Amanda Scott (27 page)

“Oh, indeed not. Did I neglect to mention that the so clever Lord Roderick effected an escape for all of them? Most brilliant, it was, I am sure, though I myself was not privileged to be a witness to his cleverness. I, too, was a prisoner, you see. I was not released until it was reported that the three of them were quite outside the city of Paris on the Le Havre road.” He smirked.

“I see how it was,” Diana said, regarding him with disgust. “The French know all about the emeralds, do they not? Your father was right to mistrust you, monsieur. You do not know where the treasure lies hidden, but your mother does, so it was arranged for her to escape in hopes that she would lead you to it. But if you were following them, how is it that you happened upon this cottage? We have seen no one.”

“Ah, bah,” he said, “I know this country well, madame, for I rode all over it in my childhood before the terrors began. Though it was possible until now that the emeralds rested elsewhere than at Beléchappé, it was obvious when the good Roderick and the others disappeared in Louviers that they were indeed heading for the château and not to Le Havre, which is the nearest port and the most likely place for them to seek passage to England, or to any other city. My mother knows the country well, also, but she is merely a woman, and therefore weak. It was no great accomplishment, once I had lost sight of them, to ride cross country to the château.”

“But why to this cottage?” she demanded. If Rory and the two women were on their way, they could not be far behind this despicable creature. The longer she could keep him talking, the better chance she and Pétrie had for rescue. “Did you go to the château first?”

“It is boarded up, as you must have seen for yourself,” he replied, “however, his lordship is not the only clever one in this world. I found our old cook living behind the stables, and once she had told me who among our old retainers had chosen to remain here on the estate, it was no great mental feat to deduce that my parents must have entrusted the emeralds to the so estimable Milice. And I do not believe for a moment,” he added, turning now to face the trembling Pétrie, “that mademoiselle there does not know precisely where they are to be found.”

“I do not!” she cried. “I swear I do not.”

“Swearing to a falsehood will do naught but ensure you a place in hell, my dear,” he said in that same smooth voice. “Times have been troubled hereabouts and are likely to become more so. I doubt your respected parent would have entrusted his knowledge to only one of his children.” He stepped toward her, the look on his face menacing enough to make her draw back toward the hearth.

“Leave her, monsieur,” Diana said, attempting to maintain her calm. “I have talked with this poor girl for some time, and I am convinced that she knows nothing about the treasure. You will simply have to await her brother’s coming.”

De Lâche glanced over his shoulder, but Diana realized he was paying no heed to her. He was looking out the open door to where Darby still lay, unmoving. De Lâche closed the door, then moved again toward Pétrie. When she tried to elude him, he grabbed her arm, shrugging his cloak back over his right shoulder as he did so.

“We waste time,” he said. “Precious time. The others may be slow, but they will come. It will be more convenient for me if I am gone before that time. I’m sure you comprehend the matter, mademoiselle.” He pulled Pétrie toward him, and when she merely turned her face away, his expression changed to one of rage so quickly that the transformation startled Diana. His other hand shot out to grab the girl’s shoulder, and he shook her cruelly. “You will tell me. At once!”

“I cannot!” she cried. “The ring! You do not bring the ring, nor does madame. Monsieur le comte said only to him who brings the ring!” She struggled in his grasp, and Diana could see by her expression that de Lâche was hurting her.

“Let her go!” She rushed forward, grabbing de Lâche’s arm and attempting to pull him away from the struggling girl. He shrugged her off, and in doing so, flipped his cloak back from his other shoulder, revealing his sword. Diana lunged, managing to get her fingertips on the hilt before he let go of Pétrie long enough to slam the back of his left hand against her cheek, knocking her away. Stumbling, trying to catch herself, Diana grabbed for the back of a chair, but her knees threatened to give way beneath her, and her breath came in ragged sobs.

De Lâche now had his hand entangled in Pétrie’s hair and was forcing her to her knees. “You are at my mercy,” he growled, all trace of the smooth facade gone now, leaving only a mask of fury. “Consider that fact carefully before you continue in your foolish stubbornness. You gave yourself away by admitting you await the ring.” Tears welled in her eyes, and when he gave a harsh twist with the hand holding her hair, she cried out sharply. “Remember when we were children, Pétrie? Remember?” When she only sobbed, he jerked her head back and slapped her.

