Chapter Twenty-Two
“ M erde .”
Valencia had not quite recovered from the shock of hearing Lynsley murmur the word ‘love’ when his oath rumbled in her ear.
“Dear God,” she whispered, watching the crimson liquid spill across Rochambert’s blood-soaked shirt. “Will it explode?”
“I added the neutralizing chemical, as the recipe spelled out, but . . .”
A tongue of fire shot up from the torn linen, and then another.
“But I wouldn’t stake my life on it.” Lynsley grabbed her arm. “In any case, nothing will stop the stuff from bursting into spontaneous flame.” Ducking beneath the plume of smoke, he headed for the door. The sickening stench of charred flesh was already overpowering.
“Thomas.” Much as she longed to escape from the bilious black cloud, she held back. “The box—should we not finish what we came here for, once and for all?”
He touched a hand to his coat. “I have the papers.” A glance at the rising flames. “The rest will take care of itself.”
A shattering of glass punctuated his reply. Flying shards shredded the painted canvas on the wall behind their heads. “I never cared for Delacroix,” he muttered, pulling her into the shelter of his arms.”
“You are quite mad.” She kissed his cheek. “And quite magnificent.”
A lopsided grin gleamed through the ghostly light. “Not bad for an old man, eh? I must make a point of getting out of the office more often.”
“Over my dead body.”
“All joking aside . . .” Lynsley fumbled with the locking mechanism as the whoosh of the flames rose to a roar. “We best hurry.”
He heaved the door open just as a shuddering boom knocked them sprawling to the corridor floor.
“Stay low,” sputtered Lynsley in between coughs. A noxious gas swirled with the smoke, creating a pale, poisonous pink cloud that blanketed the air. The wall sconces flared, then died out, leaving them in darkness. “And keep hold of me.”
The heat quickly turned blistering. The wainscoting buckled and ignited in a shower of sparks. Covering her mouth with her skirts, Valencia choked down a welling of panic. Her eyes were slitted shut, and her lungs burned from the acrid fumes. Dizzy, disoriented, she clung to Lynsley’s warm, strong hand. It was her lifeline, her hold on all that was good amid the crackling chaos of destruction.
“Just a bit farther,” he called, as if sensing her faltering spirits.
It was strange how the connection between them had survived the pain and the struggles of the past. Through his callused palm, she felt the steady beat of his heart. Oh, how she loved his touch, his humor, his courage.
Indeed, she loved everything about him, even his infuriating stone sphinx stare.
Love. She dared not dwell on the word. The endearment had slipped from his lips in the heat of battle. An expression of friendship—it had no deeper meaning.
And that must be enough to carry her through this storm, and beyond. Lynsley had shared much of himself—his strength, his knowledge, his passion. But there was still a private place that he kept sealed to all but himself. A place with no fancy key of steel or iron. It would only open of its own accord.
“Unfasten the bolts!” From downstairs came a panicked cry and the pounding of running feet. “The mansion is ablaze.”
Up ahead, the gilded banister winked in the wild light, its spiraling curve beckoning them to safety.
Lynsley rose to his knees.
She jerked him back, rolling to cover his body with hers as a beam came crashing down to the floor.
“Just who is saving whom,” he quipped, quickly reversing their positions.
“It’s a joint venture,” she replied. His face was streaked with soot and his hair caked in cinders, but his eyes sparked with a clear blue intensity that eclipsed all else.
Lynsley. The light of her life.
A blinding flash exploded in the main salon. Looking over his shoulder, Valencia saw that the fire had spread quickly and was raging out of control. Silhouetted against the multicolored smoke, the shower of plaster flakes had an incongruous beauty, floating silent and serene amid the cacophony of snapping timbers.
“We can’t go forward,” muttered Lynsley. The carved moldings were starting to disintegrate, falling away in jagged chunks that rained ash and sparks over their heads.
“And we can’t go back,” she added. The corridor was blocked by a wall of flames.
He hesitated for an instant, then pulled her into the side parlor. “Our only chance of escape is the windows.” He slammed the door shut before picking up a Chinoise sidechair and hurling it through the mullioned glass.
A blast of cold air funneled through the gaping hole. “You first!” he yelled over the rattle of the broken casements.
“No, you should?—“
“That’s a bloody order.”
Much as she wished to object, Valencia realized this was no time to argue the fine points of honor. She scrambled up to the ledge and inched out along the narrow ledge of decorative limestone. The marquess kicked off his shoes and followed on her heels.
A crowd was milling in the cobbled streets below. A patrol of soldiers was trying to calm the confusion and organize a bucket brigade.
“It’s useless,” said Lynsley. “Nothing can extinguish this spark of Satan. It will burn itself out eventually—but not before destroying the entire street.”
She watched a mother and three children fleeing from the adjoining building. “Heaven help the souls living here.”
The fiery glow from the burning roof showed the anguish in his eyes. “I should have anticipated he would seek to inflict harm, even in death.”
“Damnation, Thomas. Don’t blame yourself. You did all in your power to prevent needless destruction.”
The bleakness of his smile tore at her heart. “War is hell. Isn’t that one of the pompous platitudes that I teach you at the Academy?”
