by Kat Ross
Balthazar sighed. “If there was any way…. But there isn’t. I was lucky to get my hands on the one invitation. And it will be locked up tight with the king there.”
Lucas watched him in the mirror, saying nothing.
Balthazar made a tiny adjustment to the sash. “Listen. When Bekker is dead….”
“What, my lord?”
“I was thinking, yesterday.” The words came out in a rush. “What do you want to do with your life?”
Lucas frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re young. You should be … I don’t know. Getting married or something. Having children.”
Lucas’s dark eyebrows rose. “What brought this on?”
“You owe me nothing,” Balthazar persisted, picking a tiny piece of lint from his sleeve. “I’ll set you up with a fortune. Anywhere you want. But this isn’t…. It’s not healthy.”
Lucas was silent for a long minute. When he spoke, his voice was grave. “Do you know, I thought you’d come to kill me.”
Balthazar met his eyes. “You never told me that.”
“I fought you. I remember.”
“Yes. You did, at first.”
“You were so strong. You just held me until I stopped.”
Lucas had never spoken of that night. Not once.
“Bekker was there,” he said quietly. “When I heard his voice at the warehouse, I recognized it.”
Balthazar had always assumed Bekker sent men to do the job for him. He waited in silence, his hands going still at his sides.
“They were all eating dinner downstairs. I’d been ill with a fever. I was still taking broth in bed. Then a knock came at the door. I heard voices, angry voices. So I crept out to the landing to listen.” Lucas swallowed. “My father gave the talisman to him freely. He wouldn’t have…. He knew what might happen if he didn’t. But it made no difference. Then I heard screaming and footsteps coming up the stairs. I hid under the bed. One of them found me. He was dragging me out and I bit him on the hand. He threw me down. My face struck the edge of the bed. I remember seeing a tooth fly out. I could hear my sisters down there….” His face was very pale. “When you arrived, I thought they’d come to finish me.”
Balthazar sank back against the dressing table. “It’s my fault,” he said wearily. “None of it would have happened if not for my own thoughtlessness.”
Lucas stared at him with haunted eyes. “Don’t be stupid. You didn’t kill them. Bekker did.”
Balthazar turned away. “I’ve been a poor guardian.”
“You haven’t,” Lucas said savagely. “You’ve been….” He drew a sharp breath. “Very good to me, my lord. In all ways.”
“But don’t you want a normal life?” Balthazar asked with a touch of exasperation. “Has it never crossed your mind?”
Lucas began gathering the medals and dropping them into a velvet bag. “No. It sounds boring.”
Balthazar laughed softly. “I’ve ruined you.”
“I’m afraid you have, my lord.” He rummaged in his pocket. “Biscuit?”
“No, thanks.” It was his automatic reply when Lucas offered him a digestive. Now Balthazar hesitated. “Oh, give it here. I’ll try one.”
They sat on the bed together eating biscuits.
“They’re not so bad,” Balthazar conceded. “More like cookies.”
“You’re getting crumbs on your sash,” Lucas said.
He brushed them off and checked his gold pocket watch. “Seven-fifteen. How do I look?”
“Like an arrogant prig, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Balthazar strode to the door. “I’ll meet you in London, after.”
Lucas nodded solemnly. “Break a leg,” he said. “Or don’t. Let’s just say…. Good luck.”
Gabriel regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror, examining the nose from various angles. “What do you think?”
“Not bad,” Anne conceded. “You’re certain Balthazar won’t be there?”
True to his promise, Gabriel hadn’t mentioned the wayward count once in the last two days. Now he shook his head. “Julian looked into it. He’s been seen at several functions with Bekker, and he’s staying at the Metropole Hotel with his protégé Lucas Devereaux, who’s going under the name Marchand. But neither of them are on the guest list for tonight. Nor are they listed among Bekker’s security detail.”
“Good.” She hesitated. “Has it occurred to you that he might be after Bekker, too?”
“Naturally.” Gabriel’s face darkened. “But he’s been in Brussels for a month and Bekker is still alive.”
