The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (39 page)

The first four symbols yielded C-A-P-E.

A word! An entire word: English cape, or a command in Latin:
Take
.

She kept transcribing, almost as fast as her eyes could move across the page.

C-A-P-E-S-I-G-N-U-M. It was Latin, then. Coherent Latin.

C-A-P-E-S-I-G-N-U-M-P-R-I-M-U-M.
Take the first symbol
….

Her lungs drew in what felt like a whole roomful of air. Letter after letter, word after word, formed in her mind as she read. Within minutes, she had a full message. From Sarah.

Explicit instructions on how to read the Black Cipher.

Sarah had cracked it—and now Rachel could understand it too. It was all simple enough once the system was laid out for her. A combination of substitutions and rotations, with seven meaningless decoy symbols thrown in to confuse decoders.

She snatched up the notebook, jumped to her feet, and now she did let out a yell—a great whoop of victory.

A moment later, footsteps thundered down the hallway towards her room.

Lord, in her excitement, she’d completely forgotten anyone else was in the house.

Before she could react, the lock turned, and then the door to her room flew wide, and Sebastian charged in again, looking wild-eyed. He stopped short when he saw her standing there, unhurt, the traces of a triumphant smile still on her face.

He scanned the room, taking in the mangled bedclothes, the gowns heaped on the floor, the books littered everywhere, and all the sheets of paper she’d been scrawling on, scattered around as if there’d been an explosion.

And then he saw the notebook she had clutched in her fist.

Chapter Twenty-Four

From the first time he’d met Rachel Covington, she’d repeatedly turned his world on its head. This time the bottom fell out of it.

For a second or two after he entered her room, seeing Sal’s belongings strewn helter-skelter everywhere. and the look of triumph on Rachel’s face, he thought she had simply found the notebook the rest of them had missed. He’d felt a jolt of pure exhilaration.

But the next second betrayed everything: her face paled, the jubilation changed to fear. Her hand jerked—the impulse to hide the book behind her back cut off just a little too late to conceal her true intentions.

No.

He saw her mouth move uncertainly as she tried to formulate a lie, and he knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d been at the Game too long to miss the signs.

His limbs went rigid and cold.

No. No. No. No.

It was all happening again. Another innocent-seeming girl, playing a far deeper game than he’d ever suspected, making a fool of him. How had he missed it this time?

Even now, his instincts played him false—he wanted to believe her, in her goodness.
Did
believe in her goodness, with every pulse of his stupid, benighted heart. But the evidence of his own eyes was undeniable.

“Sebastian . . . ” She said his name as if she actually expected him to trust her, as if there were still intimacy between them.

He shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t lie.”

She stood still as granite, wearing that same virginal, white nightrail she’d worn last night when he had burst in here to save her life, and wound up making love to her.

Tears gathered in her eyes. Crocodile tears, no doubt.

He struggled to make sense of this. How long had she had the notebook? How had she got hold of it? Had she been making a dupe of him since that very first interview in Helm’s office, when he’d believed she was a prim and innocent nun? Someone else must have gotten to her first, even before Helm found her in Lancashire.

Who? Lord Henry Walters?

Sarah?

Purely mad thoughts began to run through his head—
she
was
Sarah. There’d never been a twin. Sarah had always had the notebook, and for some reason she chose to lie to him about everything
.

But no—if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that this woman before him was not Sarah. Every instinct, every one of his senses told him she was different.

Whoever she was, though, she had betrayed him. Something vital was draining from him, as sure as if he’d been slashed deep by a knife.

“Tell me,” he said. “You have one chance to tell me absolutely everything.”

She swallowed. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her eyes went wide with her fear, and her breathing quickened.

Damn it. Why had she done this? Why?

And why had he let himself care so much about her?

Why had he let himself fall in love with her?

He couldn’t stand here another moment in this room where he’d kissed her, caressed her skin as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He had to get out of here, free of her snare.

His focus narrowed to the practical: there was the notebook in her hand. And there was the key to her room, the one he’d sent to her such a short while ago as a gesture of trust, still laying on her bedside table, next to his lantern.

For just an instant, he was tempted to see that as a sign of her innocence—that she had no reason to think he would lock her in again. But, no. It was merely a proof of over-confidence. His head ached as if it would crack in two. She thought she had fooled him so thoroughly.

In one swift movement, he darted to her side, snatching up the key in one hand and the notebook in the other.

If he’d needed any other proof that she was working against him, he had it then—she shrieked and grabbed for the notebook, fighting to get it back as if her life depended on it.

But he had one clear advantage over her—his body, at least, was stronger than hers.

Ignoring her desperate blows and scratching nails, he gave her one hard shove that sent her sprawling back on the bed. He snatched up all the papers he could find with the black code written on them, and the lantern for good measure, then retreated, pulling shut the door after him.

And locking it firmly.

She wouldn’t be getting out again, not by his hand.

* * *

It was almost a relief when one of Will’s men brought a message.

Sebastian had been all but paralyzed, staring into the flames of the kitchen fire. His body ached inside as if the glass shards Rachel once pulled from his shoulder had instead been pushed inwards, and multiplied, flaying him inch by inch. He needed something he could
do
.

The messenger handed him a folded paper. “From Diego Escobar,” he said. “He says another boy approached him in the street with instructions to give this to the hawk, and only to the hawk.”

