Revealed (48 page)

He stood up, rounded to stand in front of her, and gave her a proper French court bow. “
Je m’appelle le Comte de Laurent aux Villeurs.
Or, at least, I was once.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“My lands were taken from me, as were my parents, during the Revolution. I was but a boy, reduced to becoming Laurent. That is how you know me,
non?
That is how the pigeon knows me.”

She cocked her head to one side, questioning.

“Your beloved Blue Raven.” Laurent’s eyes narrowed. “There is no need for you to introduce yourself. You are Madame Benning, the ladybird of the pigeon.” Phillippa shook her head, frightened, but honest. She was not the Blue Raven’s lady—technically.

But Laurent just laughed. “Do not deny it. I am not as stupid as my partners. I saw you in the maze, a beacon of sunlight in the dark. Once I discovered who you were, I followed you. But you never led me to him. He kept his distance from you.” Laurent sent her an appraising glance. “God knows how. But tonight, you were caught doing your master’s bidding. He endangered you stupidly. And it will be his downfall.”

Phillippa objected roundly to the idea of being mastered by anyone, but was of course unable to voice this objection. Laurent straightened, began to walk back and forth lazily, pontificating. “When we began, I did not expect the pigeon to trace my plans so quickly. It was unfortunate luck. But he has certainly made this enterprise so much more interesting.”

Laurent came to her then, his long, thin finger drawing a line up Phillippa’s throat, fingering her chin. “He will come for you, you know. The only reason you live is so he can watch you die.”

Phillippa wanted to ask what made him think that Marcus would find her. What made him think that if he did, he would not be the one to fall. But the man seemed to blindly believe that he would face his archenemy tonight. And he relished it. His madness was beginning to show.

It was amazing how focused Phillippa’s mind became in those moments. She surveyed Laurent’s form, spotting a dirk in his boot, a dagger at his side. Those silver pistols were likely under his coat. She examined the room and saw that it had only one exit and entrance. Once Marcus entered, there would be no escape. What furniture there was could easily conceal a weapon: a knife in the settee cushions, a pistol in a flowerpot. And only Laurent would know they were there. They were on his grounds. He had the advantage.

Phillippa prayed that Marcus did not find her. Not tonight. Not when he would be walking into such circumstances. But if he did, she would have to be ready. And so, while Laurent kept pacing, his eyes on the clock, Phillippa began to plan.

Getting into Whitehall at night was a fairly simple task. If one did not have access, one simply had to sneak past the armed gates, the sentries posted on every entrance, break in through a window, navigate the corridors without being seen by the night watch patrolling the halls with candlesticks and clubs, and pick the lock of one’s destination.

Luckily, when they reached the door of the Security section of the War Department, it was already unlocked.

And Leslie Farmapple was inside.

He was in Sterling’s private office. The safe in the corner was open and emptied of all valuables. They watched as Leslie ransacked his desk, abandoning all order and neatness in his rush.

“That’s not up to your usual standard, Leslie,” Marcus drawled.

The short, tweedy man looked up but did not pause in his movements. “Mr. Worth, and er, Mr. Worth,” he stammered nervously, his voice surprisingly hoarse. “I . . . I was just tidying up—as you see, Lord Sterling can never find anything.”

Marcus came forward slowly and placed the penknife on the desk in front of Leslie. “You dropped something,” he said quietly, holding his gaze.

Leslie stopped moving. He stared at the penknife for whole seconds, before he gave a small, nervous laugh. “I can explain,” he said and lunged for the knife.

But Marcus was quicker. The moment Leslie’s hand reached the table, he grabbed his wrist, pulled him forward, his head slamming onto the desk.

“Ow!” Leslie yelled. “Guards! Guards!” but his voice was not strong enough. Marcus quickly rounded the desk and, pulling Leslie upright, threw his fist directly into that man’s right eye.

“That’s the second time tonight someone has tried to call the guard on me.” Marcus sneered, landing a punch this time to the left side of his face. “Go ahead, Leslie, call them again. And we’ll discuss with them how you betrayed your country by falling in league with our enemies.” He threw another punch, and another, each a sickening crunch and thud of bone breaking flesh, Leslie falling to the floor, his arms no longer able to protect himself from the blows. “We can talk about how you slit Sterling’s throat when he no longer proved useful.”

“No!” Leslie managed to croak out. “Laurent—he did that.” Marcus paused. Leslie gasped for air, blood running from his nose and mouth. “He’s insane. He killed Sterling. He took Mrs. Benning—”

Marcus grabbed Leslie by the collar and dragged him up, pining him back against a wall. “Where?” he growled.

“I . . . I don’t know . . .” Leslie whimpered. “He took her. I just wanted to get away before he killed me, too. I was going to get my papers, my money, and run. My mother would understand, I’d send her a note . . .” His rambling stopped when a pistol, held by a steel-eyed Byrne was slowly cocked against his temple.

“What my brother meant to say was, if you want to live past this minute, you’d best start guessing where Laurent would take Mrs. Benning.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I think he has rooms in Weymouth Street, I . . . I had him followed there once, but, but I don’t know for sure. Please don’t kill me, my poor mother would be alone . . .”

Marcus slowly released Leslie, letting his feet touch the floor again. “We’re not going to kill you, Leslie. But if one hair on Phillippa Benning’s head is harmed, you’ll wish we had. Understood?”

