Chapter Twenty-One
C lick. Click. Click. The tumblers of the brass box’s lock yielded to Lynsley’s probe with surprising ease. Rochambert had been confident that his secrets were safe enough within the guarded gallery.
Too confident.
He set aside his tools and slowly opened the lid. Hopefully, the Frenchman had grown lazy about other precautions as well. His own deliberate drunken staggers had already confirmed that Rochambert’s whipcord muscles had gone a bit fleshy and the Frenchman’s reflexes were just a hair slow. That was good, for he and Valencia would need every advantage they could get.
Valencia. Lynsley forced his breathing to remain tightly controlled as he unfolded the sheaf of parchment set atop the array of bottles. He must think of nothing but the mission and maintain an ice-cold resolve that nothing would be allowed to stand in the way of its success. But against all reason, against all will, Valencia had melted his reserve with her courage, her commitment, her passion. Her friendship. The memory of their bodies joined in lovemaking warmed him to the core.
Was love a weakness or a strength?
Lynsley stared at the scrawls of ink. That was up to him to decipher.
Smoothing out the sheets of paper, he set to work. The original notes, torn from a lined ledger and showing a smattering of telltale bloodstains, were a jumble of incomprehensible letters. A fresh set of foolscap showed that someone had been working on breaking the code. A Caesar shift had been tried and discarded, along with several other basic techniques.
He turned the page to find a Vigenere Square had been set up. So, Rochambert knew a thing or two about cryptography. Lynsley skimmed the variations and slowly smiled. But not quite enough to read between the lines. Taking up his pencil, he tried a few variations of his own. He had precious little time to devote to the process, yet understanding just what he had at his fingertips could be crucial. Knowledge was, after all, the ultimate weapon.
Deju vu.
Despite the cold tongue of steel pressed up against her throat, Valencia managed a calm reply. “Why, simply a lady who takes precautions. Of course I carry a knife. As you see, I’ve suffered the consequences of not being prepared to deal with an angry man.”
“Who cut you?” he demanded.
“A ship captain in Martinique. He felt he hadn’t received the services he had paid for.”
Rochambert angled the blade a bit higher. “You lie nearly as well as I do, cherie . But as a master artist, I recognize my own work.”
Valencia felt the razored edge cut a tiny nick in her flesh.
“Who are you?” he repeated.
She clenched her jaw.
“Silence? Yes, I remember that about you,” he sneered. “Most women scream like a stuck pig when the blade bites into their flesh. But you—you never uttered a sound.” The knifepoint slowly lifted and circled the tip of her left breast. “I always wondered how it was that a woman was my adversary that night. But lately, I have heard the strangest rumors. Rumors about a special flock of women warriors.”
Slowly but surely, he sliced away a scrap of silk from her bodice. “The Merlins, eh? Well, I shall take pleasure in finally plucking your feathers.”
She willed herself to keep a poker face.
“But first, I want to know exactly who you are working for. I want the name of the man who controls the clandestine operations for the British here in France.” Rochambert paused, seeming to savor the thought. “The Emperor will pay a fortune for that information.”
“The British?” Valencia shattered her silence with a harsh laugh. “The sodding pricks at Whitehall cast me off like soiled laundry when I was no longer any use to them. I have no love lost for les Beefsteaks . No, I work strictly for myself these days.”
“ Oui? And how does Daggett fit into the game?”
“There is no reason not to tell you. He really is my husband,” she replied. It was worth a bluff. “After you left me crippled, I wasn’t much use to the British anymore. So I went to the Caribbean, where I chanced to meet Daggett. He decided my skills might prove useful in helping him rise to a position of power in the American government, so we struck a bargain.”
A flicker of uncertainty clouded his gaze. “Why come to me with the American documents?”
“Revenge of a sort,” she admitted. “I knew, of course, that you were one of Napoleon’s favorites, so it seemed logical that you would have the authority to take advantage of an opportune offer.” She paused. “By the by, how did you know it was me?”
“Your eyes, cherie . Even obscured by the mists and your mask, their shape and spark were memorable.” He bared his teeth in the same serpentine smile she had seen so many times in her nightmares.
“I see. A miscalculation on my part.”
His mouth stretched wider. “Far more formidable people than you have tried to outwit me, cherie . None have succeeded. “But do go on. I am curious as to how you and Daggett meant to try it.”
Valencia thought for a moment, then continued improvising. “Once you had paid handsomely for the secrets, the plan was for me to seduce you, then steal them back from your library while you slept. Thomas would then resell them to someone in the Ministry. Part of the deal would be a favorable trade agreement. And so, we would return to America with both money and a good deal of political coin to parlay into future profit.”
“Very clever,” said Rochambert. “In many ways, you are a woman after my own heart.”
How very true. And if she had to crawl back from Hades to do it, she would see that it ceased to beat, thought Valencia. The Frenchman had caused enough evil. It was high time to stop him.
“But you would never have succeeded in getting at the documents. No one can get at my private—” A curse cut off his boast as he felt in his pocket and discovered that his keys were missing. “Why, you little bitch!”
She glanced at the clock. Had she given Lynsley enough leeway?
