Exhaling softly, Saybrook watched as the comte shifted his body into the ring of lamplight and set to work.
One step, two steps. The earl’s soft-soled shoes moved noiselessly over the smooth stone. The eagle was now perched on one of the wooden boxes, its burnished gold wings mirroring—
In a blur of motion, Rochemont snatched up his sword and flew around. Steel clashed against steel, the force of the blow sending Saybrook’s pistol arcing into the gloom.
“Poxy half-breed,” snarled the comte. He lunged again.
Hemmed in by the crates, Saybrook had little room to maneuver. Throwing up an arm to deflect the blade, he spun away and leaped over a low bench.
“I was warned to be wary of your military skills, yet it seems you are naught but a bumbling fool,” taunted Rochemont, brandishing the point of his weapon at the gash on the earl’s wrist.
“I’m a bloody fool,” agreed Saybrook, ignoring his wound. “I should have put a bullet in your verminous brain. But unlike you, I am not a cold-blooded murderer. I’ll allow justice to take its proper course.”
“Justice? Good God, what a quaint notion!” The blade slashed, but cut only air.
“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” said the earl.
“Oh, never fear. I’ll gut you like a pig, and though I would like to prolong the pleasure, I will have to make it fast.”
“So you can murder Talleyrand and Wellington?”
Surprise spasmed across Rochemont’s face. “How did you—”
The distraction was just for an instant, but Saybrook seized his chance and ducked under the broadsword and dove for a gap in the crates. A twist and a roll brought him within arm’s reach of the other swords. Bouncing to his feet, he hefted the ruby-colored weapon. “Ah, red. How apt, don’t you think? Seeing as your blood will soon be spilled unless you surrender now.”
“Never!” said Rochemont. “I’ve trained for years with Lavalle, the best fencing master in England! I’ll slice you into mincemeat.” Despite the show of bravado, he looked a little shaky as he slid into a sidestep. Sweat began to bead on his brow.
“Trust me, a fencing parlor is not the same as a field of battle,” said Saybrook. “And a broadsword is far heavier than a foil.” He cut a few practice swipes with the long blade and flashed a small smile. “Indeed, it’s much closer in weight to a cavalry saber.”
Flickering patterns of light and dark danced across the comte’s face.
Saybrook edged forward, a quick flick slicing off a section of Rochemont’s fancy sleeve. “Come, shall we test our skills?”
The sweat had turned from beads to rivulets—tiny snakes of moisture glistening against the comte’s pale skin. He reversed his lead foot and with a quick feint tried to slide his blade up under Saybrook’s guard.
A flick of steel parried the thrust. “Not bad,” murmured the earl. “But you will have to do far better.”
The next lunge was just as easily deflected. As was the following flurry of slashes.
“I never did like the combinations that Lavalle teaches to his students. Unless one executes them perfectly, they leave one vulnerable to a croisé,” said Saybrook calmly, his blade forcing Rochemont’s sword high before darting a quick jab that drew blood on the comte’s shoulder.
Rochemont staggered back, his breath now coming in ragged rasps. He tried a passata-sotto, an evasive move designed to duck under an opponent’s blade, but the earl saw it coming and countered with another thrust, this one scoring a gash along the comte’s cheek.
His bravado suddenly crumpling, like a Montgolfier balloon whose silk had suffered a lethal puncture, Rochemont let out a shriek and scrabbled sideways, swinging his sword in a flailing arc. He cast a wild look at the glass vial, which was standing serenely on its box, untouched by the violence.
“Oh, you may forget about the acid,” said Saybrook pleasantly. “I’m not going to let you near it. And even if I did, your clever little bomb has been disarmed.”
Panic turned Rochemont’s face a ghastly shade of pale green. “It—it wasn’t my idea.” He swallowed hard, his arrogance dissolving into a sputtering of fear. “I . . . was forced against my will to cooperate. They have one of my family held hostage in France.”
“Who is ‘they’?” asked Saybrook, drawing a touch closer.
“Lord R-Reginald Sommers is my superior,” replied the comte.
“Is he Renard?”
“I—don’t know,” said Rochemont. “Truly!” he added, seeing the earl’s brows wing up in skepticism. “Renard has never revealed his identity.”
“Then tell me what things you do know,” demanded Saybrook. “This assassination is meant to make it easier for Napoleon to return to France?”
Rochemont wet his lips. “Yes.”
“Who else is working with you here?”
The comte rattled off the names of a Saxon margrave and a Russian officer on Tsar Alexander’s staff.
Saybrook pressed on. “How do you contact Renard in London?”
Rochemont stumbled against a stack of supplies as he retreated, knocking a box to the floor. “I—”
“Monsieur le Comte?” Yielding to a fisted rap, the door sprung open. “Is anything amiss? We heard strange noises—”
“Seize this madman!” screamed Rochemont, pointing at the earl. “He’s trying to murder the guests of honor!”
The two Imperial Guards recoiled in confusion as the comte shoved past them and took off down the corridor at a dead run.
Saybrook vaulted a stack of crates.
“Halt!” Recovering their composure, the burly guards moved to block his path.
“Out of my way.” The martial note of command was unmistakable.
One of the guards drew his rapier. “Sir, I must ask you to—”
The earl’s blade slapped aside the sword point. “Fetch reinforcements,” he shouted. “Then follow me in pursuit of the real villain.”
Somewhere off to her right, Arianna heard a clatter of commotion. The pelter of running steps, a rumbled shout.
Sandro.
She plunged into a narrow passageway, the darkness forcing her to go slowly. Slowly, damnably slowly. In contrast to the soaring, stately spaces for the equestrian performances, this part of the stables was a maddening maze of stalls and cluttered storage areas.
Holding her frustration in check, Arianna paused to peer around the next turn. An archway loomed up ahead, its opening framing a set of iron-banded double doors, large enough for a horse and rider to pass through. Creeping closer, she saw that they led out to the side courtyard of the Riding School. And from there to the city park beyond its gates, she thought, recalling Saybrook’s map of the area.
Sheltered by the shadows of the arched stone, Arianna halted again to get her bearings. Which way to turn? The shouts had died away, leaving her uncertain of what to do next. Retreat and return home?
But before she could make up her mind, Rochemont came racing into view, legs churning as if the Hounds of Hell were in hot pursuit.
Bang. Bang. Slamming his shoulder into the paneled doors, the comte yanked at the latch, but the bolt wouldn’t budge. Spotting a large wrought iron key hanging from the decorative molding, he reached up to snatch it down from the bracket. Escape—escape was at his fingertips.
I hope that Alexander was not exaggerating about the deadly accuracy of his prized pistols. Drawing a steadying breath, Arianna took deliberate aim and squeezed off a shot.
Bang.
He wasn’t. Through the skirl of blue-gray smoke, Arianna saw the key explode in a whirl of spinning shards.