't dare try to cheat me!” Spit flew from Silas’s fat lips, caught by the light. “We agreed on a goddamn price,” he muttered again, panting. Then he waved over one of his men. “Get rid of it.”

  The man stared at him blankly. “Where should we take him?”

  Silas waved a steady hand out toward the river. “Whatever you do, I don't think he'll complain.”

  He shook a long envelope in her direction, sweeping dark spots from his waistcoat with a handkerchief. “Abel, bring her here. And Dein, watch him with both eyes,” he said, vaguely waving as Spencer.

  She had no idea which was which. Abel, based on the order Silas had addressed them, came around behind her while Dein grabbed her coat-front and hauled her up. Grunting, he stalked back to Silas while Abel yanked at her manacles. Whispers passed between Dein and his master, Silas staring at her and plucking a wiry straw mutton chop. “With child? We come a little closer to justice, then. One child for another.”

  She dared a glance at Spencer, but he wasn't looking at her. He studied the ceiling, listening. “Don't compare our children,” she dared. “It's hardly the same.”

  A nod from Silas, and Abel's ham fist jammed her kidney. It drove out her breath, cramping, buckling her right knee. More than feeling pain, however, her mind shrieked with fear; she could only think of her unborn child.

  Spencer roared, rising up, but Dein was quick. His fist twisted Spencer’s jaw and knocked him back to the floor. She cried out, lunged for him, but Abel smacked her hard enough to make her head ring, and she fell to her knees.

  Before she could recover, Abel was dragging her. Silas seemed oblivious to the commotion, smoothing his papers out atop a long wooden box which was set on two crates against a wall near the doorway.

  The smell struck her before they'd gone half way across the room, sweet like decaying fruit over rotting meat. It grabbed for the bottom of her stomach, turning it, and obliging her to pull breaths through her mouth. By the time they reached Silas it was near impossible to avoid.

  He pushed the papers in front of her and set a quill beside them with a chilling gentleness. “Sign the documents, Alexandra.”

  Pressing her face into a sleeve, she skimmed writing on the first page. “Sign over my shares to you? I don't have any shares.”

  “That's not true,” he pouted, thick lips pulling into a frown. “You have a great many shares. I've had time to piece together how you stabbed me in the back!” He slammed the box with a fist, each word raising in volume. He sucked in a breath, growing calm again. “Sign the papers.”

  She pushed the quill away with a finger. “Why should I? You'll kill me either way. Why give them to you?”

  Smoothing the wood between them with a fat hand, Silas followed its path with down-turned eyes. “You owe a great deal for what you did to my daughter.” He pressed trembling fingers against the box. “I can be merciful, if you sign. We can end things quickly.” His eyes fell to Spencer, forgotten behind them. Spencer had risen back to his knees, and a dark bruise was forming under his eye. “If you make this difficult, I will start my revenge with him, and you will watch. How much will you endure, I wonder? It can take a long time.”

  She heard his words, felt their razor edge, but her eyes fixed on the long crate in awful recognition. The odor, the way he caressed its lid.

  Alix swallowed back vomit and glanced over her shoulder at Spencer, face blank save a firm set to his jaw. “Do not sign those papers,” he said.

  Despair rose up inside. “We're dead anyway. I can't bear to watch him hurt you.”

  “Alexandra,” he barked, widening his eyes, “I do not want you to sign those papers.”

  “A pair of idiots,” Silas declared.

  Abel moved to replace her shackles, but Silas raised a hand. “Hold her. I think she'll change heart quickly enough.” He tugged a leather thong which bound a canvas bundled set atop the box. Metal clanked inside.

  Swallowing, she glanced behind her. “Spencer…”

  He winked, then smiled.

  And somehow, impossibly, she felt hope.

  Maybe whatever he'd heard was the same thing that had grabbed her attention, while Abel gripped her wrist and Silas went on un-bundling his tools, Dein keeping bored watch over Spencer.