“You should have left well enough alone.” Rochambert struck her, a hard blow to the face that knocked her to the carpet. “This time, I’ll finish the job of mincing your flesh into pieces for pigeon pie.”
She pretended to be stunned as he wrenched her to her feet. At this moment he was confident that he held the upper hand, for after all, this was the second time he had her at his mercy. But she was no longer the downy chick who had fought more with her body than her brains. Older and wiser, she would not make the mistake again of trying to best him with brute force.
She would have to prove herself more than a match in cunning and guile.
A frisson of doubt prickled along her scar. Failure was a palpable fear, searing a trail of fire against her flesh.
“Come,” added Rochambert roughly. “Let us see just how far Daggett is willing to bargain in order to keep that pretty little throat in one piece.”
Mention of the marquess gave her the strength to shove such trepidations aside. She had bested bitterness and the black abyss of self-loathing, all because Lynsley had believed in her and refused to allow her to disappear into the depths of despair.
While there was still a breath in her body, she would fight like the devil to prove worthy of his . . . friendship.
The first imperative, decided Valencia, was to keep Rochambert guessing about the nature of her relationship with Lynsley. “You are much mistaken if you think he’ll lift a finger to save my skin,” she mumbled as he dragged her down the corridor. “My partner is ruled by pragmatism, not passion.”
“I know a thing or two about lust, cherie, ” snarled Rochambert. “Monsieur Daggett—or whatever his real name—is not so detached from your fate as you claim. And not only that, I see something else in his eyes. He hates me, and I find myself wondering why.”
“An act,” she said.
He slapped her again. “I think not. But let us set the stage for a confrontation and see how the scene plays out.”
Lynsley held the candle closer and adjusted the magnifying glass. The code was complex, but given his extensive experience with such puzzles, he was able to work out some of the basic text.
According to an ancient Chinese treatise on ‘firedrug’, the addition of certain other elements to the basic combination of charcoal, saltpeter and sulfur produces a potent chemical reaction . . . He read on for a bit, his frown deepening with every word.
Bloody hell.
The technical terms were incomprehensible, but the gist of the data was frighteningly clear. Apparently the opinion of Lady Merton, his expert consultant on scientific matters, had been bang on the mark. While the Oxford professor he had asked dismissed the idea as absurd, she had said that a weapon of devastation was theoretically possible.
Lynsley opened his bag and began sorting out its contents. He could only pray that her expertise in chemistry was equally accurate.
The brass box containing the diabolical discovery was large and unwieldy. To neutralize the danger, he would have to proceed very carefully. One by one, he lifted the flasks of chemicals inside and gingerly rearranged the rows. The next step entailed combining?—
The pounding in his ears was suddenly a good deal louder than his beating heart. Though reinforced with bands of iron, the gallery door shook with the fury of the Frenchman’s fist.
“Open up, Daggett!”
Valencia voiced a different demand. “Don’t do it! He?—”
Her words stopped in mid-sentence.
Drawing a deep breath, Lynsley hurried through his last few measurements. Steady, steady . Just a moment or two longer.
“Daggett! I warn you. Open the door, or I shall start sliding your she-bitch under it, one bloody piece at a time.”
“Hold your blade. I’m coming.” The marquess checked the pockets of his jacket. Deep down inside he had always known it would come to this. Mano a mano. It wouldn’t be easy to fool a professional like Rochambert, but he had a few tricks up his sleeve.
Crossing the carpet, Lynsley drew his pistol, then threw back the cylinders of the special lock and clicked open the latch.
“Step back.” Rochambert shouldered his way inside, using Valencia as a shield. He had her neck in a vise-like grip, and a stiletto poised a hair’s breath from her pulse point. “Throw down your weapon, or I swear, I shall gut her like a fish.”
Lynsley cocked the hammer. “Which will allow me to put a bullet through your brain.”
The Frenchman was far too savvy to allow a clear shot. “Assuming I’m slow and your hand is steady.” He darted back, dragging Valencia behind the leering bulk of the marble satyr.
He felt his breath catch. The move was as he expected, but it took all of his self-control to keep playing this razored-edged game. To his relief, Valencia was wise enough not to struggle.
“As you see, you are no match for me, Daggett. Now, if you wish to see your slut live an instant longer, you will throw down your weapon.”
“Don’t harm her. I’ll do as you say.” The marquess tossed the pistol on the floor.
“You see, I was right, cherie .” Candlelight caught the curling contempt on Rochambert’s face as he slid out from behind the stone. “Your partner is thinking with his prick and not his brain. A fatal weakness for a man who fancies himself a match for a professional.” The Frenchman made a show of tightening his hold on Valencia, forcing her spine to an acute arc. “Now throw down the knife, Daggett. Did you think I would not see it bulging in your pocket?”
The blade spun through the air, its point sinking into the parquet floor with a quivering flash of steel.
“Have you no respect for art?” sneered Rochambert.” I don’t like to see my possessions damaged.”
“Neither do I,” said Lynsley.
A bark of laughter. “ Alors , you are not in a position to object.”