Leslie nodded silently, his entire body quivering in fear. Marcus took him by the shoulder, and Byrne kept his pistol trained on Leslie’s head as they escorted him out of Sterling’s office. “Good.” He said. “Let’s go. And you can explain yourself on the way.”

“It was the money, you see.” Leslie said, as the carriage rumbled along to Weymouth Street, an address close to the entrance of Regent’s Park. “There’s so much more money to be made from war than from peace. Surely you can understand that.”

Leslie kept talking, filling the carriage with his plots and plans. Marcus guessed that the pistol Byrne kept trained on him was facilitating Leslie’s honesty.

“So, you were going to sell the Whitford rifle designs to the French?” Marcus asked.

“And the English,” he said defensively.

“What about the Hampshire stables? There are dozens of breeding farms that supply the military.”

“And the ones I’m invested in stand to make a great deal more money with a full-scale conflict than merely the occupation.”

“But it wasn’t just that, was it? Hampshire’s positioned in the House of Lords to sway several votes if he argues to escalate a conflict,” Marcus confirmed, leaning forward on his knees.

Leslie nodded, eyeing Byrne’s pistol. “That thing could go off, you know; this carriage is not sprung very well,” he whined.

Byrne remained silent, his hand frighteningly steady.

“A chance you’ll have to take, I’m afraid.” Marcus answered for him.

Leslie leveled his gaze at Marcus, considering. “I thought once about asking you to join us, you know.”

“Me? Why?”

“Its funny”—he smiled—“but since the war ended, you had been desperately looking for some threat, some little thing to investigate. You were almost as bored as I was,” he reflected. “It is rigorously difficult to be without purpose, is it not?”

Marcus almost lunged across the carriage to strangle Leslie, but he held himself back. “Bored? You were
bored
, and so when Sterling approached you—”

But Leslie laughed at this. “You think Lord Sterling approached me? Sterling couldn’t lace his shoes without me.” He leaned forward now, his eyes black beads of anger. “I brought Sterling in—used his ‘superior’ breeding and social connections to get into the necessary events. He needed the money, too. Turns out someone’s been blackmailing him about his relationship with Crawley.” Leslie smiled wickedly.

“But Laurent—he’s more than either of you could handle,” Byrne replied coldly.

Leslie did not reply.

The carriage turned the corner onto Weymouth Street and slowed.

“So what was the plan for tonight? Disrupt the ball so the Prince would get involved?” Marcus asked, pulling back the carriage curtains with a finger, looking for the number they had been given.

“At first, but then it was decided drastic action was needed.” Leslie’s cool smile chilled the carriage, as they rumbled to a halt. “It was this one,” he said, looking up at a quiet, cloaked building. “He’s going to kill you both.”

Byrne reached out with his free hand, choking Leslie with a viselike grip. He clawed at Byrne’s hand, but to no avail. “You’ve never been on a battlefield, have you? Don’t worry, when the bullets start flying, we’ll make sure you are in the middle of the action.”

Byrne released Leslie, allowing him to sputter to catch his breath.

Marcus looked at his brother, saw his cold, steel resolve. He was back on those battlefields, focused only on cutting down the enemy. Back in that little seaside town, facing his enemy one last time.

“Let’s go,” he said brusquely, opening the door of the carriage.

The clock ticked by second after agonizing second. Laurent checked his pocket watch more than once, making certain the two matched. Phillippa wished she could scratch her nose. She wished she could stand up and stretch. But she had to keep in her mind everything she could see, everything she needed to do. She had shifted her chair as best she could, using Laurent’s preoccupation to edge closer to the sideboard. She was about to shift herself again, when suddenly, Laurent stood and went to the window. He nudged back the curtain ever so slightly, peering out into the darkness. After a moment, he frowned and threw the curtain back into place.

“Looking for someone?”

Laurent whipped around, drawing the pistol from his back and aiming it squarely at Phillippa’s temple. Upon turning, he found Marcus at the door, holding a knife to the neck of the man Phillippa recognized as being the shorter man she’d followed at the party. He was swollen and bruising around the eyes now and, Phillippa was pleased to note, the throat.

Marcus’s hands were bloodied but otherwise unharmed. He met her gaze, his eyes asking if she was all right. She nodded ever so slightly, her whole body torn between sweet relief at seeing him and fear for what was to come.

Laurent smiled, every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation. “You found the penknife, I see? And followed it to Monsieur Farmapple.”

“I’m sorry Laurent, he made me tell him where you lived, I . . .” he stammered, Marcus shutting him up by applying the slightest pressure to the knife.

“
Oui
, Leslie. And I let you follow me that day, so you would tell him.” Laurent examined Marcus, crouched behind Leslie. “I caught sight of you in the maze. You crouched behind your woman then, as you hide now.”

“Come now, Laurent, how about a trade. Your friend for my friend.” Marcus offered, slight amusement in his voice.

Laurent laughed at that. “Go ahead, kill him. But you won’t mind if I save her for later, do you? I want to enjoy her first.”

Marcus lost all humor, moving inch by painful inch farther into the room. “Touch her, and you die.”

“Touch her?” Laurent taunted. “You mean like this?” He let the barrel of the gun nuzzle her cheek, push aside a wisp of her hair. “You are weak, pigeon. You can do nothing.”

“Don’t bet on it,” came a hard voice from behind the curtain. Laurent swiveled around. Byrne stood there, having entered from the window, his pistol leveled squarely between Laurent’s eyes.