The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (44 page)

Where on earth was Victoire?

The Church of Saint Teresa was a church of the poor—rough-hewn benches for pews and a pine altar. Above the altar hung a panel painted with the death of Saint Teresa. Despite the crudeness of the artist’s talent—the work, no doubt, was by some local peasant who’d done it as an act of simple faith—it was vivid enough in its goriness, depicting Saint Teresa swooning as a seraph plunged a flaming golden spear into her heart.

He shuddered. Anglican churches were unsettling enough for his tastes.

Rows of candles ran along the altar, but they were extinguished now, no doubt for economy’s sake. The only light came from two tall braziers—perhaps six feet high, shallow metal bowls on narrow poles—which stood on either side of the chancel, giving off only the most ineffectual heat in the chill space, and along with that, a dull and rather eerie light. He supposed there was some stricture about light being necessary on the altar at all times. The braziers gave off the smell of cheap oil, and sputtered and smoked. It was enough for Sebastian’s purposes, though: enough to see Victoire if she approached.

At last, the tap of footsteps came from the narthex. Soft footsteps.

And a tall, slim, elegant female figure in a dark hooded cape stepped into the flickering light cast by the braziers.

She genuflected to the altar, then took a place on one of the benches, and knelt as if she were in genuine prayer.

Did she have a weapon with her? Did she have men waiting outside? He wished to God he’d been able to get a message to Will telling him where he’d gone.

Well, the numbers were never going to be more in his favor than now. He opened the door to the confessional, keeping his head angled down; he could still see Victoire in his peripheral vision, but she would not immediately see his face. He saw her startle, then settle. Did she assume he was a priest? Doubtful. She would be preparing for trouble. No point in giving her time, then.

He was beside her in three quick strides. Her hand plunged beneath her cloak, and withdrew again clutching a pistol. But he didn’t pause. He had no fear of dying, and combat was not Victoire’s strength.

A quick sideswipe of his arm knocked the weapon from her hand.

She flew at him then, fighting like a cougar, biting and slashing with her nails. But he didn’t care. She had no drugs to help her with him this time, to sap his strength. He locked his arms around her, making all her struggles futile, and withdrew a set of manacles from his pocket.

“Bastard,” she screeched. “How did you know to come here? How did you follow me?” She writhed, but could not get her hands free. He had to admit—it was a great pleasure to see her fettered at last.

“You’ve been betrayed, Victoire. By one of your own.” He wouldn’t tell her which. Let her see how that felt for once. Anyway, the more unsettled she felt, the more she might confess once he had her back at Rosa’s house, where no doubt Will would still be waiting.

He was dragging her back down the aisle of the church, towards the main doors, when they flew open, letting in a strange trio—two large men, one of them with a bloody gash on his temple, the other with a struggling bundle in his arms.

His blood thundered as he realized who that struggling bundle must be.

The bastards had Rachel.

At least the struggling meant she was still alive.

Victoire gave a laugh of triumph. “It seems your lady has joined us,” she hissed. “Checkmate, then, Hawkesbridge.”

Rachel managed to wriggle around to look in the direction of Victoire’s voice. Her cheek was bruised, her lip bleeding. He’d kill those men for that.

And then she saw him. And the look on her face went instantly from fear to relief. “Oh, thank God!” she said. “Sebastian! You’re alive!”

Despite everything, his heart soared. She didn’t hate him, after all. She didn’t wish him dead for his mistrust of her.

Almost instantly, though, his heart plunged again. If this was a chess match, he had to win it, and win it fast.

In a flash, he unsheathed the knife from his boot and held it to Victoire’s throat. “Put the lady down now,” he growled in French. “Or this lady—and I use the term loosely—dies first.”

“No! Hold her!” commanded Victoire, even as the blade of Sebastian’s knife came up harder against her neck.

The French thug lowered Rachel to the ground, but kept his beefy arm locked around her ribcage. Rachel stood stock still, pale with fright, but watching him, waiting for any sign of instruction.

He wished he knew what to tell her.
Be calm
, he thought, willing her to understand.
I will get you out of this. I will, somehow
.

Now the bleeding thug’s companion unsheathed a long, wicked-looking knife, and handed it to his partner.

The shining steel glinted at Rachel’s throat.

Cold fear sluiced through Sebastian’s chest. It was all happening again, just as in his nightmares. Not Sarah this time, but Rachel, in mortal danger. At the point of a blade. And he couldn’t get to her fast enough—couldn’t protect her.

“Let her go,” he rasped.

Victoire laughed. Actually laughed, despite the steel biting at her windpipe. “Hold her,” she commanded again, more fiercely, almost exultantly. “And if the English injures me, kill her. Slit the whore’s neck immediately.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you, Victoire,” he whispered into her ear. “I swear it. Without a moment’s hesitation. Tell your men to release her, or you die.”

“Ignore him,” she told her thugs, her voice remarkably confident and easy. “He won’t touch me, because he won’t risk her life.” She laughed again. “Poor sot. He loves her.”

“He doesn’t,” countered Rachel coolly.

“Oh, he does,” replied Victoire. “I hear it in his voice—how worried he is for you. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to slit my throat. But you pulled off a clever trick, Salom
é, by nearly dying. It seems it made him value you at last.
And now you can take that tender thought with you to the grave.” The teasing quality left her voice as she barked out a command to her thugs. “Bring her up to the transept. I have a carriage outside, and we can take them both back home with us. Make this last awhile.”

“Wait!” Rachel said. “You can’t risk that.” She spoke in English, in her true voice, dropping the French accent.

Victoire startled. “What did you say?”

“I said
wait
. You can’t risk that.”

