A quiet conversation in French had been going on between the two of them, but they stopped when I entered, two dark heads turning to look at me, one with his sleek smugness only slightly ruffled, the other tan-skinned, gray-eyed, still bloody, and not a little wild. He was calm, I saw, but fighting his temper; I knew that set of jaw and the stony quality of his eyes. I wondered what sort of infuriating things Henri had been saying to him, but mostly I thought that the person Lane actually needed to be having a conversation with was me. I had no notion how he fit into what was happening here at all.
Lane stood and came across the littered floor to meet me, as if he did not want me near the man in the chair. I opened my hand and showed him the empty green bottle in my palm.
“They will have given him this,” I said, ignoring the feel of Henri’s eyes watching us. “If they got it all down him, then we have five, perhaps six hours. Last time he … he did not wake well.”
Lane took the bottle, rolling it in his fingers. “This is how you got him here?” I nodded, and he turned his body just a bit, partially blocking the view of the man tied to the chair. “Is Mr. Tully all right? Has he been … well?”
“Well enough,” I replied. We both knew Uncle Tully was not well now. “What are we going to do?”
Lane put a hand on the back of my head, kissing me once on the forehead before he went back to Henri, sliding easily into his backward position on the chair. I met Henri’s dark eyes and the impertinent smile playing about his mouth, and suddenly had a very good idea of the sort of thing he’d been saying to Lane. That peck on my forehead had been about more than affection, and we were all aware of it.
“Tell me what you know about Ben Aldridge,” Lane said to him. We were speaking English now, I noted.
“If you are meaning Arceneaux, you should be asking that question of her, my friend,” Henri replied, eyes still on me.
I saw Jean-Baptiste’s knife slow as he watched the proceedings intently, waiting for the word to intervene. Though a brew of anger and betrayal simmered just beneath my rib cage, I was also silently willing Henri to stop being an idiot.
“Or perhaps you have not had much time for talking,” Henri continued, smiling at me. “That blood on your face is not your own, is it, chérie?”
My hand jumped to my cheek. Of course I had Lane’s blood on my face, which would explain the way Joseph had stared, and Mary’s offer of a handkerchief. And since when had Henri ever called me his “darling”? I dropped my hand and lifted my chin. Henri probably deserved whatever he got.
But Lane only said, “I will ask you again.”
He had not even changed his position in the chair, yet there was something behind his words, something that riveted the attention. From the corner of my eye, I watched Joseph straighten and Jean-Baptiste’s knife go still. There wasn’t a man in this room that was not going to do exactly as Lane said when he spoke like that, including Henri, I realized, and the revelation startled me.
Henri shrugged against the ropes. “I was told to find out about his background, to mingle in his society. But he was a man favored by the emperor, high in the imperial circle. …”
“Then you knew him,” I said, “before the ball.” This hurt me. I could not help it. “And Mr. Babcock? Did you know about that, too?”
Lane looked back at me. “Is Mr. Babcock here?” Before Henri could respond or I could think how to answer, Joseph started speaking rapidly in French. Joseph almost never spoke in English, but it was good to remember that he understood his share of it. I watched Lane’s face darken and, when Joseph had finished, Lane said, “I’m sorry, Katharine.”
I took a breath against the pang in my chest and looked back to Henri. “Did you know? Is that why you took me to the morgue?”
Lane’s gray eyes slid between us, but Henri was looking directly at me. “I swear to you I did not. And I did not intend to lose sight at the ball. On the grave of my mother.”
“And what did you intend?” asked Lane.
Henri grinned. “Why, to find you, of course. Wickersham said she would lead me to you if she could and so she did, though the lady is not the talker. But I am guessing you know this. You should take her dancing more, mon ami.”
I held my breath as Jean-Baptiste watched Lane, waiting for a sign. Nothing came. But I had seen the muscles in Lane’s back tightening. I came to stand just behind him. When the low voice spoke again, it was dangerously quiet.
“And what did you find about Ben Aldridge?”
“Nothing at all since my assignment was changed.” Henri’s eyes went sly. “Since Wickersham asked me to find the traitor who had left our ranks.”
By “traitor” he meant Lane, and then my own temper was igniting. “That is quite a word coming from you, Mr. Marchand.” I nearly spat the words. “Remind me what country you were born in again?”
“I am no traitor to France,” he replied, once again serious. “I do not betray France if I wish to see the emperor overthrown.”
“You favor the royal line, then?” Lane said.
Henri lifted a shoulder. “I would see a king in France.”
“So you help those that are the enemies of France?”
“I aid the enemies of Napoléon,” he corrected.
Lane smiled. “I sympathize. But you are not helping the enemies of Napoléon.”
“Allies or not, England will see the emperor overthrown,” Henri said. “She must.”
“England may. But Wickersham will not.”
Again Lane had not moved, or significantly changed his voice, but somehow the entire room had fixed its attention.
“Let me explain,” he said. “When you have information you are to write to Wickersham’s secretary, Mr. Johnson at the British Embassy, in English, with a particular wording that tells Wickersham when and at which of your chosen places you are to meet. Am I right?”
Henri remained silent.
“I know I am right,” he continued, “because those were the instructions I followed for over a year. Until the day I arranged my meeting, and Wickersham didn’t come. My information could not wait. It was so important, in fact, that I boxed up a silver service and took it to the embassy, said it was to be an imperial gift, that the order was late and that I’d been instructed to put it directly into Mr. Wickersham’s hands. In short, I made such a nuisance of myself that they showed me to Wickersham’s office. Only the office didn’t belong to Wickersham.” Lane spoke directly into Henri’s gaze. “It was Ambassador Cowley’s office. Wickersham was his secretary, unexpectedly sent to London for a few days. And the man Johnson, our contact? Always taking down Wickersham’s notes? Wickersham’s valet.”
He paused, letting the words sink in. I shook my head in confusion, and he reached up to find one of my hands, absently rubbing a thumb across the back of it. Henri stared.
“It explained a good deal,” Lane said. “Like why we were not allowed to take Ben Aldridge, only watch, even when I told Wickersham what he was buying and what I was sure he was building. And why the British government didn’t just come and take Mr. Tully in the first place. And why, the very next day after Wickersham returned from London, I began an annoying routine of having bullets whizz past my ears.”
I tightened my grip on Lane’s hand.
“My trip to the embassy was unappreciated. A new residence seemed wise. And why would that be, do you think, if all of these doings had the blessing of the ambassador? Wickersham is making a play for power, or position, or both. Or he’s working for someone else. Russia, maybe … Who knows who he’s dealing with, or who he might be double-dealing with? Anyone who wants the weapon for themselves or wants to keep someone else from getting it. I found Wickersham’s rooms. I searched them, and Johnson’s. I even watched him meet with you. …”