The Lion's Daughter (52 page)

Even
while telling herself she hadn't time for idle curiosity, she was
removing the scrap and smoothing it out. Then she stared at the four
lines in bafflement.

It
wasn't possible, she told herself. Even if it was possible, it made
no sense.

She
looked up and listened. The house was still as a crypt, and she'd
need only a minute or two to learn if she'd guessed correctly.

Moving
to the desk, she found a pen and paper, and quickly began replacing
the letters with their counterparts, as Jason had shown her years
ago. The code had been one of his games to make her Latin lessons
more interesting. In his own boyhood, he'd learned the game from his
tutor.

This
was the same game, she saw, for the letters did form a few words of
ungrammatical Latin:

Navis
oneraria

Regina
media nox

Novus November Prevesa

Tëli
incendere M

Merchant
ship. Queen
...
midnight. New November
...
but
'Prevesa'
wasn't Latin. It was a port in
southern Albania.
Tëli
were javelins, darts, or just
offensive weapons of some sort.
Incendere
was 'to burn, to fire.' Burn a
thousand weapons? She clicked her tongue impatiently. Then something
clicked her mind. In Corfu, she'd heard that in late October or early
November British authorities had captured several ships en rou
te
to Albania. Ships bearing stolen
British weapons. This was the conspiracy Percival had told her about.
Ismal'
s
conspiracy.
The last line referred to firing weapons, like rifle
s
or cannon. A thousand of them.

But
Ismal
couldn't have obtained
weapons on his own, not so many. He'd had help. Esme had only to
glance about the desk, strewn with samples of Sir Gerald's
handwriting, to realize who the helper was.
There
's a
stench
about Gerald since he come back.
Had
the dowager known? Perhaps.
Perhaps not. But Percival must know.

Esme
stuffed the message back into its
hiding place, skrewed the queen back together, and wrapped it up with
the other pieces. She'd have plenty of time to solve the remaining
riddles on the way home.

She
held to the candle the paper on which she'd decoded the message and
tossed the burning sheet in the empty grate. When nothing remained
but ashes, she put out the candle and left the room.

ISMAL
FROWNED WHEN the light in the study window went out. “He
signals trouble, yet there should be none. Every other room is dark.”
“Perhaps it's a trick,” Risto answered.

“He
can't be fool enough to try to betray me now. Stay here and keep
watch. I'll speak to Mehmet.” Ismal slipped out of the garden
and into the street. Moments later, he found Mehmet at his post near
the servants' entrance.

“Ah,
master, you answer my prayers,” Mehmet whispered. “You
told me to remain, yet
—”
“What's
wrong?”

Mehmet
gestured upwards. “Her window was dark. Then, some while ago,
there was light for a brief time. Then darkness again.”

“No
light elsewhere?”

“None.
The servants scarcely waited for the family to retire. I looked in,
right after I saw the light in her window. Several never reached
their beds. Two lie upon the floor in the dining hall, and one sits
with his head upon die table. Another lies curled like a babe upon
the rug by his bed.” Mehmet chuckled softly.

“Yet
something is amiss.” Ismal gazed at Esme's bedroom window. “She
was listening at the study window earlier. I wonder what she heard.”

Mehmet
shrugged. “The servants will be helpless for hours. No
strangers have entered. That leaves only one fearful man, an old
woman, a boy, and the little warrior. Even if the four of them set
upon us at once, the battle would be amusing, that's all.” He
looked at Ismal. “You'd like to do battle with her, perhaps.”

“Tsk.
Even to look at her window
...”
Ismal tore his gaze away. “Best
I keep far from her. She makes me stupid.”

“We
might steal her easily and be gone from England long before the
others wake.”

“Nay.
I'll not risk everything for a female. Not a second time. She
—”
Breaking off, he waved Mehmet
back and flattened himself against the wall of the house.

A
moment later, they heard the click of the door handle. The door
opened, and a small figure stepped into the shadows. Esme, curse her
...
with
a leather pouch slung over her shoulder. Clothes only
...
or the chess set? There was but
one way to find out. He waited until she pulled the door closed.
Then, drawing his pistol, Ismal leapt.

IT
WAS ONLY a nightmare, Percival assured himself. That huge ugly man
had not bashed out his eyes with an immense stone in the shape of a
chess piece.

All
the same, Percival's eyes would not open. Slowly he lifted his hand,
which seemed to be made of lead, and tried to
^]
find an eye. After some
searching, he located one and pried the lids apart.

Dark
as the room was, it seemed to be moving. He'd rather

not
see that. He let his hand drop to the bed and tried to make his
sluggish brain think. He found it only wanted to think about how
horribly sick he was. It wanted to think about vom-iting. Thiat would
be fine, except it was too much work. His throat felt as though
someone had left a torch burning in it. Dragging his hand up again,
he flung it at the bedstand. Water. It was there somewhere. But he
couldn't reach it. He dragged himself closer to the edge of the
mattress and tried again. This time, his leaden hand knocked the
pitcher over. Water dribbled onto his face. He tried to lick at it,
but his tongue refused to budge. He groaned. He wanted to be very,
very still and go back to sleep, but the nightmare was waiting for
him. And there was something impor
tant
he had to do. Inching down from
the pillow, he flung a leg over the edge of the mattress. Then
another leg. Then he was falling, sinking, a very long way. He landed
on something hard. The floor. Immediately, he felt hideously sick. He
clawed under the bed, pulled out the chamber pot, and vomited. His
body did not feel much better after the exercise, but the fog in his
brain cleared somewhat.