“Maybe he hasn’t had a chance yet.”
“Maybe,” Gabriel said dubiously. “But he’s always blown with the wind. Balthazar only cares for himself. I’ve heard rumors about what he does to stay so young-looking. I’ll spare you the details, but that pretty face doesn’t come cheap.”
She frowned. “He kills people?”
“No. But if you share his bed, you’ll get more than you bargained for. And I don’t mean the pox.” Gabriel dabbed powder on the nose and blended it with a sponge. “Though I wouldn’t rule that out either,” he added uncharitably.
Anne had never heard of such a thing. “It could be idle gossip,” she said with a look of reproof.
Gabriel smiled. “You know what Wilde says. Hear no evil, speak no evil, and you won't be invited to cocktail parties.”
Anne laughed despite the knot in her stomach.
Gabriel buckled on the sanctus arma and straightened his coat. “What time is it?”
“Seven-fifteen.”
He caught her eye in the mirror. “I should go.”
They’d visited the museum together the day before pretending to be French tourists. Gabriel had used a watch as they discreetly paced the galleries, timing distances between various points and marking every exit. It was impossible to know exactly which way Bekker would take, but Gabriel had planned for a number of contingencies.
“I wish I could go with you,” she said.
He clasped her hand. “I know. But it’s impossible.” Gabriel looked at her for a long moment. “I love you, Anne,” he said softly.
Her throat hurt. “I love you, too. Come back to me.”
“I will.” Gabriel kissed her. He stepped away and smiled. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. Then he was gone.
Half an hour later, Anne stretched out on her stomach between Miguel Salvado and Jean-Michel Fanastil. From the edge of the rooftop, they had a clear view across the park and the Place de Palais to the front steps of the museum.
“There’s a slight breeze,” Miguel muttered. “Southwesterly. We’ll need to compensate a few degrees.”
Anne glanced at the pocket watch in her hand. Seven forty-five.
It was agony to lie still. She wanted to pace. She wanted to be inside.
“Tell me about the gun,” she said tightly.
Miguel glanced over. His wavy chestnut mane was pulled back in a tail to keep it out of his eyes. For once, he looked dead serious.
“Springfield 1884 model. Breech loader with a thirty-two-inch barrel. A redesign of the ’79. See this?” He touched the rear sight. “It’s the main improvement. When it’s down, the rifle is set for point blank shooting. But you raise the leaf and it gives you graduations from two hundred to fourteen hundred yards.” He lovingly stroked the walnut stock. “Fires ten rounds per minute, if you’re quick. The older ones couldn’t handle more than three.”
Anne nodded. “Keep talking.”
Miguel slapped the breechblock. “Chambered for a .45-70 cartridge. Minimal recoil for such a large bullet. It goes in here. Looks like a hinged trapdoor. That’s why Springfield called them Trapdoor rifles.” He paused. “Want a look down the sight ladder?”
Anne shifted on the hot tiles. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”
Miguel laughed and rolled to his back, cradling the rifle across his chest. “Anyone have chocolate?”
“Sorry, I’m all out.”
Jean-Michel snorted. “He wouldn’t eat it anyway. He’s fasted since last night. Claims it brings him to a higher state of consciousness.”
“I just wanted to smell it.” Miguel closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. The breeze ruffled his hair. “Two, maybe three knots,” he murmured.
“This one might be all yours,” Jean-Michel said, peering down the sight of his own rifle. “It’s a tough shot. The park’s in the way. The tops of those trees…. I can’t make any promises. Not with the wind.”
Miguel only smiled.
The minutes ticked past. Anne’s eyes narrowed. A contingent of soldiers had arrived from the palace next door. They lined up on the steps. Then the first carriages started to line up. Couples descended and were met by footmen in livery. Anne checked the watch.
She nudged Miguel. “Wake up. It’s starting.”
His eyes opened. They were a rich caramel with thick lashes, clear and sharp.
