Stormfire

by Christine Monson

  "Would this . . . quirk in his nature be responsible for some of the other duels? I mean, people must be talking . . ."

  Amauri jumped at the suggestion. "I've even heard Murat speak of it. I'm sure everyone's heard by now . . ."

  "Thanks to you, my pet," she drawled ominously.

  "Me?" Amauri looked genuinely startled. "How can you blame me? Culhane and Lachaise are seen everywhere together. Doesn't it strike even you as strange that Culhane is seen with so many women, but only one man?"

  "Not strange at all, after what you've done to him, you sneaking wretch!" she hissed, her whole demeanor changing to that of a tigress circling its prey. "There's only one place such a filthy lie could have started." Eyes like frozen fire, Catherine advanced on her husband. "Sean was nearly beaten to death in that prison because he wouldn't submit. He was shot trying to escape being gutted on a block."

  Deliberately, she threw the sherry in Amauri's face and smashed the glass. The broken bowl jaggedly pointed at him.

  His eyes narrowed. "Are you insane?"

  "No," she said bluntly, "but I have been. And I've killed before, too. My own husband, as a matter of fact. He didn't die heroically at all. He was just as vicious, just as devious, just as selfish as you. And if I were to kill you," she went on softly, "say, some night when you crept into my bed, everyone would just think I'd gone crazy again. After what you've done, I'd gladly spend my days in a madhouse reviewing the pleasure of cutting your throat."

  Amauri's face had gone gray. "Don't forget I can have you arrested," he muttered hoarsely, "and that whoreson, too."

  Unexpectedly, she smiled. "Go ahead. What have you given us to live for, anyway?"

  "You are mad!"

  She laughed almost gaily and tossed the goblet into the fire, where it shattered; then she turned and hissed, "Just keep your doors locked, husband."

  CHAPTER 29

  The Rat From Venice

  Culhane paid little attention to the slim, dark stranger who watched him fence, but he did notice his opponent's lack of concentration. He pressed Lavalier harder to force his attention, but the Frenchman fell back and finally gave an irritated wave of his hand. "Suffit, suffit That's all for today."

  Sean lowered his foil. "What's the matter?"

  The stranger smiled slightly and strolled away to join three officers lounging in the corner. He said something, using one hand expressively. With a low burst of laughter, the men slid glances in Culhane's direction.

  Lavalier looked at them with acute dislike. "What's wrong?" the Irishman repeated quietly. "Who is he?"

  The Gascon thrust his foil into the rack and tugged off his mask. "That's Antonio Neri. Ever hear of him?"

  "Should I have?" Sean put up his equipment.

  "Get your coat and come with me," Lavalier said abruptly.

  "Mind if I ask where we're going?"

  "I need a drink. I suggest you have one, too."

  Lavalier fiddled with his glass and stared into its depths. Cradling his own drink, Sean waited patiently, scanning the other occupants of Pascal's dingy café. Pascal's was Lavalier's favorite haunt.

  "Merde. " Lavalier downed most of his glass. He waved for the proprietor to bring another. "You're in trouble, ami, " he bleakly announced. Sean smiled faintly. "No, not like before. Neri's a Venetian. A professional. He's been called in to kill someone and I think it's you."

  "So?"

  "So, he's good; some say the best. He's also very expensive. They must have taken up a collection to bring him in."

  "The military?"

  "They aren't permitted to fight you; that humiliates them."

  "Too bad. Besides, if he challenges me, Fouché will be on him like a shot."

  "Neri never challenges. He's no fool. You'll be the one to call him out."

  The two men fell momentarily silent as Pascal, the proprietor, brought Lavalier's drink. He gave Sean's full glass a disapproving glance and lumbered off.

  "I'm not about to call him out," Sean said softly to Lavalier. "I'm not going to land in prison."

  "Oh, you'll fight him all right. He'll find a way to make you."

  "I'll wear my most fetching smile when he insults me." The bitter reference to the perverted rumors about him embarrassed Lavalier, and the Irishman regretted his remark. "Look, he can call me anything he likes. I have a tough hide."

  "What about your sister-in-law? Has she a tough hide, too?"

  Culhane stiffened.

  "You see?" Lavalier murmured, then shrugged. "Perhaps he won't dare involve her. Napoleon would hear of it."