Perci
val
lay on his side, his cheek
against the cool floor, and tried to think. He'd got drunk once
before, when one of his schoolmates had stolen several bottles of
port from Mr. Saper's secret hoard. The physical sensations had been
altogether different.

If
he was not drunk, he might very well be ill. His brain suggested that
someone had made him ill. It offered two choices: he'd been (a)
drugged or (b) poisoned. Which confirmed his suspicions. Only at the
moment, he couldn't remember what his suspicions were, exactly.

The
effor
t
to
remember triggered another wave of nausea, and Percival had a second
discussion with the chamber pot.

His
brain gave signs of approval. It offered to cooperate. It reminded
him of Mrs. Stockwell-Hume's letter, which he'd found crumpled in the
empty grate of Mount Eden's library. It reminded him of the nasty
feeling he'd had in the garden that someone was watching him. There
was probably more, but this was enough to help Percival recall that
he'd decided to do something. This very night, before It happened. He
didn't know what It was, exactly. Only that It seemed to be happening
already. He had to stop It.

He
tried to get up, but couldn't. The effort led him back to the chamber
pot. After this, his brain cleared sufficiently to suggest that, if a
fellow couldn't walk, he might very well crawl. Then it warned him
not to tumble down the stairs.

VARIAN
TETHERED HIS weary horse to the lamppost and took the shabby
carpetbag from the saddlebag. He didn't expect to be invited to spend
the night. He doubted he'd be let in at all. Though it wasn't yet
midnight, the Brentmor townhouse was dark. Still, the streets were
filled with carriages hastening from one festivity to the next, and
there were always loiterers about, not to mention idle bucks looking
for mischief. The nag they might have with his lordship's blessing.
The carpetbag, however, contained his pistols, and he'd not be able
to afford another pair of Manton's finest in the near future.

Glancing
up at the gloomy house, Varian wished he'd not come so late. He
wished he'd possessed the will not to come at all. Wed or not, Esme
wasn't even nineteen. She ought to experience all the gaiety of the
London Season, just as any other young English lady might. He
couldn't give her the treat. He couldn't even appear in public with
her. He looked like a ragpicker.

He
still wasn't altogether certain why he had come. He'd watched Esme
leave Mount Eden, watched the carriage rattle down the weedy drive,
then re-entered his house
...
to find it haunted. He had taken
up task after task, only to find he couldn't keep himself fixed to
anything. A thought would come to him, and he'd look up to tell her
or pause, about to call her
...
then remember she wasn't there.
He'd done it a score of times, and each time the realization was a
shock. He'd not experienced anything like it since the time after his
mother's death. More than a year had passed before he gave up looking
for her.

He
was no boy of sixteen, Varian had chided himself. Esme was not his
mother and not dead, gone forever. She was only a few hours away in
London, where she'd have a wonderful time, because they'd all fall in
love with her. She'd flirt, as he'd taught her last night.

Then
he'd wondered whether teaching her had been a mistake. He wouldn't be
by to warn off the rogues and rakes, and she was so inexperienced. It
was ridiculously easy to take ad-vantage of a lonely young bride.
Varian had done it himself, more than once. If his own wife betrayed
him, it would be a fitting punishment.

Yet
now he suspected it wasn't betrayal he reared, and it wasn't
altogether jealousy that had driven him to London in the middle of
the night. It was loneliness, and the cold bleakness of looking for
her and realizing she was gone, and feeling she was somehow lost to
him forever.

As
he climbed the townhouse steps, he told himself his imagination had
grown altogether gothic. He'd simply worked himself into a state,
because he was abominably selfish. He didn't want Esme anywhere but
with him. Now he'd wake them all up, and he'd no excuse that wouldn't
make him look an utter fool. Cursing himself, he dashed the knocker
against the door, waited what seemed an eternity, then did it again.
After he'd repeated the action several times, his self-disgust
quickened disquiet. Someone should have heard him by now. At the
country house, a porter's chair stood by the door, The lower servants
took turns spending the night there, so that the family might be
quickly roused if a neighbor reported any sort of emergency or
danger. A sleepy, shivering footboy had been there to open the door
for Varian the morning he'd left, Someone should have been at this
door, or at least within hearing range. Suppose a riot broke out
nearby? Suppose the house took fire? London being far more dangerous
than the country, servants should be doubly vigilant. Varian
hurried down the steps and turned
into the passageway separating the Brentmor townhouse from its
neighbor. Near the back was what must be the trademen's entrance.
Varian pounded on the door. No response. He tried the handle. The
door opened, and a chill shot down his spine.

SIR
GERALD STOOD by his window, scowling into the dark garden. The clock
had just tolled midnight, and the drunken fool had at last left off
pounding at the door. For a few ghastly moments, the baronet had
thought it was the constable, but that was only foolish panic. Ismal
wouldn't have alerted the authorities until he had obtained what he'd
come for, and he needed some help from Sir Gerald for that.

He
should have been here by now, Sir Gerald fretted. Would have been,
but for the curst drunkard at the door. Still, it wouldn't be long
now, and the whole business would be over quickly.

His
desperate gamble with his mother had paid off. Five hundred in coin
and bank drafts totalling a thousand she'd paid to keep him quiet.
While this wasn't nearly enough, it was more than Sir Gerald could
have hoped for several hours ago. That, and the bit he'd got from the
last visit to the pawnshop, would get him to the Continent and set
him up adequately. Once he was safe abroad, he'd easily contrive ways
to get more.