The Betrayal of the Blood Lily (52 page)

What was it that Charlotte had said? That she could never do anything in the normal course? Naturally. That would be why her body decided that being cornered by a French spy—a French spy who could probably squish them both in one go just by sitting on them—was an excellent time to contemplate a little bit of light dalliance.

The Frenchman clumped his way down to the bottom of the flight. Spotting Cleave, he raised a hand in a genial greeting. “Ah, you are here. Good. I hate the waiting, me.”

Next to her, Penelope could feel Alex stiffen into complete immobility as his eyes narrowed on his old schoolfellow.

Cleave’s eyes slid sideways towards the corner in which Penelope and Alex were hiding. “I think we should go upstairs. The air in here. Close, you know.” Cleave tugged at his collar in illustration. He did, indeed, seem to be feeling the heat.

“You do not want to check the inventory?” Guignon lumbered down the last few steps. His belly wobbled like a bowl of blanc mange as he indulged in a hearty chuckle. “I should not be so trusting, me.”

Sound sense on the Frenchman’s part, thought Penelope. Trusting often got one in trouble, as she could tell from the stunned expression on Alex’s face as he stared at his childhood playmate. Bewilderment warred with disbelief on Alex’s countenance as Guignon dealt Cleave a hearty slap on the back that sent the younger man staggering forward. Penelope found herself wanting to squeeze his hand, to touch his cheek, to offer some small gesture of comfort, whatever it might be. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and drag his head down into the crook of her shoulder and promise him that at least she was always what she was, no matter how the rest of the world dissembled and betrayed him. But she couldn’t. They were mewed in their corner like mice in a hole. Any movement might be fatal.

There was still always the chance that Cleave was what he claimed; that it was Guignon he had lured to the cavern under false pretenses; that he had lied to the Frenchman, and not to them. Penelope found herself hoping, for Alex’s sake, that it would be so.

Lord, she must be going soft in her old age. Much more of this and she’d find herself thinking like Charlotte, all hearts and stars and fluffy bunnies.

“It all seems to be accounted for,” said Cleave stiffly, making a doomed attempt to herd the Frenchman back towards the stairs. “As you promised.”

Guignon bumped Cleave out of the way with one casual wiggle, making an expansive gesture that encompassed the pile upon pile upon pile of munitions stacked against the stone walls. “An impressive sight,
non
? Musket, powder . . .
Par dieu!
Who are they?”

“No one,” Cleave said hastily. “No one at all.”

Penelope did her best to look like a musket. Alex seemed to be doing a bit better with his stone pillar impression, but it was still not enough.

“You cannot fool me so easily,” said Guignon. “
That
”—he nodded to Alex—“is not a keg of powder. And
that
”—his gaze traveled appre ciatively over Penelope—“is most certainly not—”

Penelope rose smoothly to her feet. “A loaded gun?” she said sweetly, training hers on his midsection. It was the largest target in the room, after all. As an extra precaution, she added chillingly, “All of the others are empty. I can shoot you long before you load.”

Guignon appeared to take her threat at face value, which was a very good thing, since Penelope wasn’t at all sure whether any of the muskets, rifles, and assorted instruments of destruction were loaded or not. Instead of reaching for the nearest firearm, he turned to Cleave, with a look that would have turned Medusa herself to stone.

With great dignity, he looked the other man in the eye, and pronounced, “You have betrayed me, Monsieur.”

Cleave opened his mouth in an immediate negation—and snapped it shut again as Alex stepped forward, his gaze as hard as Guignon’s. Harder, even.

“You’ve betrayed one of us,” Alex said. He said it in a conversational tone, but Penelope could hear the rough edge beneath. They had grown up together, she remembered. Played together. Studied together. He held tightly to his loyalties, as did Alex, and every betrayal was like a little fall of man. “Which one is it, Daniel?”

Cleave looked from one to the other, from Guignon’s threatening bulk to Penelope’s pistol and back again. “I didn’t—I mean—dash it, Alex! I had to. I had no choice.”

His voice was low and pleading. From the corner of her eye, Penelope could see Alex wince, as though pierced by a sudden, acute pain. And then it was gone and his face was under control again, but for a certain bitterness around the lips that hadn’t been there before.