The hawk
. Another message from this stranger who knew his true identity. Encoded like the others, no doubt. It felt like a cruel joke. And now, with Rachel lost to him, he had less hope than ever of reading it.

The weight of the notebook he’d taken from her hung heavily in his pocket.

How much did she know? Could she read the secret code the French were using? Why, why,
why
had she deceived him?

No, he had to stop asking himself that. The question would drive him mad.

Resignedly, he unfolded the message—and immediately his pulse began to beat more vigorously again. It was written in plain English:
I will tell you where you can find Victoire de Laurent at 9 o o’clock tonight. Of course, I will have something from you in exchange. We can negotiate exactly what that is when we meet, but you must come yourself this afternoon. A door will be unlocked from the garden.

An address was scrawled beneath that—not far from the
Calle Alameda, in a wealthy neighborhood that abutted the poorest part of town.

Well. That was promising at least. But who in blazes was the sender? When was anything, any of this, going to make sense?

The sender of this letter was someone with access to French intelligence clearly, since the earlier messages were written in the black code. And someone who knew not only his real name, but his mission. Knew he wished to find Victoire de Laurent.

Hell, it might well be Victoire de Laurent herself, trying once more to lure him to destruction.

But that didn’t matter. There was no time left for caution. Napoleon would arrive soon, and if there was any chance the message was trustworthy, any chance it would help him damage the French, he had to go. His life made little difference to him anyway.

He dashed off a note for Will, who’d sworn to return the moment he had Rosa and Eva safely away, relaying the content of the message and ordering him not to allow Rachel out of her room. He could offer explanation later. Then he shouldered into his coat and headed out, trying to keep his thoughts away from the woman locked away upstairs.

The address was easily reached, and just as easily he vaulted the low stone wall of the garden. The requisite door at the back of the house was indeed unlocked.

A sense of foreboding filled him as he put his hand to the latch, but he would not turn back. The door swung open into what he expected to be a kitchen, but instead he found himself in what appeared to be a sort of potter’s shed. Empty terra cotta planters stood in stacks along bleached-wood tables, and the smell of loam rose from barrels of soil that stood in the corners, bright metal scoops stuck in the rich dirt.

Hardly a sinister-looking place.

At the farther end of the room, though, another door stood open.

He could only suppose he was expected to continue on through it. A patch of gleaming oak-plank floor showed beyond the threshold, and a stream of sunlight through a high clerestory window, but no sign of furniture. Or of human beings.

What was he walking into?

Well, whoever sent that message must have a better idea of how to find Victoire than he did. And if that person meant to kill him, he’d put up one hell of a fight.

He stepped through.

And was somehow not at all surprised to find that the room he had walked into was a wealthy gentleman’s fencing studio—a large room with open-beamed ceilings and a gallery above. Tall mirrors lined one wall, and racks of gleaming blades and masks lined the rest.

And he was not surprised either to find a particular wealthy gentleman waiting for him just in front of one of the mirrors, unblunted rapier in hand.

Lord Henry Walters
.

“Of course,” said Sebastian. He bowed low. “Lord Henry.”

Lord Henry bowed in return, making a gracious sweep with his weapon. “Lord Hawkesbridge. How good of you to meet with me.” He smiled, but his eyes were hard and cold—the look of a man who wanted to kill, just as Rachel had said when they left Lady Barham’s what seemed like a hundred years ago.

At least she hadn’t been lying then.

“I suppose,” Sebastian said, inclining his head at the blade, “that is poisoned, too.”

Lord Henry gave him a look of revulsion. “Not poisoned. I am a man of honor.” He gave Sebastian a pointed glare. “Unlike some men I could name.”

What was the meaning of that? Did Lord Henry believe he lacked honor?

Interesting
.

Perhaps now at least he would learn the source of the older man’s animus toward him. Lord Henry reached over to one of the weapon racks and drew a second blade. He tossed it to Sebastian, pommel first. “Rest assured,” he said, “your sword is as good as mine.”

“But unfamiliar to me. And I’ve had no chance to warm my muscles.”

Lord Henry sneered. “You managed well enough last time we fought.
En garde
.”

And just that fast, he was dueling Lord Henry Walters again, but with unbated weapons this time.

“May I ask,” said Sebastian coolly, as their blades closed, “why we are fighting?”

Lord Henry struck hard, leading from the outside. The attack was clean, but the look on Lord Henry’s face was suddenly one of angry confusion. “Are you playing me for a fool?”

Sebastian had to move fast to fend him off. “All I want,” he said, “is to find Victoire de Laurent. Can you tell me where?”

“Yes,” said Lord Henry, driving at him again. “And I’d be glad to have you kill her. Defeat me, and I’ll tell you.”

“And if you defeat me?”

“I have my revenge.” And now there seemed to be a fury driving the older man. The urge to hurt was plain in his eyes, and this time nothing was held in store. Sebastian’s forearm was beginning to ache from deflecting the blows.

In a brief gap between them, Sebastian made a hard drive with his blade, forcing Lord Henry to retreat a few steps towards the garden door. “Revenge for what?”

The look of fury deepened. “You know full well!” A flurry of strikes rained down as Lord Henry pushed Sebastian in turn back towards a heavy rack of swords.

“I assure you, I don’t.” Sebastian feinted left, trying to win himself a little more maneuvering room. With a twist of his body, he reversed their positions. Lord Henry had his back to the mirrors now. “You’ll have to tell me what I’ve done.”