  There was a sudden thunder out on the wharf, a rumble that reached her ears from under the ship bells and hushing surf. It grew suddenly, as if hurried by a short distance, and the cargo door slid open with a deafening clatter. Silas shot to his feet as his goons turned, shock on their faces.

  Alix knew a privateer when she saw one, and right now there were five. Too rough edged for sailors, they also sported too much of a uniform to be mistaken for pirates. Loose shirts tucked into blue- and white-striped slops, they held pistols at the ready. A smart-suited little man marched in behind them and studied his pocket watch with a frown.

  Abel dropped her arm, drawing his own pistol while the newcomers waved arms and shouted in angry French. She had no notion if they were friend or foe, and at the moment she didn't care. They were a distraction, and no one, including Silas, made a move to stop her as she dodged and ran for Spencer.

  * * *

  Spencer narrowed his eyes, taking in the new development and considering how it changed things. Not for the better, so far.

  “DuFresne,” Silas snapped. “We agreed that I would come to you.”

  DuFresne raked his hand through thin hair over his egg head, then adjusted his spectacles to better peer insultingly at Silas. Unlike his companions, the man wore finely polished boots and a proper wool suit which he smoothed with long, puppet-master fingers. “You informed me that you would come to me, Van der Verre. I agreed to nothing.” The unimposing Frenchman took a few steps into the warehouse, squinting and sniffing with the fussy disapproval of a butler.

  It wasn’t who he'd expected to see come charging inside, but DuFresne and his men had bought them time. He shrugged a shoulder at Alix as she fell to her knees beside him. He wanted to comfort her, to ask about her injuries, but they might only have seconds with no one looking at them. “Quick, put your arm inside my coat.”

  She frowned but didn't hesitate.

  “Inside the sleeve. You're looking for something like a thick pin, a nail,” he said, keeping his attention on the others.

  Silas snatched his documents from under DuFresne's probing gaze. “I have matters to resolve before we can conduct our business.”

  DuFresne's arms went slack, like a disappointed parent. “You assured me those matters were already resolved.” His men, still until now, shuffled between agitated murmuring.

  “Spencer, who are they?” whispered Alix as she searched through his sleeve.

  It had taken him a moment, but he’d finally placed the man’s face. “Emil DuFresne is a bureaucrat. I recognize him from my time in Paris.”

  Her fingers skimmed to his elbow, then started back. “What is he doing here?”

  “If I had to guess, a bureaucrat is not all he is.” DuFresne worked for men with changeable loyalty. He was too incurious to be labeled a spy, but was certainly an agent for someone.

  “Found it,” said Alix. “Now what?”

  “Tear it ou
t.”

  There was pressure against his arm as the lining ripped and her hand flew out. “Good. Get around behind me.” He rotated away from the crates, giving her access to his hands. “See a thin spot, nearly in the middle?”

  “Mm.”

  “Twist it, just there, until you have two pieces.”

  “Done.”

  “The real key is a sort of screw,” he explained. “That's what you're trying for. Flat bit goes in until you feel it seat.”

  Her pin scraped the shaft. Spencer felt when it lodged. “Bend the other one into a U, settle it over the post and press hard as you can, twisting at the same time.”

  “You're impressively familiar with this process. Something you do often?” she whispered.

  “More often than I'd like, thanks to Grayfield,” he whispered back, and left it at that.

  Alix made smal,l frustrated sounds behind him, until he feared she wouldn't manage the task. He watched the exchange across the room, praying with every fiber of his being that no one turned around.

  Fortunately, the conversation between Silas and DuFresne was becoming more heated, and their respective groups of goons were eyeing each other warily. He hoped Alix got him free quickly; he could practically feel the impending violence growing.

  Then the bar across his left wrist loosened, and Spencer slipped his hand free.

  “Give me the picks,” he whispered, never taking his eyes off the drama unfolding across the warehouse while going to work on his right hand. An opportunity would present itself for a weapon; he had to be ready.

