Fraser 03 - The Mask of Night

by Tracy Grant

  A heavy footstep, a shout, and more footsteps followed. Ostentatious crashing through the hedge as Tommy led them away. Mélanie darted round the hedge, glanced about, and ran to the house. The window opened as Tommy had promised. She pulled herself over the sill and dropped onto polished wood. A console table. She rolled to the ground just as she heard the sound of boots sloshing through mud in her direction.

  “Bloody hell! We’ve lost him.”

  She peered over the ledge and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, eased the sash down.If it had been shadowy inside the lodge at twilight, it was velvet black in the manor house with the sun gone down. But just in case her form might be visible through the window, she crawled on her hands and knees, over what felt like Turkey carpet and age-worn floorboards, and felt her way to the door.

  She inched the door open. No light or sound spilled in. She got to her feet and slipped into the passage.No candle or lamplight illumined the passage and no moonlight spilled through the windows. The wind tore through ancient brick and timber and the rain beat on the roof and windows, making it damnably difficult to listen for clues to where the guards might lurk. It would be a rambling Elizabethan Manor house, all bends and turns and idiosyncratic angles, instead of a nice symmetrical Palladian structure.

  After a moment she could make out doors, table, windows by the wall to the left. Nothing that looked as though it led to stairs, so she felt her way to the right. Footsteps sounded above the wind and the rain. She wrenched open the nearest door and ducked into a dark space the smelled of lavender.

  A flicker of light showed against the door.

  “See anything?” a voice said.

  “Not a hair.”

  Silence. More footsteps. A sound that might have been a window being pulled open and a muffled shout of “Find him?”

  Apparently the answer was negative, because the window was slammed shut with a decisive crash. “Disappeared toward the trees. Back to our post.”

  Retreating footsteps. She counted to thirty and eased the door open. Silent darkness. She conjured up an image of the house. Surely there’d be stairs to the cellar toward the back. Near the kitchens. Damn the damp that made it impossible to smell anything beyond sour mustiness.

  She inched along the wall, hearing Charles’s voice in her head. Stupid, Mel. Surely one of us should stay alive for the children. But were their positions reversed, she knew he’d be acting precisely as she was.

  The passage veered off to the left and right. The right should be close to the outer wall of the house. She moved left, opened one door onto some sort of large chamber and another onto a cupboard full of dishes and silver and cut-glass. She must be near the dining room and therefore the kitchens. She pocketed a knife.

  She opened the next door. Cold air, rising from below. She crept forward, felt a newel post, a railing. She hit the first step a little too hard. It squeaked. She felt her way to the wall, where the wood should be more solid. One step at a time, despite the fact that every nerve in her body screamed at her to hurry.

  Ten steps, a half landing, ten more steps. A dank smell, sharper than above. Cold, slithery flagstones. She felt her way along the wall. Stone, covered with rough plaster. Seemingly endless feet of it. And then wood and an iron door handle. She risked a low sound her husband would know instantly, though it was designed to pass as a thrush’s call. (Actually, Raoul had taught it to her and she’d taught it to Charles.)

  A slow drip of water that indicated a leak. Nothing more. She crept further on, found another door, gave the call again. Her throat hurt.

  Silence. And then, an answering sound. Not from this door, but farther down the passage. The wind? A trick of her desperate mind? She followed the sound, found a third door, gave the call again. This time the answer was unmistakable.

  Air rushed into her lungs. The door was bolted. Thank God she’d thrown her picklocks into her reticule. It took several fumbling tries to find the right implement and then jiggle it correctly. Her fingers were shaking, as though she were a foolish girl trying to undress her first lover. But at last the lock groaned and she fell against the door, pushing it inward.

  Her husband’s arms closed round her. At least, she hoped it was her husband. Yes. She caught the familiar scent of sandalwood beneath the damp and grime.

  “There may be a time when I was happier to see you,” he said, his lips in her hair, “but I can’t think when it was.”