  Culhane's eyes narrowed. "Why should Napoleon care about Kit when Josephine is called harlot by the whole world?"

  Lavalier looked at him impassively. "Josephine is protected by her position. No abuse of her reputation can topple her unless Napoleon lets it." The Gascon went on as if Sean were not still staring at him. "Neri is a superb stylist, but he can revert to gutter tactics. Beware of his feet. He's also been thought to poisoin his blade."

  "Why should Napoleon care about Kit?" repeated the Irishman softly.

  "Josephine's current lover sometimes gossips. He says the lady is afraid of la comtesse. That one does not fear shadows."

  Sean stared at some point fixed between Lavalier's ear and infinity. "So the bastard sold her . . . ."

  "Sean, if you go for Amauri, Napoleon will throw you in prison until you rot. You'll be of no use either to her or the child."

  "I'll get him. If not today, then another. Even if I have to cut his throat in an alley."

  The next day, on return from fencing, Sean had barely unlocked his door when it jerked open from inside. He crouched toward his boot knife as the door moved inward; Mei Lih's frightened face in its opening did nothing to dispel his readiness to attack. "My lord, you must go quickly! Your friend has been hurt!"

  Moora impatiently pushed Mei Lih aside. "Gil Lachaise was taunted into a fight as he was leaving the École Militaire. It was Neri." Then she added awkwardly, "He accused Gil of being your lover."

  His face contorted, he spun away.

  Mei Lih shrieked after him, "Don't go unarmed! Come back!"

  Antonio Neri was dining at Justine's with three officers in a private room. Handsome as an El Greco don, he courteously stood, his companions also rising in his wake as Culhane and Lavalier were ushered into the room by a waiter. Neri was slightly younger than Sean, a head less tall, and less well shouldered, but he was as alert as a ferret. "Buona sera, signori, " he said easily, crooking a finger at the waiter to linger. "Will you join us? The veal is particularly good tonight."

  "Thank you, no," drawled the Irishman, "but you must enjoy it before it gets cold. No point in ruining your last meal."

  Neri waved the waiter away. "Are you calling me out, signore?" he murmured after the door closed.

  "You don't leave me much choice. Monsieur Lavalier will act as my second."

  "I am at your convenience."

  "Will the courtyard behind the Ursuline Convent at midnight suit you?"

  "Admirably." He gestured to the man on his right. "Colonel La Rousse will be my second. Captains Marquand and Rossiers will observe, if you don't mind. You may, of course, invite your own friends if you wish. I suggest rapiers." His eyes flicked to the weapon partly concealed by Lavalier's cloak. "Ah, yes. I see you have anticipated my choice." He bowed slightly. "Until midnight, signori."

  The Ursuline courtyard, normally deserted at midnight, had the appearance of a fair. Word of the duel had passed like wildfire and officers ringed the court. Among them were women in masks and hooded cloaks. Torches in brackets along the arched stone colonnades and lanterns among the spectators gave sporadic light. More lanterns bobbed like fireflies through parklike gardens which bordered the court entrances as the last arrivals picked their way through ancient flowering trees and flowerbeds.

  Lavalier's lips curled in disgust as he eyed the crowd. One of the women had brought her opera glasses. "Voyeurs. They find a killing better
entertainment than the Opera Buffa."

  Leaning against a column, arms crossed over his chest, his tall companion stared into space as if unaware of the shadowy crowd, its murmurs and low laughter lifting on the damp night air. The scent of lemon and lilac drifted in from the garden, their heady perfumes incongruous with grim tile-topped walls. The arcade lined three sides of the bricked court; the fourth side, along the garden, was fenced with ornamental ironwork with a gate. Secluded J from the busy Carrousel by the construction of the new Rue de Rivoli and Rue de Castiglione, the court, used for centuries to settle affairs of honor, offered little danger of official interruption.

  A murmur of anticipation ran through the crowd as four cloaked silhouettes filed through the creaking gate of the iron fence; the figure in front gestured gracefully to the crowd, then strode to the center of the courtyard and turned slightly to face the tall, still man in the shadows. Culhane eased off the wall, removed his jacket and waistcoat. Lavalier handed him his rapier, then followed him out to meet Neri, who was by now similarly prepared, his second at his elbow.

