It was quiet, the shadows still and solemn, like sentinels standing silent guard on the storage room.
“Perhaps a little too quiet,” said Saybrook under his breath. He flattened himself against the cabinet and ventured a look at the doorway. The latch was reset, the cases untouched, the Champion’s Prize aligned exactly as he and Henning had left it the previous night.
“So why do I have an odd feeling that something is not right?” The earl frowned, the lines of anxiety deepening around his eyes as he looked around the room. But before he could answer his own whispered question, a key turned in the lock, the metallic click echoing like cannon fire off the suit of parade armor propped in the corner.
Rochemont entered. He appeared agitated, and after fumbling with the bolts, he merely shouldered the door shut and hurried to the center of the room. Swearing, he put down his lantern, peeled off his crimson gauntlets, and carefully pulled a small silver case from inside his ceremonial surcoat. The bandages were gone, but the comte’s elegant hands were still swollen and scabbed. Another oath rasped from his lips as he worked the lid open.
Saybrook could just make out the contours of a slim glass vial nestled on a bed of red velvet.
Setting the box aside, Rochemont dragged the metal case containing the Champion’s Prize out from its spot by the cabinet. Another key, another procession of clicking noises, and the top lifted. The comte sat back on his haunches and muttered something in French. Rather than remove the ornate eagle from its nest, he rose abruptly and approached the cabinet.
The earl held himself motionless.
Rochemont rummaged around inside for a bit, then returned to his work spot and propped a trio of medieval broadswords against a stack of wooden boxes. Each of the three hilts was festooned with a different color of semiprecious stones—reds, greens, blues—and he spent several moments contemplating how they looked next to the gold-threaded splendor of his embroidered doublet. The blue seemed to win the duel, for he edged it a bit apart from the others.
Exhaling softly, Saybrook watched as the comte shifted his body into the ring of lamplight and set to work.
One step, two steps. The earl’s soft-soled shoes moved noiselessly over the smooth stone. The eagle was now perched on one of the wooden boxes, its burnished gold wings mirroring—
In a blur of motion, Rochemont snatched up his sword and flew around. Steel clashed against steel, the force of the blow sending Saybrook’s pistol arcing into the gloom.
“Poxy half-breed,” snarled the comte. He lunged again.
Hemmed in by the crates, Saybrook had little room to maneuver. Throwing up an arm to deflect the blade, he spun away and leaped over a low bench.
“I was warned to be wary of your military skills, yet it seems you are naught but a bumbling fool,” taunted Rochemont, brandishing the point of his weapon at the gash on the earl’s wrist.
“I’m a bloody fool,” agreed Saybrook, ignoring his wound. “I should have put a bullet in your verminous brain. But unlike you, I am not a cold-blooded murderer. I’ll allow justice to take its proper course.”
“Justice? Good God, what a quaint notion!” The blade slashed, but cut only air.
“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” said the earl.
“Oh, never fear. I’ll gut you like a pig, and though I would like to prolong the pleasure, I will have to make it fast.”
“So you can murder Talleyrand and Wellington?”
Surprise spasmed across Rochemont’s face. “How did you—”
The distraction was just for an instant, but Saybrook seized his chance and ducked under the broadsword and dove for a gap in the crates. A twist and a roll brought him within arm’s reach of the other swords. Bouncing to his feet, he hefted the ruby-colored weapon. “Ah, red. How apt, don’t you think? Seeing as your blood will soon be spilled unless you surrender now.”
“Never!” said Rochemont. “I’ve trained for years with Lavalle, the best fencing master in England! I’ll slice you into mincemeat.” Despite the show of bravado, he looked a little shaky as he slid into a sidestep. Sweat began to bead on his brow.
“Trust me, a fencing parlor is not the same as a field of battle,” said Saybrook. “And a broadsword is far heavier than a foil.” He cut a few practice swipes with the long blade and flashed a small smile. “Indeed, it’s much closer in weight to a cavalry saber.”
Flickering patterns of light and dark danced across the comte’s face.
