If I Fall (25 page)

“Some might see benefits from it—arms manufacturers and the like,” Jack rationalized, “but I have nothing to gain if war breaks out.”

“Really? You don’t suppose the navy will need a number of officers to outfit ships in ordinary if war breaks out in a region controlled by the East India Company?”

“I…” but Jackson had no reply to that. He hadn’t thought he had a motive for provoking war, but then again…

“How can I prove it to you? I … I never entered Lord Fieldstone’s house—I was walking around London all night.”

“A terrible alibi.” But then Marcus looked at him straight on. “But you can help prove your innocence.”

“How?”

“By finding the proof against another.” Marcus took a breath. “There was something taken from Fieldstone’s desk.”

“What?”

“A piece of paper—or papers. We can tell by the patterns in the blood drops. Whoever has it is our killer.”

The room went still. Jack’s head moved slowly back and forth between the two men who played his captors. “Do you suspect Mr. Ashin Pha? Or the Comte de Le Bon?”

Byrne answered. “We don’t know. Luckily proof for both would reside in one place.”

“Either they are in it together, or one is leading the other around by the nose.” Marcus sighed. “We know so little of both of them. We only have the Comte’s vouching for Mr. Pha. And while the Comte’s sister comes from good English stock, the Comte himself is entirely a mystery, having grown up outside of the eyes of England. Even with my trip to France, I could only trace the Comte’s life until he was ten. And, as you so deftly pointed out, Lieutenant, his lack of knowledge of the topography of Burma indicates a lack of respect for it. He may be a patsy. But it is also very possible that he could have brought Mr. Pha here under false pretenses, so there would be someone to point the finger at when the time came.”

Jack tried to follow the circuitous logic of spy games and only found himself cross-eyed. “Wouldn’t a man who has committed murder, expecting chaos to result from it …
act
differently?” Jack asked. “From what I know of either man they are both, er, normal.”

“Unfortunately he has not given himself away.” Marcus replied, with an eyebrow lifted. “You’re right, one would expect the killer to act strangely, to close up shop, to flee the area. Mr. Pha remains a silent guard, and the Comte is just as public, just as gregarious as ever.”

“And just as annoying,” Jack said under his breath, but in a room this still, it could have been heard a mile away. And it was—as both Byrne and Marcus gave a small, identical grunt of laughter.

“Er, yes. Except … no one has been inside the house the Comte has borrowed for the Season.”

“What … at all?” Jack replied, astonished.

“No. They’ve never allowed it. Blamed it on some Burmese custom that no one has ever heard of, but also that no one would question.”

“All right,” Jack rationalized slowly. “I don’t know what you would have me do about it, however. Break in…”

“There are too many guards.” Marcus shook his head. Then he took a deep breath before venturing forth. “Indeed, our reports tell us that the only person who holds any sway over the Comte is Miss Sarah Forrester.”

Jack felt the world pull at the edges of his body, pulling him down, down, into sharp focus, and landing with a thud into reality. “Are you mad?” But it was not a question. It was a threat.

But Sir Marcus’s gaze did not falter. “Unfortunately not. I would rather not involve Miss Forrester, but we are running out of time and options. If the Fieldstone murder is made public—or it is not, and God forbid they feel they need to strike again to make their point known…”

Sir Marcus didn’t need to say the rest. If such a thing occurred, parliament would follow the clues to Burma, then that rage would carry over into a swift and merciless call for war. It was entirely possible that war would break out on its own, Jack mused, given the contentiousness between Burma and British India, but someone was trying to provoke the fight ahead of schedule.

But to involve Miss Forrester…

“You never thought I had anything to do with Lord Fieldstone’s death, did you?” Jack blurted, suddenly realizing the truth of it. Neither man made a reply, but Jack continued. “You just need to find a way to get to Miss Forrester.”

“You may have been a less likely candidate than most,” Sir Marcus conceded. “But your innocence is still under question.”

Jack sighed, long since too tired for this conversation. His body slumped with weariness, but could only slump so far.

“Well, since I’m a less likely candidate, could you at least untie me from this chair? I think I’ve lost feeling in my fingers.”

A nod from Byrne to Marcus had the taller gentleman loosening the knots behind Jack. When Jack stood, his joints cried out in relief. He nodded his thanks to Sir Marcus.

And then he hit him with the full force of his right hook.

Marcus hit the packed earth of the floor, his spectacles going askew.

Shortly thereafter, Jack found himself viciously pinned to the ground, staring up into the black eyes of Byrne Worth, a hard cane pressed against his throat.

“I won’t let you endanger her in this way.”

“Then we’ll have you tried for the murder of Lord Fieldstone. Imagine it: having to publicly explain that you dressed up as the Blue Raven to play a trick on the Golden Lady. Think she’ll appreciate the press?”

Byrne menaced, but was cut off by a warning, “Byrne…” from his brother.

Marcus stood, his steps wobbly, as he dabbed at the blood coming from his lip. “You think I want to do this? You think I want to involve innocents like Miss Forrester? If my wife ever found out, she would kill me.
But I have no choice.
My friend is dead and there is a killer at large! One who is trying to provoke war! And who will protect Miss Forrester if it
is
the Comte? His fascination with her is surely more dangerous than my request.”

“The joke’s on you then,” Jack ground out, his throat burning against the pressure. “Sarah Forrester despises me. She would never do anything I ask of her.”

Byrne smiled, then. That frightening, cold smile. “She would do anything the Blue Raven asked of her.”

Jack’s eyes widened. Byrne simply smiled wider.

“And you know it.”

I
T
was not while Jack was donning the half mask again and gluing on the moustache that he realized the gravity of the situation he was about to walk into.