  Colonel La Rousse rattled off the obligatory offer to the dissidents to reconsider honorably their intention to enter into combat. The offer was politely declined by both men. The duelists took their positions, arms as elegantly arched as fencing masters on exhibition. The illusion was swiftly shattered. With the swiftness of rattlers preparing to strike, they separated, disengaging with an ominous slither of steel as each sought unsuccessfully to hook the other's guard. White shirts sculpted by torchlight, they warily circled, barely engaging, playing with the ends of each other's blades, tiny counters and feather-touch parries. Neri uncoiled in a blurring attack, was parried and riposted with equal swiftness and skill.

  Very quickly, Neri saw the Irishman was as deadly as himself. Neither his wrist nor his wariness would give out. He would have to be taken by guile. One successful thrust and his rapier would leave its light burden of oily poison in his opponent's body; in minutes the Irishman would falter. Death was inevitable, but long before the poison killed, the dizzied victim would fall prey to his opponent's sword and appear to die of his wounds.

  The Irishman lunged. Neri countered and fell back slightly, answering the next thrust with a riposte, was counterriposted. He answered in remise; the Irishman parried, then disengaging unexpectedly, attacked in headlong advance, steel ringing. Falling back, Neri parried the attack, lunged, but at the instant he attempted a beat, Culhane disengaged and in a split second jabbed him in the bicep.

  A disappointed mutter went up among the watchers. They had not expected the Irishman to draw first blood; neither had Neri, and his confident smile turned grim.

  Ignoring the sting in his arm, Neri attacked with the calculated concentration of a serpent slithering after a mongoose. Steel spat fire as he pressed Culhane back toward the dark end of the courtyard, forcing his opponent to rely on his backlit silhouette to distinguish his movements, while Culhane was still illuminated. Sean did not clearly see the poussée cachée Neri made from prime, and the Italian gave a triumphant laugh as his point passed into Sean's side. The crowd cried out with muted cheers, but as Neri withdrew his sword too easily, he sensed his error. Culhane slipped under his guard to jab at his thigh. Neri swore as he slashed downward to beat the point away. He had missed the Irishman's body and ripped through the loose shirt.

  Neri, knowing each moment was precious, tried every trick he had learned as an alley cutthroat. He began to work close, pressing, luring his opponent to try for him, using his body like an acrobat, trying to trip or kick when corps à corps, using the rapier guard to attempt steel- accented, vicious blows. But Culhane was equally fast and ruthless. Eluding a knee to his groin with the deftness of a cat, he jammed his guard into the Venetian's diaphragm and drove his heel toward Neri's instep, narrowly missing it as the Italian leaped backward. He lunged forward as quickly, catching Sean barely off guard; but the Irishman failed to fall back, parrying strongly instead, and suddenly they were locked, muscles corded, jaw to jaw. His teeth flashing in the torchlight, Neri laughed, and sprang back as his opponent did. As they separated, Sean sliced Neri's face. The crowd fell silent.

  Suddenly, a prearranged signal ran through some of the officers. Their lanterns doused with a distracting clatter of shields, and Neri, with the advantage of the torches, drove home. The culprits cheered as Sean, unable to ward off the entire force of the attack, stumbled back, a dark splotch at his shoulder. Then, as Neri's attention concentrated on the kill, his blade accidentally grazed the bell of Sean's rapier. Momentarily startled, he was off guard just long enough for Sean to counter, then knock his blade from the center of the action. Sean disengaged into sixte and lunged. His blade went through the Italian's chest.

  The assassin looked surprised, then sagged at the knees as Culhane freed his rapier. Neri's lips tightened, then smiled twistedly through the gore. "Death has wearied at last of her complacent lover, but I do not think she will be more faithful to you." He choked and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  Sean looked past his shoulder and eyed the men moving forward in the gloom. He lifted his rapier to Neri's throat. "Tell them, Neri." His tongue felt swollen. "Tell them you lied about Gil Lachaise."

  Neri's smile became mocking. "I have nothing to recant, signore. 'He who breathes in pain, breathes truth.' " With a snarl, Culhane cut his throat. Neri jerked forward to the pavement.

  With a glitter of steal, the nearest advancing silhouette drew his saber, then another flashed from the shadows, and another. Sean braced, trying to detach his mind from the searing throb in his shoulder, trying to keep the ground from undulating like a heaving sea of brick. Cries of "Murder!" echoed off the walls.