Saybrook edged forward, a quick flick slicing off a section of Rochemont’s fancy sleeve. “Come, shall we test our skills?”
The sweat had turned from beads to rivulets—tiny snakes of moisture glistening against the comte’s pale skin. He reversed his lead foot and with a quick feint tried to slide his blade up under Saybrook’s guard.
A flick of steel parried the thrust. “Not bad,” murmured the earl. “But you will have to do far better.”
The next lunge was just as easily deflected. As was the following flurry of slashes.
“I never did like the combinations that Lavalle teaches to his students. Unless one executes them perfectly, they leave one vulnerable to a croisé,” said Saybrook calmly, his blade forcing Rochemont’s sword high before darting a quick jab that drew blood on the comte’s shoulder.
Rochemont staggered back, his breath now coming in ragged rasps. He tried a passata-sotto, an evasive move designed to duck under an opponent’s blade, but the earl saw it coming and countered with another thrust, this one scoring a gash along the comte’s cheek.
His bravado suddenly crumpling, like a Montgolfier balloon whose silk had suffered a lethal puncture, Rochemont let out a shriek and scrabbled sideways, swinging his sword in a flailing arc. He cast a wild look at the glass vial, which was standing serenely on its box, untouched by the violence.
“Oh, you may forget about the acid,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “I’m not going to let you near it. And even if I did, your clever little bomb has been disarmed.”
Panic turned Rochemont’s face a ghastly shade of pale green. “It—it wasn’t my idea.” He swallowed hard, his arrogance dissolving into a sputtering of fear. “I . . . was forced against my will to cooperate. They have one of my family held hostage in France.”
“Who is ‘they’?” asked Saybrook, drawing a touch closer.
“Lord R-Reginald Sommers is my superior,” replied the comte.
“Is he Renard?”
“I—don’t know,” said Rochemont. “Truly!” he added, seeing the earl’s brows wing up in skepticism. “Renard has never revealed his identity.”
“Then tell me what things you do know,” demanded Saybrook. “This assassination is meant to make it easier for Napoleon to return to France?”
Rochemont wet his lips. “Yes.”
“Who else is working with you here?”
The comte rattled off the names of a Saxon margrave and a Russian officer on Tsar Alexander’s staff.
Saybrook pressed on. “How do you contact Renard in London?”
Rochemont stumbled against a stack of supplies as he retreated, knocking a box to the floor. “I—”
“Monsieur le Comte?” Yielding to a fisted rap, the door sprung open. “Is anything amiss? We heard strange noises—”
“Seize this madman!” screamed Rochemont, pointing at the earl. “He’s trying to murder the guests of honor!”
The two Imperial Guards recoiled in confusion as the comte shoved past them and took off down the corridor at a dead run.
Saybrook vaulted a stack of crates.
“Halt!” Recovering their composure, the burly guards moved to block his path.
“Out of my way.” The martial note of command was unmistakable.
One of the guards drew his rapier. “Sir, I must ask you to—”
The earl’s blade slapped aside the sword point. “Fetch reinforcements,” he shouted. “Then follow me in pursuit of the real villain.”
Somewhere off to her right, Arianna heard a
clatter of commotion. The pelter of running steps, a rumbled shout.
Sandro.
She plunged into a narrow passageway, the darkness forcing her to go slowly. Slowly, damnably slowly. In contrast to the soaring, stately spaces for the equestrian performances, this part of the stables was a maddening maze of stalls and cluttered storage areas.
Holding her frustration in check, Arianna paused to peer around the next turn. An archway loomed up ahead, its opening framing a set of iron-banded double doors, large enough for a horse and rider to pass through. Creeping closer, she saw that they led out to the side courtyard of the Riding School. And from there to the city park beyond its gates, she thought, recalling Saybrook’s map of the area.
Sheltered by the shadows of the arched stone, Arianna halted again to get her bearings. Which way to turn? The shouts had died away, leaving her uncertain of what to do next. Retreat and return home?