  “...because you wish to make a game out of it!” This from DuFresne, who managed to make his words larger without actually shouting. He grabbed the creased papers from Silas's hand, turned and strode in their direction.

  Spencer let the shackles drop between his thighs and tucked hands behind his back.

  DuFresne bent his short figure in front of Alexandra, and held out the contract, producing a pen from inside his coat. “Mademoiselle. Sign the papers.”

  Alexandra met Spencer’s eyes, and he nodded. It must be nearly time for Ethan's men.

  She claimed the pen, glaring. “If you say ‘please’.”

  Thin lips bent into a predatory smile, and DuFresne nodded. “Please.”

  Alix laid the papers in her lap, looped her signature on each page and passed them back graciously.

  “See, Van der Verre?” DuFresne shook his stack of documents in the air. “Manners, with a lady.”

  Silas's jowls flushed scarlet. “That murdering, conniving whore is no lady.”

  “I'll take the woman,” DuFresne told his men, ignoring Silas's rage. “Van der Verre can do as he pleases with the vicomte.”

  He would have to kill at least two men now. Spencer groaned and scouted harder for a weapon.

  “No! Absolutely not!” Silas lunged forward, oblivious to the click of four pistols. Spencer narrowed his eyes, counting the people in the room again. The fifth member of DuFresne's retinue was absent. He had a sudden hunch, but wouldn't glance around and risk drawing attention.

  Silas drove his fist down onto a crate, eyes still trained on French pistols. “Our deal is the other way 'round, DuFresne! The woman is my matter.”

  DuFresne stopped mid-stride, raised his chin, and turned a pointed gaze at Silas through his beady spectacles. “Our arrangement is for the ships, and the ships only. The emperor has been more than generous on that score. As have I, given how inept you are,” he snapped. “And so if I wish something else for my trouble, I will have it.”

  “He's taking my ships!” Alexandra's protest was hushed, but she sat up with enough force that Spencer feared she would intervene.

  “Leave it. You'll get them back.”

  “If we live that long,” she hissed.

  “Have a little faith in me,” he teased. “Grayfield is working on it.”

  She nodded once and looked unconvinced.

  “If you wish to be the imbecile,” continued DuFresne, “who hangs an English lord and draws the Crown down on his head, I welcome you to it. The lady is my concern.”

  Silas sputtered, his fists clenching and unclenching. He’d turned an impressive shade of purple, and for a moment Spencer thought one of his problems might be about to resolve itself in a fatal fit of rage. He leaned in to Alix. “See all the trouble you've caused?”

  She smiled for the first time since he’d arrived, then winced at a swollen lip. “I'm not done yet.”

  The barest odor of smoke reached him, wafting lazily on damp air, and he grinned. “You may have a rival.”

  And then, all hell broke loose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Alix had never believed she would live to see the day when Silas's colossal temper got the best of him. He never went toe-to-toe with anyone his own size and never went into conflict if the odds were against him. It was genuine comedy, then, when he turned his porcine physique on a comparatively small DuFresne and snatched for his beloved walking stick.

  DuFresne side-stepped the blow with a dancer's grace. After dodging the stick, one of his men immediately barreled forward, driving into Silas's over-extended paunch. He folded, tumbled back and jarred the stacks of crates and his rough wood box. It slid, slamming end over and splintering, its choking stench wafting over the room. An upended lamp sputtered and bathed DuFresne's men in shadow.

  “No! No, no!” Silas screamed, flailing on his back like a stranded tortoise and clawing for his box.

  Pistols on both sides rose higher despite uneven numbers, each side bracing for inevitable fallout.

  Alix realized, drawing a steadying breath, that the smell she'd earlier mistaken for a far off chimney had grown stronger, and it was also much closer. Glancing left, she noticed gray smoke billowing from the shadows deeper in the warehouse. She nudged Spencer with an elbow.