  “A timely appearance. But then you’ve always had a knack for them,” said another voice from a tactful distance off. Raoul’s voice.

  Charles released her.

  She put out a hand. “You’re—“

  “Alive. And still on your side.“ His hand closed hard round her own.

  “We don’t have time. The building’s mined to explode.”

  “Where?” Raoul said.

  “I’m not sure, but somewhere in the cellars is a good guess. The soldiers may not be real soldiers.”

  “How long do we have?” Charles asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Right,” Raoul said. “You two find Carfax and the others and get the house cleared. I’ll find the fuse.”

  “You can’t—“ Charles said.

  “It’s foolish to risk all of us looking. I can pick a lock and snuff out a candle as well as either of you.”

  Charles touched Mélanie’s arm. “You go. I’ll help O’Roarke. Give me your picklocks.”

  “Charles—“ she and Raoul said in almost the same breath.

  “There’s no bloody time to argue.”

  She reached into her pocket, gave Charles her picklocks and Tommy’s pistol, and gave the knife to Raoul. “If you can’t find the fuse in ten minutes—“

  “We can take care of ourselves. It’s up to you to take care of everyone else.“ Charles pushed her toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter 37

  I don't ask that you agree with me or even like me. But I do ask that you recognize what it is to be a Mallinson.

  Lord Carfax to David Mallinson,

  2 April 1810

  David climbed the steps of Spendlove Manor. Rain spilled from the sky, and the only light came from a faint glow behind the mullioned windows.

  Simon, Roth, Lucan, and Addison were round the back of the house, drawing off the soldiers. Bet and Nan Simcox, Hortense Beaulieu, Trenor, and Gordon were spread out behind the hawthorn hedge at the front of the house. He was supposed to whistle if he wanted them to act. It had all sounded vaguely sensible in the parlor of the White Hart. Now it seemed mad. As they were leaving the inn, Simon had grabbed him behind the door and given him a quick, hard kiss. “Be careful,” he’d said. Only dire circumstances could have driven Simon to give advice that was so obvious.

  “You there.” A man in a British uniform stepped away from the shrubbery by the house. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m Worsley. I’m here to see my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “Lord Carfax. I believe he’s in the house.”

  The soldier hesitated. David climbed the stone steps and pushed open the heavy front door. Two more soldiers stood in the hall. Three of the fifteen accounted for.

  “I’m here to see my father, Lord Carfax. Where is he?”

  The soldiers exchanged glances.

  “Upstairs? I’ll find my own way.”

  Torches in the wall sconces cast fitful light on the dark oak staircase. David was two steps from the landing when a door opened and he found himself staring Neil Vickers in the face.

  “Worsley. What the devil—“

  “Good day, Vickers. I’m here to see my father. I’m afraid it’s urgent.”

  “How the devil do you know—“

  David pushed past him into the sitting room at the head of the stairs. Lord Carfax stood by the windows with the Comte de Flahaut and another man, a generation older, with graying hair and Gallic features. He leaned on a cane.

  Carfax spun r
ound at the opening of the door. “What the devil are you doing here, David?”

  “Warning you. Sir—“

  Vickers entered the room behind him. “I tried to stop him—“

  “Look, there’s no time for long explanations,” David said. “The building's set with explosives."

  Carfax strode forward. "What—"

  "The soldiers downstairs aren’t real soldiers. They’ve been replaced by a gang from Seven Dials. This was St. Juste’s plot. Unless I've got it twisted round, and you hired him yourself.”

  This was not the first time Mélanie had reconnoitered a dark passage by memory. She ran along the slippery flagstones, catching herself once against the rough wall when her foot skidded, and started up the stairs. She could hear the drip of water on the roof but no other sound.

  Up to the top of the stairs and down the passage the way she had come. She turned toward the front of the house and met a flash of candlelight. “Who the devil are you?” said a sharp voice.

  The candlelight illumined the red of a British uniform. “Oh, please,” she murmured. “Don’t get me in trouble. I’m only here because he threatened to tell Mum and Da about me and Davey Underhill Thursday last.”