Gathering herself together, Diana leapt forward again, determined to put a stop to de Lâche’s cruelty. She grabbed his cloak this time, yanking hard, but the strings holding it at his throat, instead of choking him as she had hoped, broke free. The cloak fell to the floor in a swirl of golden velvet, landing with a muffled thump.

De Lâche hardly seemed to have noticed the interruption. After he’d slapped her, Pétrie had begun to struggle in earnest, and he was having all he could do to control her. When he slapped her again, Diana moved past them to the hearth, catching up the cloth with which Pétrie had covered her rising though and reaching in over the coals to the iron pot. With swift, sure motions, using the cloth to protect her hand, she snatched up the heavy iron lid and turned, scarcely taking the time to aim properly before she launched it at him. The hot, heavy lid caught him just beneath his ear, where the folds of his neckcloth provided protection. But the force of the blow staggered him nonetheless and when he automatically reached up to catch hold of the thing that had assaulted him, he yelped in pain and let it fall to the floor, releasing Pétrie and turning on Diana.

Looking swiftly about for another weapon, she noticed for the first time the slim iron poker resting in a crevice to the left of the fireplace where the stones met the wall of the cottage. Seconds later, with the weapon in hand, she faced de Lâche.

“Do not attempt to touch me, monsieur. I should not hesitate to use this.”

He shook his head. “You are no match for me, madame. That weapon is but a child’s toy. Put it down.” He moved closer, keeping one eye on Pétrie as she staggered to her feet, the other on the poker, as though he would judge the exact moment of Diana’s swing.

Instead, she stepped backward, shouting, “Darby,
à moi, à moi
!” then, “Help me!” when she realized she had shouted in French to a man who spoke only the King’s English. A gasp of relief leapt to her throat when she heard the sounds of someone coming toward the cottage, and she heard de Lâche mutter a curse even as he lunged toward her and jerked the poker from her hand. Tossing it to his left hand, he reached for the hilt of his sword with his right as he turned toward the opening door. The man who burst through it was not Darby, however, but Lord Roderick Warrington, and not the dapper figure Diana was accustomed to seeing, but a man who looked as though he could well do with a night’s sleep and a change of clothes.

“Diana!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Look out, Rory!” she screamed.

But he had already seen the menace confronting him, and before de Lâche’s sword could clear its scabbard, Lord Roderick had flung himself on the man, knocking the poker away. It rattled across the floor, coming to rest against the far wall. But de Lâche was quick. Having lost the poker, he likewise abandoned his attempt to free his sword, and met the larger man’s attack head on, taking a step backward, and falling to the floor, letting Lord Roderick’s momentum carry him in an awkward somersault across the floor to careen into the table upon which Pétrie had kneaded her bread. Rory turned like a cat, getting his feet under him again just as de Lâche, who had been scrabbling among the folds of his velvet cloak, brought his right hand up, holding a pistol.

Pétrie screamed, and Diana’s breath caught painfully in her throat.

“I think you must cede this little game to me now,” de Lâche said in English.

“When pigs fly,” snarled Lord Roderick, launching himself again. This time he brought de Lâche down and the two men struggled desperately. Rory’s elbow shot forward with a crack of flesh against bone, but there was a muffled explosion at the same time. He gave a cry of pain and slumped to one side, holding his left hand against his right shoulder and breathing heavily. “My God, the devil shot me,” he gasped before his muscles relaxed and he collapsed.

With a grunt de Lâche extricated himself from under his unconscious victim. He rubbed his reddening jaw briefly, then leaned back down to turn Rory over, searching swiftly through the pockets of his jacket. “So he did have it, after all,” he said, seconds later, as he peered at the gold, carved ring resting in the palm of his hand. He held it out to Pétrie. “Here you are, my dear. Get the emeralds, if you please, unless you wish to watch me dispatch madame, the Countess of Andover, to her Maker. I have no wish to waste my time further over this matter.”