  “Shh.” He gave a half nod, not looking the least bit concerned.

  DuFresne snapped up Silas’s discarded walking stick. “Take your blood money and your disgusting box of bones and your king-loving bastard over there, and get out of my sight.” His swing was sudden and true, catching Silas's jaw without warning.

  Silas cried out, lurched, and tore most of the papers from DuFresne's fingers, throwing them high. Silas’s men rushed forward, frantic in opposition to a slow drift of pages and DuFresne's men charged ahead in answer. Fists and feet pummeled; it seemed in an unspoken agreement not to use their pistols, neither group looking eager to endure a ball for his master.

  Despite the thickening smoke and their current predicament, Alix was stunned. Silas had always had a temper, but he’d also always been a coward.

  Grunting and straining, Silas got to his knees. Some measure of sanity must have asserted itself because he began moving between stomping feet, snatching at pages while a shuffling, stooping DuFresne mirrored him from the other side of the fray. Alix could hardly wait to see what happened when each man finished with a handful of papers, neither one with a complete set.

  Engrossed in the rapid degeneration, scuffling feet at her back startled her. She turned and swung hard, ready to bite, claw, anything to keep from being dragged away.

  A man tumbled behind the crates, groaned, and rolled to his side. “That was a hard sodding blow!”

  Whatever she’d expected to hear, that hadn’t been it. She turned, taking in the man at her feet. Handsome enough, despite a tight grimace on his face and a red blotch marking his cheek. Tall and fair, and fit enough that she indulged a thrill at having soundly clocked him. “Who…?” she asked Spencer, stealing glances at the mounting chaos behind them.

  “Major Burrell is a friend,” drawled Spencer, craning his neck in order to survey the damage to the man’s face. “At least, he was.”

  “Why didn't you say anything?” she demanded.

  “Ty fancies himself the shadowy sort. Prefers his activities remain clandestine.”

  Ty sat up, massaging his cheek, a pained look on his face that made her feel ju
st the tiniest bit badly. “I'll bloody well say something next time.” He glanced from her to Spencer, then to the fight up front. Several men were down, with Silas and DuFresne raking for pages in the dark. He seemed to measure the progress of the smoke, burning her eyes now, and nodded. “Almost time. Are you ready?”

  “The fire?” she asked, wondering at his lack of concern.

  “It’s small, for now. But that won’t last,” Ty said, grinning and balancing on the balls of his feet.

  Alix rubbed her hands together, wondering if she should trust anyone so casual about a smoldering building. “What are we doing, then?”

  That earned frowns from both men.

  “I'm not an invalid!”

  Spencer opened his mouth for some retort, but the warehouse door thundering open cut their argument short. Bodies rushed in; more of DuFresne's men, by their clothes. Spencer deflated. “Well, shite.”

  More men pounded in on their heels, bellowing something in Dutch. They flowed into the melee, shouting encouragement to Abel and Dein. Silas raised a fist, sneering and hurling insults at DuFresne through the melee. They were equally matched once more, in the space of a breath. At the current rate Alix estimated the building would be full in minutes.

  Ty groaned beside her. “Why is it never our men?”

  She coughed in answer, pressing a hand to her mouth and eyeing a wall of haze filling the warehouse. Flaming bits of char drifted down before her eyes. Alix looked up, frozen a moment by the tongue of flame licking down the eaves. True to Ty’s word, it had spread quickly despite a slow start. Grabbing a fistful of Spencer's coat, she shook him. “We have to go.”

  Spencer, in turn, took a handful of Ty’s coat. “Goddamit. Burrell, what was the rest of the plan after you lit the place on fire?”

  Ty clasped a hand to his chest. “Don't complain to me about how long it takes the army to turn out! I am well aware.”

  “We have to scatter them now; we cannot wait for aid,” said Spencer.

  Sighing, Ty scrubbed a hand through his blond hair. “Hold here a moment. I'll see what I can do about a distraction.”