  “You and who? Threatened what?”

  “Billy. My brother.“ Mélanie sidled closer to the guard, hands behind her back to conceal her pistol. “He said he’d tell them about me and Davey if I didn’t do it.”

  “Do what?“ The guard’s gaze slid over the damp silk of her gown.

  She wet her lips. “Slip into the manor house and nip a couple of bottles from the cellar. I told him it was daft, but he said there’d be no one about.”

  She lifted her face to the guard’s, eyes very wide. A second soldier came round the corner. “What the—“

  “Says her brother made her come in here,” the first soldier said. “To steal some wine.”

  “Yes, and I’d never have done it if it weren’t for Davey and Da’s temper being so fearful bad and—“

  She spun round, knocked the first guard into the wall and dealt the other a blow to the head with the butt of her pistol. He crumpled to the floor. She snatched up his musket and brought it down hard on the first guard’s head. Satisfied that neither was moving, she ran into the hall.

  “He’ll have set the explosives toward the front of the house,” Charles said.

  O’Roarke nodded. At least, Charles thought he did, as best he could see in the gloom. They ran down the dark passage, bumping into walls when they misjudged a turn. No need now to fear making noise. Their best hope might be to threaten someone into telling them where the explosives were set.

  They rounded a corner and saw light spilling from a door left ajar. O’Roarke turned to him. “Rush them. And hope to hell they can tell us something.”

  They charged through the open door to see four figures, two-redcoated, two not. Lantern light jumped over whitewashed walls and racks of bottles. Charles heard a fist connecting with flesh and then a body slamming into flagstones and glass smashing. The light flared and went out as O’Roarke’s blow sent the man with the lantern crashing to the floor.

  Charles hurled himself at one of the men not in uniform. Or where the man had been in the instant before the light went out. He caught a handful of soft, wet cloth. The man staggered, recovered his balance, and struck Charles a blow to the jaw. Charles’s boots skidded on the flagstones. Instead of trying to remain upright, he dropped to the ground, dragging his opponent with him. They fell against a rack of bottles. Glass shattered against stone, and the smell of wine filled the air.

  Someone gave a grunt of pain on the opposite side of the room. Charles knelt over his opponent, pinning his arms to the flagstones. “Where are the explosives?”

  "Charles, for God's sake," said a horse voice.

  Though his face was only a few inches from the other man’s, Charles couldn’t see his features. But he knew that voice without thinking twice about it.

  It belonged to Oliver Lydgate.

  David crossed the room in two strides and seized his father's arm. "Sir, there's no time. I don't know if they'll try to stop us from leaving, but I suggest we have weapons ready—"

  Carfax removed his arm from David's grip. "Where the devil did you get this information?"

  “From friends.”

  “Their names?”

  “Sam Lucan and Nan Simcox.”

  “Never heard of them,” Vickers said.

  "I met them through Charles—"

  "I might have known it," Carfax said. "If this is some mad notion of Charles Fraser's—"

  "Just a minute," said the man with the cane. "Perhaps—"

  The door burst open. David spun round, ready to tackle an attacker, and found himself looking at Mélanie.

  “You have to get out of here,” she said. “At once. The house is set with explosives.“ Her gaze fell on David, widened, then moved to Flahaut and the man with the cane. "M. Talleyrand."

  “Mrs. Fraser.” The man inclined his head. “This settles it, Carfax. I suggest we leave at once.”

  "Charles, no, we're on the same side," said Oliver Lydgate.

  "Oliver, there's no time—"

  Metal scraped against fabric. “I have a pistol aimed at you, Mr. Fraser,” a voice said behind him. A light voice. A woman's voice. “I admit that visibility is poor, but I wouldn't take a chance on where I might hit in the dark.”

  "Sylvie—" Oliver said, a note of anguish in his voice.

  "I don't want to shoot you, Oliver, but I will if I have to."