Rory groaned, and without a thought for her own danger, Diana rushed to kneel beside him. Blood oozed from between his fingers, and she knew the bullet was still lodged within his shoulder. She could smell burnt powder as she leaned nearer to him. “Rory! My lord, do you hear me?”

He groaned again. His eyelids flickered, then opened, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He grinned. “Did you think me sped?”

“Aye.” She looked about for something to stanch the seepage of blood.

“Leave him,” de Lâche ordered. “Where is my respected mother, monsieur?”

“Outside,” Rory told him bitterly. “In the thicket. You’ll find them easily enough, I daresay. Do you mean to kill us?”

“There is no need for that,” de Lâche said, not meeting his steady gaze. “I’m for Paris once I have the emeralds.” They had been speaking English, but now he turned to a bewildered, frightened Pétrie, adding in French, “Get them, damn you!”

She glanced at the wounded Rory, and he nodded, grimacing. “Get them,” he said in the same language. “Too many lives at risk. Thank you, Diana,” he added with a small gasp as she attempted to stanch the oozing blood with the same cloth she had earlier used to hold the pot lid. She had ignored de Lâche’s order to leave Rory, vowing silently that he would have to kill her to keep her from doing what she could to help her brother-in-law. She looked up now as Pétrie took a step away from de Lâche.

“It is no use threatening me, monsieur,” the girl said slowly. “I cannot give you the emeralds at once.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?” he demanded fiercely. “Where are they?”

“There,” she replied simply, pointing to the hearth.

They all stared at the fireplace, filled with red hot coals, emanating heat that could be felt throughout the little room. De Lâche gave a sound like an angry growl.

“Beneath the hearth?”

She nodded.

“Then get them.”

“The fire will have to cool first,” she said placidly.

“The devil it will. If there’s not enough room to shovel those coals aside, then empty out that pot and fill it with as many as it will hold. Dump them outside and come back for more. It won’t take those stones long to cool once the coals are gone. Move, damn you!”

With a fatalistic shrug, Pétrie obeyed him, turning her halfbaked loaf of bread out onto a wooden rack on the table and moving, steadily but with no undue haste. Diana smiled sadly at the girl’s great show of dignity and wished she could think the slow pace would avail them some advantage. But there was no one to help them now unless the captain of the
Sea Maiden
worried enough to send someone to find out what was keeping them. And he, she decided, was just as likely to get the wind up for worrying about Simon’s orders, and take the
Sea Maiden
back to Le Havre. Of course, Simon had quite possibly reached Paris by now, and might know of the “escape” but no matter how much she wished he were here at her side, there had not yet been time for him to make the return trip.

De Lâche moved to the door, opening it to step outside and shout, “Mama, Sophie!” A moment later, two women emerged hesitantly from the thicket and moved toward the cottage, the elder frowning slightly as though she did not believe her eyes, the younger allowing her pretty mouth to drop open and then hurrying forward to demand that de Lâche tell her whether he had indeed been arrested as they had been in Paris and, if so, how he had managed to escape.

Diana’s eyes met Rory’s. “You didn’t tell them of your suspicions?”

His lips tightened. “I had no proof. All I was able to discover before I was arrested myself was that they had been taken. De Lâche, too, supposedly. That was a hum, of course. A neat little trap they set for us. We escaped through what seemed to be the rarest of chances, but with no way to help him. Then we found a farmer willing to hide us in his hay wagon and carry us to Le Havre. We said nothing to him, of course, about this place. When the comtesse said we’d make better time on horseback and that she had friends outside Louviers, we just slipped out of the wagon, not wanting anyone to be able to tell any soldiers who might follow that the man driving the wagon had known we were in his hay.

“De Lâche said he was not released until it was known you were outside Paris, and that he lost you in Louviers,” Diana said quickly. “If he was following you, he must have known about the hay wagon.”

“It took us a while to get the horses,” Rory said slowly. “If our farmer was part of the plot, that’s when he discovered our absence and informed de Lâche.”

The voices outside had stopped, and Diana looked away from Rory to see that the women had noticed Darby, hitherto hidden from their sight by an outcropping of the thicket. He was attempting now to stagger to his feet, holding his head and looking sick. The women moved to help him, and de Lâche told them to hurry, his tone curt. Diana saw his sister look at him quizzically.