She touched his sleeve. “Look, the cornice stonework appears to offer some sort of handholds. From there, we can climb down to the arched windows.” She couldn’t see past the jutting slates. “We must move. I can feel the heat seeping through the mortar.”
Lynsley nodded. His eyes, however, remained locked on the flames licking out from the adjoining mansion.
Steeling her aching muscles, Valencia started off at a slow slide. The stretch of ledge was short, but the footing was treacherous. Narrow as a knifepoint, the ancient stone was crumbling in spots. The drifting smoke and gusting wind made it difficult to see?—
Her injured leg, already weakened from the strain of her earlier exertions, suddenly gave way.
The scuff roused Lynsley to life. Reacting in a flash, he caught her around the waist and pulled her back against the wall.
“For the love of God, Val, don’t you dare leave me now.” His raspy murmur was rough as his soot-streaked jaw rubbed against her cheek, and yet strangely plaintive.
Love. That word again.
“Not after all we have been through together,” he added.
Valencia held him tightly, steadying their foothold. The perch was precarious—an apt metaphor for their strange relationship, she thought wryly. Her laugh, no more than a breath of air, stirred his wind-tangled hair. “I’m afraid you are stuck with me for the duration of the mission. Merlins don’t fly away from adversity. They rise to any challenge—isn’t that what you teach us?”
“I don’t think you have anything left to learn from me,” whispered Lynsley. He hunched against her as a nearby window blew out in a welter of twisted metal and slivered glass. “Time to spread our wings.”
The marquess slid into the lead, keeping a firm grasp on her hand. “Watch your step.”
“I’m not some fragile piece of porcelain,” she said lightly as they paused to catch their breath. “Like a jug of rum, I am still serviceable, even with a crack or two.”
“Having had my lips on your spout, I would have to agree,”
“Why, Lord Lynsley! Another lewd remark?” Valencia knotted up her skirts and slipped her fingers into the chiseled detailing. “At this rate, your reputation as a paragon of propriety will soon go up in smoke.”
He grinned through soot-smudged lips. “My reputation is likely blackened beyond repair. However, I am hoping you will keep it to yourself.”
“Your dark secrets are safe with me, Thomas.”
His reply, if he made one, was swallowed in the scorching wind. Hot and heavy as dragon’s breath, its roar was deafening as she scrabbled her way down the side of the mansion. The building next door burst into flames, and sparks were spreading from roof to roof.
“Hold up.” Lynsley joined her on the archway ledge. They were low enough to see the upturned faces of the crowd. People were pointing, their voices a cacophony of cries. A woman fainted and was hustled aside by a group of soldiers, who set to clearing a space on the trampled ground.
“You will have to jump!” called the captain, after having his men stretch a blanket between them as a safety net. “We will catch you.”
“Bloody hell.” Lynsley made a rapid assessment of the surroundings. “He’s right. We have no choice. But it’s rather like leaping out of the fire and into the frying pan. Our cover won’t stand the heat of official questioning, and I don’t really fancy finishing out the war in a French prison. That is, if they don’t hang us for murder.”
“We’ll find a way to fly the cage,” said Valencia, though the appearance of a second troop of soldiers did not auger well for their chances. “Once we’re on the ground, I can fall into a ladylike swoon, and we can slip away in the confusion.”
“It’s worth a try,” replied Lynsley. Shielding his face from the fire, he suddenly turned and edged closer to the open windows.
“Thomas!”
He pulled the sheaf of papers from his coat and threw them into the flames.
“T—the manuscript?” she asked as he returned to her side.
Lynsley watched the sheets swirl and sizzle into naught but ashes. “We can’t be caught with such incriminating papers.” He allowed a grim smile. “And in truth, I think it’s for the best. The world does not need a weapon of such mass destruction.”
“Madame! Monsieur! Allez, allez !”
He winked. “Ladies before gentlemen.”
A groan hitched in his throat as the wind caught Valencia’s skirts and twisted her in the mid-air. An instant later, she spun awkwardly into the waiting blanket, barely catching its corner.
A soldier scooped her into his arms as the captain waved Lynsley on. “Hurry, monsieur! Before it’s too late.”
Lynsley needed no urging. The wooden windowsill was crackling into a jumble of red-hot coals.
Valencia . He would jump through flaming hoops to reach her. Throughout this hellish ordeal, she had never lost her inner fire. Indomitable, in spite of her frailties. That was true courage—to soldier on through pain and self-doubt.
His feet hit the taut stretch of wool and he bounced up through the smoky air. The Academy taught resilience and resolve but she was no longer a student. Life outside the ivy walls had shaped her, sculpted her into who she was now. A woman of extraordinary grace and grit.
He cared deeply for all the girls he had taken under his wing. But Valencia . . .
Lynsley landed hard, the force dropping him to his knees. “Where is madame?” he exclaimed, trying to pull free from the soldiers who took hold of his arms. “Let me go! I must see to my wife.”
“The lady is safe,” said the captain. “My men are ministering to her needs. In the meantime, monsieur, I would like to ask you some questions.”