But before she could make up her mind, Rochemont came racing into view, legs churning as if the Hounds of Hell were in hot pursuit.
Bang. Bang. Slamming his shoulder into the paneled doors, the comte yanked at the latch, but the bolt wouldn’t budge. Spotting a large wrought iron key hanging from the decorative molding, he reached up to snatch it down from the bracket. Escape—escape was at his fingertips.
I hope that Alexander was not exaggerating about the deadly accuracy of his prized pistols. Drawing a steadying breath, Arianna took deliberate aim and squeezed off a shot.
Bang.
He wasn’t. Through the skirl of blue-gray smoke, Arianna saw the key explode in a whirl of spinning shards.
Rochemont recoiled with a scream as a sliver of metal gashed his cheek. Blood spattered over his fancy doublet, and with his face contorting in fear, he looked like a demented demon. A veritable spawn of Satan.
Kicking, swearing, he threw himself once more at the unyielding oak. But on hearing Saybrook’s stentorian shouts coming closer, the comte left off his efforts and fled.
“That way!” she yelled to her husband, pointing to the passageway Rochemont had chosen.
The earl shot her a surprised look, but didn’t slow his loping stride. “I’ll deal with you later,” he called. “Go find Henning.”
Arianna pocketed the spent pistol and pulled out its loaded mate.
“Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered, then set off after her husband.
The six Hungarian chargers snorted and stomped their massive hooves at the sand-covered stone, the vaporous puffs of breath silvery against the burnished black coats. The soft swoosh of the silk trappings was punctuated by the jangling bits of gilded brass and polished crystal adorning the bridles as the grooms struggled to keep them grouped in a tight line, allowing the other horses for the pageant to be led into the staging area from the outdoor bridle path.
A squire patted the plumes of his velvet hat into place while another adjusted the girth of his knight’s mount. One of the heralds blew a low practice note on his trumpet, setting off another rustling of restless energy.
“A quarter hour,” intoned the master of ceremonies after consulting his jeweled pocket watch. “Our noble cavaliers will be arriving in a quarter hour.”
Banners fluttered in the breeze blowing in through the open gates. An air of expectancy swirled around the saddling arena as the participants jostled to take up their assigned positions.
A figure burst out of the main walkway, the crimson satin tails of his surcoat trailing behind him like tongues of fire.
“What the devil . . .” The master of ceremonies stared in slack-jawed shock as the flash of red streaked past him. “I’ve not been informed of any change in plan.”
“Out of my way!” The shrill shout rose above the confusion. Swinging the flat of his sword, Rochemont knocked down a groom and scrabbled into the saddle of the horse nearest the gate. The big animal whinnied and reared as the comte slammed his ceremonial spurs into its flanks, then shot off in a blur of flame-tinged charcoal and disappeared into the night.
“Stop! Stop!” wailed the master, waving a helpless hand as Saybrook sprinted toward the gate.
The earl veered around one of the startled grooms, and with a lithe grace grabbed the saddle pommel, speared the stirrup with his boot and vaulted lightly onto the back of the biggest charger. “Move aside, lad,” he ordered, fisting the reins in one hand and quickly bringing the powerful stallion under control.
The horse danced through the gates and then surged forward, muscles rippling, nostrils flaring, hooves kicking up clods of damp earth as it shot down the bridle path.
Ornate copper torches lit the way, blazes of bright gold against the darkness. Up ahead, the pale stone of the palace rose like a ghostly specter out of the evening mist.
“Damnation,” muttered Saybrook, urging his mount into a gallop. “If the dastard cuts through the side courtyard and reaches the main gates, he’ll have a good chance of escaping.”
In answer to the flick of leather, the stallion thundered through a tight turn and began to gain ground on the comte.
Rochemont was sliding from side to side, his big sword flailing as he fought to keep his seat in the saddle. Hearing the drumming of pursuit, he cast a desperate glance over his shoulder. His jaw fell open. His mouth moved, but any sound was swallowed in the wind.