The marquess slipped a flask from under his cuff. “No?”
Rochambert narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”
“Perhaps you would care to hazard a guess.” Lynsley gave it a careless shake, setting the crimson liquid to a bubbling froth. “Hell, if I am going to die, it may as well be with a bang.”
The Frenchman was no longer looking quite so smug. “You have no idea what you are doing, Daggett! Arret —stop!”
“On the contrary, I know exactly what I am doing. I am playing with fire. And I am prepared to burn us all to a crisp if you don’t release the lady.” Lynsley sensed his enemy’s uncertainty.
And the first telltale signs of fear. Sweat was beading on Rochambert’s brow, and his flared nostrils betrayed a quickening of his breath.
Would the man dare to risk an instant inferno?
“Stop.” Rochambert drew the knife back a touch. “I am willing to talk.”
Lynsley’s own palms were damp as he stilled the glass vial. He was not only playing with fire, he was playing with Valencia’s life. Forcing his eyes from the glittering blade, he waggled a last little taunting challenge. “Let her go and then the two of us will duel it out like men, eh? After all, it’s me you want, not one of my Merlins. Think of what a feather in your cap it would be if you were able to hand over the Head Hawk, so to speak, to your master.”
“Who are you?” demanded Rochambert.
“I will tell you exactly who I am?—”
“Thomas, for God’s sake, no!” exclaimed Valencia.
“It’s quite alright, my dear. Monsieur Rochambert is not going to live long enough to pass on the information.” A swirl of red spun in a slow vortex. “I am Lord Lynsley.”
Rochambert appeared to be searching his memory to place the name. “Lynsley,” he repeated, then laughed. “The aging aristocrat who pushes pencils around in the back warrens of Whitehall? Sacre Coeur , the English government must be truly desperate or demented to send a crippled female and dottering old dandy to cross swords with moi .” His steel once again caressed Valencia’s throat. “Pray tell, why would the Emperor give a rat’s arse for your worthless carcass?”
“Because I am the Head of British Secret Intelligence,” replied Lynsley. “The dottering old dandy who has foiled Napoleon’s every attempt to parade his People’s Army down Piccadilly. I imagine your Emperor might wish to pick my brain about the details of my operations.”
Rochambert gnawed on his lower lip. “What sort of duel do you propose, Lord Lynsley? If I do as you ask and release the ladybird, you will hold every advantage. And please, do not insult my intelligence by offering your word as a gentleman to put the glass down.”
“I daresay it would be a waste of breath. The reptilian mind can’t comprehend the notion of honor.” The marquess took some measure of satisfaction in seeing Rochambert’s face mottle with rage. “What I had in mind was this. Shove the lady outside. Your special lock should ensure we are not interrupted.”
Valencia’s gasp was cut off by a rough jerk.
“Keep your mouth shut,” ordered the Frenchman. His voice was sharper, shriller.
“Do as he says, Val. Don’t try any pirate tricks.” Lynsley locked eyes with her for a heartbeat, and saw a glimmer of understanding. “Trust me, and be ready to move quickly when Monsieur Rochambert releases you.”
“So, you are suggesting that we fight hand-to-hand for possession of the explosive?”
“I’m not likely to risk blowing myself or the lady to Kingdom Come if I have any hope of winning.”
“Let me consider it for a moment.” As he spoke, Rochambert slid a step closer to the pistol. Another few inches . . .
Now or never.
“Too late. Why don’t we let the Almighty decide.” Lynsley flung the vial at the Frenchman’s head.
With a wordless cry, Rochambert let go of Valencia and grabbed for the glass.
She ducked and spun away into the shadows.
Lynsley threw himself forward, snatching up his knife as he tucked into a tight somersault. The Frenchman’s slash grazed his scalp as he hit the floor. Tuck. Twist. Turn. A fraction off and he would be impaled on his own blade.
Rochambert struck again, quick as cobra. But the split second needed to catch the vial had given Lynsley the edge. He hit the other man’s legs in a hard roll, and as Rochambert fell, he uncoiled his body, driving the knife upward into his enemy’s gut.
A scream pieced the gloom and suddenly the hilt of his knife was slippery with blood.
Lynsley let his hand fall away.
“Thomas!” Valencia’s cheek was wet against his, tears mingling with sweat and the scarlet spill of his flesh wound.
“It’s naught but a scratch.” He touched her throat and the velvet softness of her skin nearly unmanned him. Burying his face in her hair, he whispered a kiss to the tangled curls. “It’s over, my love.”
Together they looked down at the fallen Rochambert.
The Frenchman’s gold-tipped lashes fluttered open. As did his lips. However, the obscenity was dulled by the death rattle of his breathing.
Valencia averted her eyes.
“Yes, perhaps I shall see you in Hell. But whatever my sins, they pale in comparison with yours,” replied Lynsley softly. He could muster no pity for a man who killed without remorse or regret. “Make your peace with the Devil, for I doubt that Heaven has any place for you.”
“Oh, you and your doxie shall roast in flames too, Lord Lynsley.” His fist clenched, the crackle of glass giving force to his last gasp. “Sooner than you think.”