“Muy bien,” he muttered, rolling over. He fitted the stock against his shoulder and propped the long barrel on the edge of the roof. His body settled into stillness. “No more talking,” he said gently, thumbing the hammer back. “Just call time for me.”
Chapter 17
Balthazar offered his arm to the Baroness De Smet as their black landau halted in front of the Royal Museum of Ancient Art. Footmen directed the city’s wealthiest and most prominent citizens up the flight of wide stone steps, where Rijkswacht gendarmes in red and black uniforms trimmed with gold braid stood at attention.
The baroness sailed up the steps and gave their names to an officer at the middle entrance. He checked his list and frowned. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but this says you’re attending with the Marquess of Ruffo de Bonneval de la Fare.”
Baroness De Smet made an irritated sound. “There’s been a change. My escort is Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry. I informed the organizers yesterday.”
The man’s eyes flicked over Balthazar, lingering on the Grand Cross of Saint Stephen. Balthazar drew himself up to his full height. He stared down his nose, adopting the icy glare of an aristocrat on the verge of throwing a tantrum.
The officer gave a quick nod. “Of course, my lady,” he murmured. “Sincere apologies for the error.”
They passed through the glass doors into a long two-tier gallery with a skylight set into the coffered ceiling. A string quartet played at the far end. Waiters with flutes of chilled champagne moved through the crowd. As Balthazar anticipated, most of the men wore military dress with ceremonial swords. For some reason, the nobility loved to play at being soldiers. He looked for Bekker, but he hadn’t arrived yet. Marisa led him among the knots of partygoers, pausing to make introductions. Balthazar acted the charming companion even as his gaze kept flicking to the door.
“You seem distracted,” she said when they were alone for a moment.
Balthazar took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and gave one to Marisa.
“I can’t help myself,” he said, sipping his champagne. “You look ravishing tonight.”
She wore a cream-colored gown with emerald earrings and a matching choker. The flattering light shaved a decade off her age and he remembered her breathless laughter as they’d run down to the sea barefoot in the darkness two decades before, fleeing a silly party much like this one.
“So do you,” Marisa replied softly. “Perhaps I’ll give you a private tour when the speeches are over.”
Balthazar smiled, swallowing a stab of regret. No matter how the night ended, she would suffer for it, but there was no going back now. “Which one is Count d’Ursel?” he asked.
Marisa scanned the room. “Over there,” she said, discreetly tipping her head. “Next to the Hieronymus Bosch painting. With the moustache.”
The count was in his middle forties, thin with heavy-lidded eyes and a long nose. His mouth was utterly dwarfed by the moustache. He looked like a stern, uncompromising sort.
“I can introduce you,” Marisa said. There was a question in her eyes, but she didn’t voice it.
“No, I was only curious. I hear he’s an abolitionist.”
“Yes. A staunch Catholic. They’ve set their sights on the Zanzibari slavers.”
“And what does Leopold think of them?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think he minds. They’re not interfering with his governance in the Congo.”
Balthazar caught movement in the upper level of the gallery. Four of Bekker’s men appeared in the shadowed archways where they could look down on the proceedings but keep out of sight of the guests. A minute later, Bekker himself strode into the room. The murmured conversation rose a notch. Heads swiveled to watch him. He wore a high-collared scarlet coat with silver embroidery and snug white trousers tucked into shiny boots. Light brown hair swept back from his youthful face. His gaze passed over Balthazar, then swung back. He took in the sword, expressionless. Then he smiled and allowed himself to be drawn toward a knot of partygoers.
Balthazar turned his back on Bekker and wandered over to one of the paintings, a triptych of the Temptation of Saint Anthony.
“What’s the man of the hour donating, anyway?” he asked Marisa.
“Two works by Hans Memling. I think one by Rembrandt and another by Petrus Christus.”
“Generous of him.”
“I suppose so.”
A stillness came over the room as the orchestra stopped playing. A contingent of the Rijkswacht took up positions on either side of the door. There was a pregnant pause. Then a footman announced the king with much fanfare and Leopold entered with his wife.