He coughed. “Please, can’t it wait until I have some water, and assure myself that my wife did not injure herself in the fall. You know women—they are such emotional creatures. And . . .” Improvising on the fly, he added, “mine is in a most delicate condition.”
The officer looked a little embarrassed, torn between chivalry and duty. “I—I am sorry, monsieur, but my orders are quite clear. Until the source of the fire is determined, everyone seen leaving the mansion is to be kept under strict surveillance?—”
“Quite right, Captain. But Monsieur Daggett is a distinguished diplomat. I can vouch for his credentials.” Georges Auberville, one of the French diplomats they had met during the negotiations, elbowed his way through the line of guards, flashing an official document thick with ribbons and sealing wax. “As you see, I am from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He and his wife are to come with me. ”
The officer studied the parchment for some moments before handing it back. “All seems in order. I suppose I must be guided by your authority.” He ordered his men to make way. “Your wife is across the street, Monsieur Daggett. You both were extremely lucky to escape the blaze.”
“Indeed,” murmured the marquess.
“And accept my best wishes for the felicitous event. If the child is a girl, you may consider naming her Paris.”
“Thank you,” said Lynsley gravely. “Naming a female after a city? It is an interesting idea.”
“Lady Daggett is with child?” asked Auberville in a low voice as they crossed the cobblestones.
“In negotiating with the captain, I may have taken some liberties in presenting the facts,” he replied.
“I am glad to hear it,” said the minister. “We may have to travel rough to get you out of this debacle.”
Lynsley nodded, though for an instant the thought of him and Valencia as a family stirred a certain longing. However, it was Auberville who demanded his full attention at the present moment.
Friend or foe?
He ventured a cautious question. “Are you saying that the Ministry is already aware of this turn of events?”
Auberville gave a tense laugh. “ Mon Dieu , let us hope not. But they will soon enough. We haven’t much time to spirit you out of Paris.”
“Actually, I’ve my own arrangements in place,” he murmured. “But I would be grateful for assistance in getting to the rendezvous point.”
“That is easy enough.” The minister’s face relaxed slightly. “I suspected that the Americans have other operatives in place. Mr. Madison and Mr. Armstrong are men who leave little to chance.”
“You are allied with them?”
“I am. I believe the emperor is leading France on the road to ruin, and so I am dedicated to seeing that my country strive to be a true democracy, like the American republic.”He dropped his voice even lower. “Is Rochambert dead?”
“Yes,” replied Lynsley.
A flicker of satisfaction passed over Auberville’s features. “ Bon . That one was a right bastard. I am glad that Washington heeded my warning that his lust for blood might ruin our plans in Marseilles.”
“As you say, Madison is a meticulous man.” The marquess repressed a wry smile. Sometimes war made for strange bedfellows. “He likes to eliminate any obstacles that stand in the way of success.”
“Indeed.” Auberville slanted a sidelong look. “It was a stroke of brilliance to use you and your wife to draw Rochambert into a trap. I confess, you had me fooled for a while. You are more dangerous than you look, Monsieur Daggett.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.”
“Quite.” Auberville flashed his document again, quickly quelling the objections of the officer standing guard over the makeshift medical tent. “Madame Daggett deserves a medal for having the bravery to serve as bait for that devil.”
“I imagine our government will agree,” said Lynsley. Spotting Valencia in the shadows, the marquess lengthened his stride. Her skirts were hiked up to allow a solicitous soldier to inspect a shapely stretch of leg. He did not have to call upon his acting skills to sound suitably upset. “Move aside, move aside. Are you hurt, my dear?”
“I think I have sprained my ankle,” she said in a plaintive whine. “Oooooh, it hurts .”
“A cold compress—” began the soldier.
Lynsley shouldered him aside and gathered her in his arms. “I know damn well how to take care of my wife, sirrah! The first thing is to get her to more comfortable quarters.”
“This way, monsieur!” The rest of the troops shuffled back as Auberville gave a brusque wave. “I have a carriage waiting close by.”
Valencia’s brow flicked up in question.
“Just play along,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to her brow. “It appears we have a guardian angel.”
She responded with a dramatic groan.
Auberville led the way to one of the side streets. “Let us hurry,” he urged. “Before the Imperial Guard arrives to take charge of security. They are not so easy to bully as the local regiment.”
“I am perfectly capable of walking,” said Valencia.
Lynsley ignored her. “How far?”
“Just a few minutes more. The carriage is stationed by the Jardin de Luxumberg.”
“Who else is involved,” asked Auberville as they hurried down one of the side streets.
The marquess shook his head. “It’s best you don’t know.”
“Ah. Yes, of course, you are right.” Auberville, hurried ahead and opened the carriage door. “ Bon voyage ,” he murmured, helping them up the iron rungs. “Do put in a good word for me in Washington.”
Lynsley waved through the glass, then leaned back against the squabs and exhaled a long breath. It ended in a wry chuckle. “I do hope that Dieppe has a decent wine merchant.”
“Wine?” Valencia grimaced. “The only port I wish to see is Dover.”
His lips quirked. “I’ll drink to that. But as we leave France, I should like to send President Madison and his cabinet a case of the finest French champagne.”