“Had to?” Alex repeated. Shrugging, Guignon seated himself heavily on the bottom step, removed a squashed pastry from his waistcoat pocket, and proceeded to rip off a hearty bite. “Had to do
what
?”

Cleave looked away. Penelope could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up over the edge of his cravat as he swallowed hard. “This,” he said in a low voice. “These.”

“You,” said Alex, in a hard voice. “You were the Marigold.”

“There is no ‘were’ about it,” contributed Guignon, spitting puff pastry as he spoke. With his accent thickened by a mouthful of doughy treat, it came out more as
dere eez noo werr
. “M. Cleave
is
the Marigold.”

“And the attack on Fiske?” demanded Alex, his eyes never leaving his old friend. “That was you?”

Cleave’s head moved in a barely perceptible nod.

“My handkerchief?”

Cleave pressed the back of his hand to his lips. “It was the handkerchief gave me the idea,” he said, in a barely audible voice. “I had one among my things. Kat”—he faltered on the name of Alex’s sister before pulling himself together—“Kat had given it to me. She said she had made you too many anyway. Not that it would have been hard to take one from you. I had—have—a man in your household. I would never have let them hang you,” he added desperately. “You have to believe that. It was just until—just until this was all over. And then I would have done everything I could for you, I promise.”

“Forgive me if your promises carry little weight at the moment,” said Alex dryly, and Cleave turned a deep, unbecoming red.

Penelope heard her own voice, as though from very far away. “You planted that cobra in my room, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean—” Cleave took a stumbling step back in reflex as Alex tensed like a spring waiting to uncoil.

“You left a cobra in Lady Frederick’s room,” said Alex, in a voice so low and deadly that even Penelope shivered at it.

“Not me,” said Cleave hastily. “Mehdi Yar. The groom. He did it. And it was never meant for you,” he added, turning anxiously towards Penelope. “It was meant for Lord Frederick. It never occurred to me that—”

“We might share a bed?” Penelope said dulcetly.

Cleave blushed.

Penelope drew in a shuddering breath as a host of seemingly unrelated incidents tumbled into place. “And when that didn’t work,” she said, watching him closely, “you tried again. On the road to Berar. You knew no one would connect you with it, because you weren’t there. That was the groom again, wasn’t it?”

Cleave nodded.

“You planted him in our household in Calcutta,” recalled Penelope. “Even then you were planning this. But why? Why kill Freddy?”

“I didn’t really
want
to kill him,” said Cleave hopefully.

“Fine way you have of showing it,” said Alex, and Penelope knew that he was remembering, as she was, a certain cut girth.

Cleave swallowed hard. “It was Fiske, you see. He said he’d told Staines. No one would have believed Fiske, miserable little opium eater that he was, but Staines? He was the son of an earl. Who wouldn’t believe him over me?”

“Believe what?” Alex’s voice was like granite.

Penelope was beginning to feel slightly sick to her stomach. She couldn’t have said quite why. It might have been the way Guignon was enthusiastically reducing his pastry to pulp. Or it might have been the half-eager, half-sheepish expression on Cleave’s face as he tried to explain why he had systematically set out to murder her husband. The incongruous boyishness of it made Penelope’s stomach turn.

“He had found out about—well, that I—you know.”

“No,” said Alex in a deadly tone, “I don’t know. Would you care to enlighten us?”

“That I was selling secrets,” Cleave blurted out. “Nothing dangerous,” he added defensively. “Just little things that wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

The Frenchman snorted.

Penelope entirely concurred.

“Little things,” repeated Alex flatly.

“What else was I to do?” demanded Cleave shrilly. “You know what the East India Company’s idea of pay is like.”

“The rest of us manage somehow. Without resorting to treason.” Alex’s voice was drier than dust.

Cleave bristled. “You don’t know what it is to have a sick mother to support.”

“No, only four siblings,” murmured Alex, but Cleave didn’t seem to hear him.

“Her medicines are so dear. And the doctor’s visits and the carriage—she can’t be expected to walk—and the paid companion. It just goes on and on and all of it costs money. Money! Do you know how much my father left me? Nothing. Just his sword and his name—and only one of those was salable,” he added bitterly. “He died a hero’s death, fighting for the Company, and what did the Company ever give us in return?”

