The Shadow of Albion (15 page)

about that movement that set all Sarah’s hunters instincts a-tingle.

It took her only moments to make her way from the house unobserved and to

reach the garden. The garden was another thing she did not seem to remember –

almost automatically Sarah rubbed her head – but the architect’s drawings had been

hung upon the wall in one of the salons and Sarah had studied them, fascinated, for

several minutes as she waited to go in to dinner. She ran quickly down the bank of

lawn and across the apron of white stones, trying to hold in her mind the place in the

garden where she’d spotted the stealthy movement.

Where was Wessex? Sarah felt unreasonably enough that this was his assassin, so

he ought to be here to deal with it. As a party of revelers passed her – a tall redhead,

a blonde woman in a costume that could charitably be described as exiguous, and a

black-haired man with turquoise eyes dressed as a brighter buccaneer – Sarah shrank

back into the shadows, congratulating herself on the fact that her costume was not all

gold gauze and tinsel ribbons. It might look foolish, but it made it easy enough to

blend into the shadows, especially in the dark. As soon as the threesome had passed

around the corner – the lady apparently being possessed of a strong desire to see the

ornamental water, and the gentlemen being nothing loathe to indulge her – Sarah

continued on her way. She was just opposite the first-floor balcony that let out from

the smokers’ room when she heard a small noise behind her – the unmistakable

sound of a trigger being cocked.

It had taken Wessex several hours to satisfy himself that the danger, whenever it

came, would not come from within Mooncoign. Fortunately Saint-Lazarre had been

a hunted man for many years – the price on his head was the. staggering sum of ten

thousand gold napoleons – and knew better than to parade himself as a tempting

target for opportunistic would-be patriots. He had taken care to keep himself in the

midst of crowds all evening, leaving Wessex free to spend his own energies on

searching for the killer.

It was close to midnight: the full moon burned at mid-heaven, turning the sky from

black to deepest blue and bathing the whole garden in misleading silvery light For the

thousandth time, Wessex pondered the possibility that deMorrissey’s information

might have been wrong: mistaken, or planted in such a way that deMorrissey had

become an unwitting dupe. But where was the profit in that? Talleyrand already knew

he had opponents in the Shadow Game; why expend such effort to neutralize one of

King Henry’s secret agents, especially when Talleyrand did not know which would

be sent? No, it was simpler to believe that deMorrissey’s warning was the

unvarnished truth.

Now all Wessex had to do was find the man who had come to kill Saint-Lazarre.

Wessex stood upon the terrace that ran the length of the central wing of the great

house. Saint-Lazarre was in one of the rooms behind him; Wessex wished he’d had

enough forenotice to be able to garb himself in a costume that matched

Saint-Lazarre’s, men shook his head regretfully. There was no use brooding over the

impossible. Better to concentrate on the job at hand: Talleyrand’s political killer.

The ballroom was on the floor above, and through its open windows Wessex

could hear the playing of the orchestra. The curtains fluttered constantly in the

uprush of escaping heat, making the light that poured out over the garden flicker as if

Mooncoign were burning. A scrap of woman’s laughter drifted up to him, some

happy reveler braving the heavy April dews in search of pleasure. He hoped that

Koscuisko didn’t trip over her. Wessex’s partner was out there somewhere with a

brace of pistols, a saber, and an ingenious line of blarney. And the Polish Hussar

was Wessex’s only backup. Foolish to attempt to protect a target with only two

men, but at least they had the advantage of knowing where the assassin must go.

As he stared out over me garden, Wessex saw a flash of movement among the

ornamental box-hedges. Someone was out there, sorneone who was moving much

too fast and deliberately to be one of the party-goers. Without a moment’s thought,

Wessex tossed his Roman helmet aside and flung himself down the steps in hot

pursuit His long cloak fluttered behind him like the wings of a giant bat for a few

„moments before it caught upon some projection and tore free with a wrench.

The grass beneath his feet was slippery with damp, and Wessex gave swift thanks

that his costume had allowed him to wear his riding boots. The convolutions of the

ornamental plantings confounded him; Wessex turned the corner and found a dead

end.

When he went to retrace his steps, the flitting figure was no longer in sight, but he

had seen which way it had gone. Stepping carefully through the flower-beds – lest

the crunch of his boots upon the gravel walk betray him – Wessex began stalking his

quarry. As he moved, he began the process of extracting his pistol from its

concealment behind his breastplate.

Firearms were chancy things; though Wessex would carry a cocked and charged

pistol as readily as he would carry a lighted bombarde, he’d had little choice this

evening but to charge his pistols before he dressed. The clicking sound as he eased

the hammer back was loud in his ears. If the hammer fell now the pistol would

discharge, sending a round lead ball the size of a cherry through the nearest solid

surface with potentially lethal results.

He could see a figure up ahead, standing motionless in the moonlight It was with a

small pang that he recognized her.

Sarah, Marchioness of Roxbury.

Her memories might be temporarily mislaid, but with heart and bone and sinew

Sarah Cunningham knew the deadly sound of a rifle being cocked. She froze where

she was.

"A moment more, mam’selle, to stand where you are, and I will bodder you no

more, me.“ His voice held an unfamiliar accent, as unlike Saint-Lazarre’s cultured

French as black bread was unlike macaroons.

Sarah looked up toward the terrace, and to her horror saw Saint-Lazarre standing

in the doorway of the smoking room, framed in the candlelight. The ice-blue satin of

his costume made him a perfect target in the moonlight. In a moment he would step

out onto the terrace with his companions, and the assassin would fire.

„Please don’t do this,“ Sarah said desperately. Where was Wessex?

