Lord of Fire (29 page)

“Just . . . don’t ask. Not about the Grotto or the armed guards or . . . anything.”

“But why?” she exclaimed, surprised that he had guessed exactly the subjects that worried her.

“Because I don’t want to have to tell you any lies,” he said.

She stared at him. He veiled his gaze coolly.

“Trust me,” he whispered.

“Just . . . trust you? That’s all you have to say?”

Again, close-mouthed, he nodded.

“I’m not sure that I can do that.”

“Then run away,
Alice,” he snapped, his expression darkening in an instant. “It’s your choice. I’ve told you how I feel.” He rolled her off his lap onto the chair, rose, and stalked toward the door.

“Lucien!”

He pivoted, turning in silhouette. The firelight flickered over his tall, proud frame. “The fact is sometimes people have commitments in this world that are larger than a little girl from Hampshire can understand.”

“Oh, so you think I’m stupid?” she retorted, jumping to her feet.

“Not stupid, naive. Sheltered. I like you that way. I don’t want to fight with you, Alice. In my eyes, you are—” He cast about for words. “—an angel, a goddess. But these matters have nothing to do with you, nor can they. If you want to be with me, that is my only rule. Respect my privacy.”

“Privacy or secrecy?”

“Call it what you will. Can you live with that—at least for a week? Can you try?”

She folded her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him.

He heaved a sigh and looked at the wall. “Well, think it over. I’m going in to dinner. Will you join me?”

When she did not answer, only staring at him in reproach, he turned around and strode out.

She huffed to herself when he had gone. Little girl from Hampshire! Don’t ask questions? He had brushed her off as though she were a child, but still, fool that she was, she had no desire to leave him. She wanted him. His keeping her here had been outrageous, but somehow, over the course of the day, she had come to view it as a delicious opportunity. She thought of Harry, sick with the chicken pox, and felt a flash of guilt, but he had his mama and Peg. Besides, what
Alice had said to Lucien was true—she was alone, essentially. She had her suitors, but they did not know her and were all so self-absorbed or dull-witted that they did not even
realize
they didn’t know her. They were safe choices, but they did not not make her blood burn with passion. Lucien Knight did. Perhaps in time he would trust her enough to tell her his secrets.

She stood there pondering the dilemma for a few minutes more when her stomach rumbled, rousing her to action. She started toward the dining room, but her mulling glance happened upon the chess table as she walked past it. The board had been left untouched from the previous morning when Lucien had sprung his trap on her and Caro.
Alice’s gaze homed in on the little carved horse head of the black knight, with which Lucien had trounced the white queen.

A sly smile curved her lips as she noticed he had left himself wide open. If only he were there to see it! She picked up an unassuming white pawn and skipped it gently over the black knight. He was right, she thought with a renewed strength and calm; she was sheltered. But her tranquil country life at
Glenwood
Park
had taught her one virtue above all others: patience.

Through patience, her mother always used to say, any battle could be won. Even today, the dear old man, Mr. Whitby, had warned her that, with Lucien, she would need all the patience—and gentleness—that she could muster. Setting the carved piece in the palm of her hand, she gave the knight a small kiss, then set it down daintily on the side of the board and, with a foxy smile worthy of Lucien himself, went in to dine.

In the elegant suite at the Pulteney Hotel, Rollo Greene stared, aghast, as the soulless blond giant looked in the mirror and gave his white cravat a final tug, then slipped his loaded pistol into the holster concealed beneath his formal black tailcoat.

“Not on Guy Fawkes Night, Bardou, for the love of God!” Rollo choked out. “It is a festival night! The streets will be filled with civilians—children!”

“You were assigned to assist me, Greene. Do not tell me how to carry out my mission,” Bardou replied coolly.

“Look here, sir, I can’t speak for you French, but massacring civilians is not how we in
America conduct business!”