It was not when Sir Marcus came to the door of number sixteen, under the pretext of taking Jack to the War Department to discuss possible employment—thereby providing a suitable alibi, should anyone being to wonder why, whenever the Blue Raven appears, Lieutenant Jackson Fletcher is never in the room.

No, it was while he was crouched in shadow, in an alley two blocks away from number sixteen, being lectured on espionage etiquette by the Blue Raven himself, that Jack understood that he was about to enter a war zone.

“I would feel far more comfortable doing this in a public place,” he muttered, as his eyes scanned the rough brick walls of the fancy pastry shop on one side of the narrow space, and the milliner’s on the other.

“Too easily seen.”

“Yet, without the distractions of other people, or the possibility of being found out, she’s far more likely to recognize me.”

But Byrne just shrugged. “It will be dark in her room. You’re certain she’s gone to bed?”

“It’s past two in the morning. And they returned from their evening out before midnight.” As well he should know, Jack thought glumly. On Byrne’s instructions, he had been waiting in this alley all night, almost since Marcus had picked him up. He had seen the carriage with the Forrester family crest (a tree and a primrose, naturally) drive by ages ago.

“Yes, well then, at most, she will light one candle. Keep your hood up and she’ll have no idea. Especially now that you have the right disguise.”

Byrne, of course, had only come by in the last half hour to deliver instructions. And clothes.

“I cannot believe you had been wearing those oversized trousers and your
naval uniform jacket
. You’re the luckiest bastard in the world that she did not recognize you before.”

He would have grumbled and protested about necessity being the mother of invention, but he had to admit, the black linen shirt and close fitting trousers, as well as a lighter wool cape and light, flexible leather boots made movement a hell of a lot easier. Plus, it looked more Blue Raven–esque. Add to that a firmly affixed moustache—having had a chance to adhere properly this time—well, if he had a mirror, Jack doubted he would recognize himself.

“She could still very well knock me over the head and cry for help,” Jack countered.

But Byrne just smiled. “Doubtful. In my experience, catching a woman unawares in her bedchamber tends to make her more … receptive to whatever you have to say.”

Jack shot him a look. “Aren’t you married?”

A black winged brow rose in reply. “How do you think I learned that particular information? Now, remember,” he said, returning to the more important business at hand, “we need to get Miss Forrester to get the Comte to invite us into his home.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he said “Use any means necessary.”

The idea of seducing Sarah Forrester made Jack freeze with dread, with anticipation. Because that’s what Byrne expected him to do, of course. And once he showed himself to Sarah … well, judging by her wistfulness for the past week,
he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what
she
expected, too. And the idea of kissing Sarah Forrester again made his fingertips tingle with hope, and his mind dizzy with nausea.

Because more than anything, he wanted to kiss her again.

“You should be the one doing this,” Jack rationalized quickly. “After all, you
are
the Blue Raven.”

“Not anymore,” Byrne said, indicating his cane. “I haven’t been in a long time. Besides, I won’t even be in London that much longer.”

Byrne grew silent, losing himself in his own thoughts. When he shook himself back to the present, his expression became serious.

“Listen, when you are in there…” he turned Jack to him, made him meet his eye. “
You
must be the one in control. You must have her under your spell, not the other way around. Until she agrees to what you ask.”

“And then?”

“And then you get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.”

Jack gave Byrne a look that he hoped expressed the murderous tendencies he was feeling right now, before setting himself to the task of sneaking over, and then breaking in, to the Forrester home.

With one eye on Byrne, Jack moved to the drainpipe that ran along the joint between the pastry shop and the milliner’s back wall extension. Using all of his upper-body strength, he hoisted himself up along the not-meant-to-bear-his-weight pipe, until he could latch his hands onto a narrow window ledge. Then he used that ledge to lever himself up to the next one a story above, and then the next, and then finally the roof.

When he cleared the roof, he turned to look back down in the alley. And found Byrne looking up at him, decidedly impressed. Giving a small salute, Jack turned around and began moving lightly across the rooftops, toward the direction of number sixteen Upper Grosvenor Street.

It went smoothly—he didn’t run into any curious chimney sweeps, and the eyes of the lazily patrolling night watch did not go above street level. Jack decided he now knew how the unknown killer managed to get into Lord Fieldstone’s town
house. The rooftops of London were easy to traverse, and free of scrutiny.

The only hitch in his travels was when he came to a break in the rooftops, caused by the presence of a street below. But it was a fairly narrow street, only leading back to the mews behind the houses. He stepped back and made a running jump for it, clearing the gap with only inches to spare. Unfortunately, he landed rather harder than expected, and the resounding thud echoed through the night air.

A sleepy night watchman below, who had been walking at an easy pace, twirling his stick in time to his slow pace, suddenly froze, alert.

Jack hit the deck, pressing his body against the hard tin of the roof. Luckily, he did not hear any noises from the house beneath him, and after a good thirty seconds, he felt safe enough to continue on to number sixteen.

When he swung down the backside of the house, the side facing the small garden lot behind the Forrester’s home, Jack was grateful for two things. First, that the Forresters had given Sarah the room with the balcony—it made entry so much simpler than having to hang onto a ledge. And second, the unnatural cold of the previous few days had broken, and it was warm enough to warrant leaving the balcony door open.

But when he stepped onto the balcony, and carefully pushed the door open wider, he realized his one mistake this evening—other than the massive one of dressing up as the Blue Raven in the first place.

Because, Sarah Forrester was not, as he had insisted, asleep in her bed. She was instead sitting at her dressing table, lit by the light of a candelabrum. Wearing nothing but a simple, gauzy nightdress that fell off her shoulder, revealing inches of tantalizing skin.

And when her eyes met his, he knew, he just knew … that he was not going to be the one in control of their conversation.

Not one bit.