„Do no’ worry, mam’selle,“ the assassin said. „It is no’ your jewels nor your

virtue dat I seek. One moment, and I shall be gone from your life, eh?“

„You cannot kill an innocent man,“ Sarah said. The conversation was beginning

to seem slightly surreal to her. Of course the assassin could kill Saint-Lazarre.

Innocent men died every day.

„But I mus’,“ the assassin said simply. „I ‘ave been paid. But I mus’ also ask

myself, how is it dat you know so much of my business, eh?“

Saint-Lazarre hesitated in the doorway, still in shadow. It was not a clear shot, but

perhaps the assassin wouldn’t mind. There was a step on the gravel, and Sarah felt a

hand upon her shoulder.

„Per’aps I mus’ ask you to tell me.“

Sarah turned to face him.

The assassin was a raffish, unshaven, disreputable-looking man in a moleskin

coat, his uncombed chestnut hair falling into his eyes, but in one hand he held a

gleaming Baker rifle by its black-oiled barrel. The Baker was the darling of the

Riflemen and the terror of their enemies; though just as temperamental as Brown

Bess herself, the Baker was accurate at more than three times the standard-issue

Army musket’s range. If the man knew how to use it, there was no possibility he

could miss his shot „You an’ Gambit, ma chen belle, we mus’ ‘ave words.“

Smiling, the assassin laid the barrel of his gun upon her shoulder, staring into

Sarah’s eyes. In a moment he would fire. Sarah gathered herself to stop him.

But something else stopped him first „I daresay that I am not in your league, but I

can shoot the pips out of a playing card at ten yards with one of these, and you are a

deal closer,“ Wessex drawled. Ho speech was accompanied by the unmistakable

sound of a pistol-cock.

Even at that moment, the rifleman tried to make his shot There was a devastating

percussion beside Sarah’s head, but the assassin had not had time to aim and the

hall went wild. She grabbed for the rifle, staggering backward when it came easily

into her hands. An expert could make the Baker fire three rounds a minute, but the

assassin had not had the chance to reload and the rifle was now useless to him.

Sarah staggered under the gun’s awkward length as Wessex dashed past her, a

fantastic figure in crimson and tinsel, following the assassin. She darted a glance up

toward the terrace; it was filled with revelers, all now pointing down into the garden

and shouting.

Sarah flung the rifle down and ran.

The only consolation was that Koscuisko must have heard the shot Wessex did

not know whether Saint-Lazarre had been injured; the killer – Wessex had heard him

name himself Gambit- – had not had time to aim, but Wessex had seen musket-balls

do freakish things in his time. Taking Gambit alive would be what paid for all.

In minutes they had passed beyond the compass of the formal garden and its

torches and into the darkness beyond, and still Gambit ran, though he must know

now that his capture was inevitable. Roxbury would raise the hue and cry – the local

Justice of the Peace was probably her guest tonight – and the whole county would

be out, foot and horse, searching for him. Gambit could not escape.

Unless he had allies in the area willing to hide him.

Wessex was beginning to flag, and Gambit ran on toward the trees, fleet as a

deer, though the distance between them had closed. Wessex still held his pistol in his

hand, though by now all the powder had probably shaken from the pan. He might as

well be carrying a club.

A club.

Wessex stopped. Gambit began to pull away from him. Wessex tossed the pistol

in his hand up into the air, grabbed it by the barrel, and threw it like a belaying pin.

The pistol struck the fleeing assassin between the shoulders, knocking him to his

knees.

As he pulled himself to his feet, scrabbling in his domes for a knife, an apparition

on horseback appeared out of the shadow of an enormous oak. It was towering –

monstrous, with a misshapen form and vast arcing wings that rasped against an

overhanging branch with a sound like skeletal fingers. Gambit screamed.

Illya Koscuisko regarded him with bright interest, his saber drawn and pointing at

the assassin’s throat.

„Where the devil were you?“ Wessex gasped in exasperation. He dropped to his

knees, panting. The ridiculous breastplate and kilt of his centurion costume galled

him everywhere.

„Finding his horse,“ Koscuisko said. His gaze wavered from the man at his

horse’s feet. „And we have company!“ he added gaily.

Wessex staggered to his feet and turned to confront Sarah, who had been running

with her skirts rucked up well past her knees but – seeing the horseman – had

allowed them to drop to a slightly more respectable altitude. Her costume had fared

as badly as Wessex’s had; her high headdress of plumes and pearls had come

askew, shedding its feathers and she’d lost one supper, her fan, and her stole.

„What are you doing here?“ Wessex demanded. „I live here!“ Sarah retorted

ungraciously. „And this man tried to shoot one of my guests!“

„I say we leave him to her,“ Koscuisko suggested. Wessex’s mouth quirked. The

situation was already preposterous, and the chit’s absurd indignation only made

things more laughable. He glanced at Gambit He, at least, seemed to take the

Marchioness’s flash of temper seriously.

„Perhaps we should,“ Wessex said, matching Koscuisko’s tone. „I dare say we

can find a rope here about I somewhere, and find a magistrate who will put the seal

of! approval upon the thing.“

„Oh, now, Captain, you nevair do dat to Gambit,“ Gambit said coaxingly.

Wessex’s eyes narrowed. In some circles he was known as Captain Dyer; was

Gambit’s use of the title pure chance – or had he been the true target of this trap all!

along?

„Who are you?“ Sarah demanded, staring up at the fantastically garbed figure on

horseback. Koscuisko doffed his shako and bowed low over his horse’s withers, his

braids swinging forward at the gesture, for all the world as if he were in a Piccadilly

drawing-room.

„Illya Koscuisko, ma’am, and very much at your service.“ He smiled engagingly,