Spotting an opening in the wrought iron fence, Saybrook guided his horse through the gap and cut through a series of zigzag turns. A low wall loomed up ahead, its frieze of gilded spikes a daunting hurdle for the big-boned charger.
“Up, up, on my signal,” murmured the earl as he squared his horse’s head and gave a light tap to its lathered flanks.
The stallion gathered its powerful legs and soared high. Horse and rider hovered for an instant in the air, a dark avenging angel silhouetted against the night, before thundering back to earth.
Saybrook was now neck and neck with his quarry. Ignoring the panicked kicks from the comte, he edged his horse sideways and forced Rochemont’s mount off the path to the Imperial gates up ahead. Hooves skidding and sliding over the smooth cobbles, both chargers rumbled through a narrow archway and into a side courtyard.
“You might as well surrender now,” called Saybrook, calmly reining his sweat-flecked mount into position to block the only avenue of escape.
Rochemont darted a desperate look around at the regal stone façade rising up on all sides. “Out of my way,” he screamed, brandishing his weapon high overhead.
Steel flashed in the moonlight as Saybrook gave a mock salute. “Alas, your skills with a sword don’t have me quaking in my boots. But if you wish for another clash, by all means come at me. I shall be happy to slice open your traitorous throat.”
The comte’s horse pranced nervously over the stones.
“If you promise to let me go, I’ll tell you all I know.” Rochemont’s bluster gave way to a wheedling tone as he circled into the shadows of the courtyard’s center fountain.
“You’re in no position to bargain,” countered Saybrook. “I want Renard’s name, and you don’t have it.”
“I lied,” cried the comte. “In fact, I have proof of his identity.”
“Proof?” repeated the earl.
“Come here and I shall hand it over.”
Saybrook’s low laugh was nearly lost in the splashing of water. “Do you think me a gudgeon? Throw down your sword and come out. If what you say is true and you help us apprehend Renard, the government may agree to spare your life.”
“W-will you drop your weapon as well?”
“That’s a fair request.”
A moment later came the ring of Rochemont’s steel falling to the cobbles. “Now it’s your turn, Lord Saybrook.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he called, letting his sword clatter to the ground.
Clack, clack. Iron-shod hooves echoed the metallic sound.
Saybrook placed a hand on his pommel.
Clack, clack—the equine steps quickened to a hard trot as Rochemo
nt rode out from the gloom. A long pitchfork protruded from under his arm, the stout length of oak topped by a menacing crown of prongs.
“You are a gudgeon,” cried the comte, spurring his horse forward. “Let the joust begin!”
Saybrook reacted with martial quickness. Kicking free of the stirrups, he hurled himself to the cobbles and spun into a tight, twisting roll, causing Rochemont’s desperate lunge to miss by a hair. His hand shot out to seize his fallen sword, and in the same smooth motion he sprung to his feet and ran to block the archway. “Don’t be a fool, Rochemont. In a fight to the death, you won’t come away the victor.”
Swearing a savage oath, the comte yanked his mount around as he sought to regrip his weapon and charge again. Hands tangling in the reins, he lost momentary control of the pitchfork and the points raked across the other charger’s flanks. With a foam-flecked snort, the animal reared, lashing out wildly with his forelegs.
Spooked by the sudden melee, Rochemont’s mount shied sharply, throwing the comte off balance. He swayed and then tumbled from the saddle, pitching headfirst in between the panicked horses.
“Damnation.” Ducking under a flying hoof, Saybrook grabbed hold of Rochemont’s surcoat. A bruising blow caught him hard on the ribs, but he held on, even as he fell to his knees. “Keep your head down,” he warned, trying to haul the other man to safety.
But Rochemont lifted the pitchfork, intent on launching one last spearing attack. An evil grin split the comte’s face . . . an instant before a thrashing kick crushed his skull.
Saybrook slowly levered to his feet.
“If you live by the sword . . .” An out-of-breath Henning skittered to a stop beside him and eyed the dark pool of blood welling over the stones. “You must be prepared to die by the sword.”
The Cocoa Conspiracy Page 30