  “Got the other one,” a voice announced from across the room. “Don’t move, you bastard.”

  “With a pistol to my head, that would hardly seem wise,” O’Roarke said. “I think your friend is unconscious.”

  Clever O’Roarke. He’d neatly given Charles the disposition of the three on the other side of the room.

  Charles pushed himself up on his hands so he could more easily spring to his feet. “Where are the explosives?”

  “The what?” said the man with the pistol on O’Roarke.

  “The building’s set to explode,” Charles told him. “If you don’t know that, your employer was planning to sacrifice you and all your friends.”

  “They’re bluffing,” Sylvie St. Ives said. “Light the lamp and throw me some rope.”

  “What the devil excuse did she give you for coming down here?” O’Roarke asked. “That she wanted to sample the wine?”

  “You don't—“

  “For God sake, who are you going to trust?” Lady St. Ives demanded. “Two men who attacked you or the woman who’s paying you?"

  ”But she hasn’t paid you yet, has she?” O’Roarke said.

  A moment of silence followed. The sort of silence in which a man might rethink things, might loosen his grip on a pistol held to another man’s head. Sylvie drew a breath, but before she could speak there was a rush of movement and a crash on the opposite side of the room. A bullet whistled against the stone and plaster of the ceiling. Charles sprang at Sylvie St. Ives. A second bullet shattered a bottle.

  Sylvie’s hand closed round Charles’s throat. Charles slashed her arm with a piece of broken glass. She screamed, then stumbled, as Oliver grabbed her ankles. Charles threw himself forward and sent Sylvie crashing to the slate floor. Sylvie went still in his hands.

  “Charles?” O’Roarke’s voice sounded out of the darkness.

  “She’s unconscious.“ Charles had his fingers against Sylvie's throat where he could feel a pulse beating. “Oliver? Do you know where the charges are?"

  "No. But Sylvie's not the sacrificial type. She'd have given herself time to get away.”

  Oliver struck a spark and lit the shattered lantern. The fitful light showed one guard slumped against the wall, and O'Roarke holding a knife to the other guard's throat.

  The conscious guard cast a glance at O’Roarke. “You weren’t bluffing?”

  “No. Where did she set the explosives?”

 
“Don’t know. She told us she was here to check on the prisoners and fetch up some wine.”

  O’Roarke stripped off his cravat and the lashed the guard’s hands behind his back. “See if you can wake her up, Charles. I’ll start searching."

  Charles tossed O’Roarke the picklocks. Oliver slapped Sylvie across the face.

  Her head flopped from side to side, but her eyes remained closed.

  Charles grabbed a bottle from the rack above, smashed it, and threw the contents in Sylvie's face. She stirred.

  Oliver shook her. “Sylvie.”

  No response. Charles tossed some more wine into her eyes. Oliver slapped her again, gripped her shoulders.

  Her eyes blinked open, clouded with confusion.

  “You’re still in Spendlove Manor,” Charles said. “In the cellar. With the explosives.”

  She struggled to sit up. “How long—?"

  Oliver pinned her against the flagstones. “Long enough for your fuse to burn down.”

  “What—“

  “Damn it, Sylvie.“ Oliver dragged her up by her arms. "O’Roarke will find the fuse sooner or later. Unless we all blow up first.”

  “I can’t—“

  Oliver pulled her closer, his face inches from her own. “There’s no time.”

  Sylvie's gaze flickered over his face. Anger, frustration, fear. She released a breath that sounded as though it came through gritted teeth. “A cupboard at the end of the passage. Second to last door. Barrels packed with saltpeter.”

  “Where’s the fuse?”

  “Inside an empty barrel at the back.”

  “O’Roarke—“ Charles called.

  “I heard.“

  A door opened. “Got it,” O’Roarke said, a few moments later. “We had about five minutes more, I think.”

  Chapter 38

  Pay particular attention to Talleyrand in Vienna. His skills at deception may be even greater than my own.

  Lord Carfax to Charles Fraser