  The officers were thrown into confusion. "We've got to get out of here!"

  "No, kill him!"

  A more strident voice snarled, "He fought well despite you damned cheats! Leave him be. Where's your precious honor now? Get out of here and take what's left of it with you!" It was Lavalier, his sword drawn.

  The crowd milled, the women shrinking toward the exits, pleading for their escorts to come with them. Some of the military, appalled by the breach of the code, joined Lavalier; others stood uncertainly as the ringleaders blustered.

  Lavalier glared. "With all this noise, the police will come. Do you want that? Go! Only your consciences will know what you've done here tonight!"

  Marquand grabbed La Rousse's sleeve. "Come on. Look at the bastard. Neri's poisoned him. He's done for, anyway. Come on, let's go!"

  Lavalier whirled to see Culhane going slowly down on one knee, head dangling as the rapier slid from slack fingers.

  The crowd broke.

  "He's coming out of it now," Lavalier murmured as his own physician, Doctor Mariot, cleaned the Irishman's wound. Sean's lips and eyelids were slightly swollen and blueish, his breathing labored as he stirred.

  The Irishman tried to focus. "Where . . . what's going on?"

  Mariot peered into his eyes. "Dilated like a cat's in a cave."

  Lavalier dipped a cloth in cold water and wiped his friend's pale face. "You're at my brother's house. That's him, Louis." A slight man, older than Lavalier but with the same shrewd eyes, nodded. Culhane tried to lift his head, but dull pain shot through it and he let it fall back on the pillow. His body, too long for the bed, slanted across it with his left foot projecting between its brass bars. His shoulder throbbed sickeningly and he swore under his breath as the doctor briskly secured the bandage knot at his shoulder.

  Lavalier laid a hand on his arm. "Take it easy. You've been poisoned, but you'll be fine. Rest now."

  CHAPTER 30

  Veil of Deceit

  Angry voices penetrated the drugged, fitful sleep to which Catherine had succumbed after Raoul had sedated her during the night. She restlessly flung a hand over her eyes to shut out the light, wishing whoever was shouting would go away, then caught a trace of brogue in the louder voice. Her eyes flew open. "Moora?" She fought
to an upright po- sition, then distractedly brushed a hand across her forehead as the terrifying memories of the previous night returned. Pawing off the covers, she heaved her thickened body off the bed and stumbled toward the door to drag it open. "Moora?"

  At the foot of the staircase, Moora paused in mid-tirade, her parasol brandished under Antoinette's outraged nose. Antoinette turned to her mistress for vindication. "I told this . . . lady . . . you were not receiving, madame. The general gave strict orders—"

  "But I am receiving, Antoinette," Catherine said with an effort. "Please take Mademoiselle Alexandrovna's parasol. I shall call you if we want anything."

  Antoinette hesitated. "Madame, are you certain you feel able to have callers? You're not well."

  Looking at the haggard young woman who leaned against her bedroom doorjamb as if it were the only thing keeping her on her feet, Moora felt inclined to agree with the maid.

  "Thank you for your concern, Antoinette," Catherine said quietly, collected now that her head was beginning to clear, "but I wish to speak to my friend."

  The parasol held stiffly like a marshal's baton as she stalked to the kitchen, Antoinette wondered how an imitation Russian tart could possibly be an intimate of her mistress.

  Moora mounted the steps. In her lilac muslin dress, she might have been a Botticelli naiad, except for her pert straw bonnet trimmed with violets.

  "How lovely you are today," Catherine said softly, her voice somewhere outside herself. How ironic for a girl wearing a spring bonnet and violets to be a messenger of death.

  "I wanted to be first to reach you," Moora said slowly, "but I see you already know." She stopped just outside the door.

  "Raoul told me," Catherine said dully, her eyes dilated by laudanum. "It must have been an entertainment, like a bear baiting. People came to watch him die." Her eyes grew darker, frighteningly disoriented. "Only it was less of a show than they expected. He'd been poisoned, you see." She stared dazedly at the Irish girl. "But you know all this. How stupid of me. You've come to tell me he's dead." She caught Moora's arm, whispering brokenly, "Where is he? Where have they taken him?"