Somewhere in his late fifties, he was tall and sported a bristling, square beard. Not a man who looked like he smiled often. Bekker approached and made a low bow. The rest arranged themselves in order of precedence and Balthazar lost interest in watching the protocol. Of far greater interest were Bekker’s four men, but he saw no direct way down from the balcony and didn’t think they’d be a hindrance when the time came.
“I shall present you,” the baroness said, taking his arm.
Balthazar could hardly refuse. He’d claimed he always wanted to meet Leopold. So they made their way along the receiving line until they reached the king and queen. Marie Henriette was a pale woman who looked unnervingly like her husband. Balthazar sensed little warmth between them.
“Your majesties.” Marisa gave a graceful curtsy acknowledging them both.
“Baroness de Smet.” Leopold inclined his head. His father, Leopold I, had been darkly handsome, but the son had that unfortunate inbred look, all nose and no forehead.
Marisa gave Balthazar’s name and the king coolly assessed him.
“You’re in the Habsburg line?”
“An offshoot,” Balthazar demurred. “My mother’s third cousin was Princess Maria Antonia.”
Even after all these years, it still amused him to impersonate a blueblood. He’d been born in a hovel of Karnopolis’s pleasure quarter and spent his childhood consorting with thieves and prostitutes. In most ways, their company was preferable to the glittering sharks he swam with now.
“That’s an interesting blade.” Leopold studied the saber at Balthazar’s hip. “Cavalry?”
“A family heirloom. They call it a szabla. It’s descended from the time of King Batory.”
Leopold nodded, losing interest. “A pleasure to meet you, Count Koháry.” His cool eyes rested for a moment on Marisa. “Baroness.”
Thus they were dismissed. The speechifying began and Balthazar pretended to listen, studiously ignoring Jorin Bekker. He kept leaning in to Marisa, whispering little nothings that made her stifle laughter, and eventually, as he hoped, Bekker appeared to relax. The king called him up and Bekker told a few anecdotes about the paintings. He was visibly basking in the warm glow of the audience and Balthazar had a sudden insight into Bekker’s heart — or the shriveled lump that passed for it. He craved respectability. Being fawned over. And it entertained
him no end to gull these people into thinking he was one of them.
The evening dragged on. Bekker no longer paid Balthazar much attention. He was too caught up in his moment of glory. Balthazar allowed Marisa to lead him around to various groups. Trays of canapés appeared, pastries and savories and sweets. Laughter grew louder, faces reddened with food and drink. Once, Bekker did catch his eye. Balthazar glanced at Count d’Ursel, then back at Bekker, raising his glass in a silent toast. Bekker gave an almost smile and turned away.
Then someone exclaimed about one of the paintings, summoning Bekker over to discuss some detail, and Bekker amiably complied. He stood with his back turned, gesturing as he expounded.
Balthazar’s pupils dilated. “Excuse me for a moment,” he murmured to Marisa.
She was chattering with friends and gave him an absent nod.
Balthazar started across the room, a little unsteady on his feet, beelining for a waiter with a tray of champagne to Bekker’s right. He swiped a hand across his brow and hooked a finger into his collar, as if trying to loosen it. In the gallery above, he sensed four sets of eyes fixed on him.
Balthazar looped around a knot of people. Bekker was ten feet away, still talking.
“….and Memling painted it while he was living in Bruges. The Last Judgment has a very colorful history. The triptych was commissioned by a local agent of the Medici family, but when he tried to send it to Florence, the ship was captured by a privateer. The Medicis filed a lawsuit that dragged through the courts for years….”
The scene snapped into sharp focus, Bekker’s voice fading to a distant hum. Adrenaline coursed through his blood. He saw only Bekker’s head, the curve of his jaw, half-turned, Adam’s apple bobbing. It was like a red cape to a charging bull.
Two more steps and his hand dropped to the hilt of the szabla. The weight of his body shifted to his left foot. The right would kick the man at Bekker’s side out of the way to allow a clean sweep.
Bekker seemed to sense something amiss for he stopped talking and began to turn…. Too late.