Victoire’s body tensed now—she was clearly re-calculating everything she knew about Salom
é
Mirabeau. “You’re
English
.”

“Yes, English,” Rachel said. “You never figured that out, did you? And let me tell you something else you don’t know: you can’t kill us.”

“I assure you I can,” said Victoire, with real venom. ”I will.”

“No. Not if you have any brains at all. I have your book,” said Rachel bluntly. “Your encrypted book. I’ve broken that cipher, and I’ve written out instructions others can use to read it. Those things are hidden where you cannot find them, but English agents can. If Sebastian and I do not come home safe tonight, those people have instructions to send the materials to Whitehall immediately. France’s deepest secrets will be in the hands of the English within days.”

She was bluffing, of course. Except perhaps about knowing how to read the thing. She hadn’t had the notebook since Sebastian took it from her. She’d had no time to write out instructions. And he’d never told her how to get a message to Whitehall.

But Victoire didn’t know any of that. Victoire still thought she was talking to Sal.

A long, cold pause dragged out. Then Victoire shook her head. “I will take my chances. So long as the two of you are dead. New codes will be written—and without you, there will be no one to break them.”

Sebastian pressed his blade closer to her neck, but Victoire didn’t flinch. She had him—they both knew it. He did not dare kill her while a blade was held at Rachel’s throat.

And, from the lack of tension in Victoire’s body, he knew another terrible thing: Victoire did not care if she herself died. Her only goal was to kill Sal, kill him. And she would stop at nothing until she accomplished that.

He locked eyes with Rachel, letting her see in his face the truth of what Victoire had said—the part about him loving her. He prayed she understood the message. He could give her nothing else, perhaps. But at least he could give her that unshakeable, undeniable truth.

Rachel looked back at him softly for a long moment, and he saw her whole heart in her eyes.

And then her gaze sharpened again, showing the razor edge of intelligence. There was something else she wanted to communicate to him. Her eyes flicked infinitesimally towards one of the braziers standing near the altar. And then towards the other. What was she trying to tell him?

Her look turned to one almost of pleading.

Whatever it was, she wanted him to move them all closer to those braziers.

“All right,” he said to Victoire, trying to inject as much concession into his voice as possible. “We’ll come with you, so long as you do not hurt her here. We can talk about this. No one has to die.” He began to back slowly towards the transept as Victoire had ordered, not removing his knife from Victoire’s throat. “Or if you have to kill someone, take me.”

He hardly cared what he said; he just had to keep Victoire moving backwards towards the transept—and the nearest of those braziers. “Come on, then,” he told her thugs, in the sort of deep authoritative voice men of their ilk found difficult to disobey.

They began to edge forward, nudging Rachel step by step, that knife still hovering against her neck. He wished he knew what she was planning. He honestly had no idea how he was going to get her out of this alive.

Rachel caught his gaze again, sure and steady, and he knew they were moving just as she wished. Her lips moved slightly. The first time, he could not even hear the sound they were making, and then she repeated it. “
Caligo
,” she was whispering, her eyes flicking to the braziers. “
Fiat nox
.”

“What are you saying?” hissed Victoire.

Sebastian smiled at that. Victoire did not know Latin. And certainly neither did her thugs.
Darkness
, Rachel had said.
Let there be night
.

He understood now. She wanted him to take out the braziers. She wanted to fight this battle in the dark.

Trust her. He had to trust her.

He slowed his pace, letting the thug holding Rachel move closer to him. He wanted her at close range if things were going to move fast, with no one able to see.

He gripped Victoire’s manacles behind her back, kept the knife to her throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the altar, see the brazier farthest from him, and exactly where it was placed. The church might be poor, but the braziers had been set with care, at equal distances from the altar.

To create a distraction, he caught the eye of the thug holding Rachel and said in French, “Let’s bargain, my friend. I give you your lady, you give me mine.” He calculated the distance the man’s head rose above Rachel’s, the exact angle of the arm holding the knife.

“Don’t you dare agree to that!” snapped Victoire.

“Why not?” Sebastian coaxed, his gaze locked on the thug’s. “You know I’ll kill your mistress if my lady is hurt. Mademoiselle de Laurent may not care about her own life, but do you really think your masters will deal kindly with you if you return with her dead body tonight?”

The thug was wavering. Sebastian could see the edge of doubt in his eyes.

The man was tall enough that the top of Rachel’s head barely reached his shoulder. His throat was a possible target for the throw of a knife, if only Sebastian could distract him, and move fast enough himself. The plan was still only half-formed in his mind. Without light, could he do what he needed to do?

“Victoire is right,” Sebastian continued. “I do love Salomé. Give her to me, and I’ll see that you’re rewarded handsomely, more handsomely than Victoire could ever afford—”

“Don’t listen,” Victoire demanded. “He won’t reward you. He’ll see you rot in an English jail.” She began to fight against the manacles, despite the blade against her skin.

“Be wise, friend,” said Sebastian. “Let’s end this now.”

And with those words, he took the final necessary step to back into the first of the braziers. His boot heel caught it at the base and sent it crashing. He let himself flinch, pretending it had been an error, as half the already meager light in the room was snuffed.

The thug’s companion actually laughed at the clumsiness of it.

The one with the knife, fool that he was, was gazing with rather startled eyes in the direction of the echoing metal and had taken his focus off of Rachel, for a moment, one fatal moment.

All in one motion, Sebastian gave a great heave to Victoire’s manacles, sending her reeling into the other brazier, and flung the knife that had been at her throat straight at the thug’s.

Rachel, he saw just before the last of the light was snuffed, had the good sense to pull her own head as far as she could to the side.