“A job,” said Alex softly. “A livelihood.”

Cleave laughed bitterly, his pleasant features twisted. “Some livelihood. India broke my mother’s health and took my father’s life. I was owed something.
She
was owed something.”

“So you decided to take it,” prompted Alex.

In the corner, the Frenchman’s jaws opened in an earsplitting yawn. True confessions were evidently not his idea of entertainment.

“Fiske saw me.” Cleave looked anxiously from side to side as though expecting to find Fiske there, watching. “He saw me passing information to Wrothan, damn him. He started demanding payment in return for silence. Just little amounts at first, but it added up over time. I’d meant to get out, to stop doing it, but I had to get in deeper, just to keep making Fiske’s payments. And then—” He drew a shuddering breath.

“Then they told me about the treasure of Berar. I had my way out. If I could only get my hands on the treasure, I would be free.”

“And the little matter of the planned rebellion?”

Cleave seemed to have forgotten the Frenchman’s presence. He spoke only to Alex, his mild face more animated than Penelope had ever seen it. “That was the genius of it! It never had to happen. Without the gold, the princes would never rise. And I—I would have the gold. I was even going to give the bulk of it over to the government and claim I’d found it,” he added with pathetic eagerness. “I would have been rewarded—a hero! Don’t you see? All I have to do is get my hands on the gold and it will all come about.”

Guignon looked up from trimming his fingernails with a pastry knife. “There is no gold.”

“Jewels, then. Treasure. What does it matter? It’s all the same thing.”

Simply, as though to a very slow student, Guignon said, “There is no treasure.”

Cleave’s face was a study in incomprehension. “No—what?”

“No treasure,” repeated Guignon, without the slightest bit of hesitation. “There never was any.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “Oh, there might well be a lost treasure of Berar, but we never had it. It was just a carrot, to dangle before the princes, like mules, you see? The mule trots faster for the promise of reward.”

Cleave’s face drained of all color. He swayed slightly, catching on to the back of a packing crate to steady himself. “You mean it was all for nothing. All of it. Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” said Guignon genially. “It was all for a very good cause.”

His words brought back the memory of a piece of paper found lying on the pavement above, a paper that Cleave must have crafted in his persona as Marigold. The French had been poor, but the revolutionary rhetoric had been remarkably fluent.

“‘And the tree of Liberty shall blossom again in the courtyards of the East
,
’”
Penelope quoted softly.

“Precisely,” said Guignon, with great satisfaction. “What is a little lie to a grand end?”

In substance, it wasn’t all that different from the rationalization for his own actions Cleave had expressed only moments before. But something pushed him over the edge. It might have been his own words quoted back at him. It might have been the Frenchman’s air of smug superiority. It might have been the brioche crumbs that landed square in one eye. Whatever it was, Cleave snapped.

“You thrice-damned, frog-eating bastard!” he breathed out through his teeth, and snatched up one of the muskets, barrel first.

A look of mild apprehension appeared on Guignon’s epicene face, but before it could ripple down his layers of fat into movement, it was too late. Cleave swung the musket like a mallet.

The stock connected with Guignon’s head with a sickening crunch that made Penelope jump back a step. Penelope went careening into Alex, who was attempting to make a grab for Cleave. Alex staggered sideways as Penelope stumbled against him, putting out a hand to keep them both from falling together off an inconveniently placed keg of ammunition. The rim of the keg hit Penelope in the waist with sickening force.

Dizzy, Penelope clutched at the side of the tub, feeling her gorge rise as the series of strange sounds in the background crystallized into meaning. Guignon was on the ground, but Cleave’s arms still rose and fell, the blood-stained stock of the musket rising and falling with them, spattering flecks of blood as he panted, “Bastard, bastard, bastard!”

Alex grabbed at him from behind, catching the other man’s arms high over head as Cleave struggled to be let free, panting and sobbing and babbling words that Penelope could hardly hear over the ringing of her ears and the labored sound of Alex’s breathing as he fought to hold Cleave steady.