Bardou laughed. He turned away and swaggered across the plush room to Sophia. Her arms folded over her chest, the tall Russian beauty leaned against the console table by the wall with all the sleek, wary mystery of a Siamese cat. Rollo saw the fear and hostility that flared in her almond-shaped eyes as Bardou approached her, but she did not attempt to escape his attentions anymore, as she had earlier, resigned to having been overpowered by the man. She flinched slightly as Bardou grasped her hips and pulled her against him, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Rollo winced and looked at the ground. He wished there was something he could do to help her, but he could not afford to oppose Bardou on his treatment of the woman when it took all his nerve to press the matter of Guy Fawkes Night. The annual bonfire festival was held throughout
England every year on November the fifth, two weeks away.

Bardou was still concealing the details of his plan from him, but Rollo had begun to realize that the former Napoleonic spy had far more mischief up his sleeve than he had been hired to wreak. Clearly, Bardou’s French hatred for the English ran much deeper than did the
Virginia
planters’ grudge. They had wanted something done on a smaller scale, more specifically aimed at the British military, preferably the navy.

Rollo knew that if somebody didn’t stop Bardou, innocent people were going to die; and if the world found out that a group of powerful Americans was behind the coming firestorm, there would be shame and infamy for his president, dire consequences for his country. Not to mention his own career would be ruined for having bungled his assignment.

“Bardou, I am only asking you to reconsider the timing of your attack,” he wheedled him. “I am certain that the gentlemen in
Virginia
intended no such radical action against the populace of
London—”

“Shut your mouth!” Bardou roared, turning on him, tearing himself away from his mistress.

Rollo’s eyes widened as Bardou crossed the room to him in three titan-sized strides, grasped him by the lapels, and threw him up against the wall, nearly putting him through it.

“I give the orders; you follow them,” he snarled. “Stay out of my way, or you are going to end up at the bottom of the river.” He released him roughly. “Now, get out of here.”

Rollo’s heart pounded so hard with terror that he thought it would give out on him. His whole body felt bruised from being slammed against the wall. He glanced at Sophia. She just stared back at him, silent and detached as a cat; then he looked into Bardou’s insane, pale blue eyes.

“I said go,” the man growled.

Rollo did not need a second warning. He fled.

Claude Bardou stared for a moment at the door, which Greene had slammed behind him, then turned to Sophia. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust anyone, Claude. You’re not capable of it. Not even me.”

“Especially not you,” he replied with a narrow smile. “Follow him. Go. Now.”

She heaved an irritated sigh. “Must I?”

“I know a rat when I smell one. If he tries to betray me, kill him.”

“Claude, I cannot kill the American. He is your liaison!”

“I don’t need him anymore. Just do it, Sophie. Do it for me,” he murmured, icy warning embedded in the softness of his tone.

She glared at him in simmering rebellion, pulled out her weapon and checked it, then slid the pistol back into her thigh holster, beside the sheath of her evil-looking dagger.

“Keep me informed of what is happening. And Sophia,” he added, “don’t try to run off.”

“Never, darling.” She threw her long, fur-lined cloak over her arm and strode out, giving him a dirty look as she pulled the door shut.

Only minutes after her exit, a knock sounded at the door.
How prompt these English were,
Bardou mused cynically. He placed his monocle in his right eye, smoothed his short-cropped hair, then went to answer the door, transforming himself mentally as he crossed the room into Prussian Baron Karl von Dannecker.

What Claude Bardou had not seen fit to tell his American moneymen was that he had a personal score to settle in addition to his political vengeance. For the former, he needed Ethan Stafford to introduce him into London Society. They had gone out among the ton twice already, and Bardou had made casual, preliminary inquiries about his hated enemy. Bardou had decided that the only way he could swallow the humiliation of Napoleon’s defeat was by winning the private, unfinished war between him and Lucien Knight. The one man he had failed to break—his prisoner who had, incredibly, bested him.

If only he could annihilate Lucien Knight, he knew he could bear everything that had gone wrong—the failure of the cause he had devoted his life to, Bonaparte’s shameful abdication, the impossibility of ever returning home to
France. Lucien Knight embodied all that Bardou hated most about the English. Knight’s insufferable, British stiff upper lip had barely quavered no matter what kind of tortures Bardou had put him through.

He could not live with the thought of that gallant, aristocratic gentleman-spy living a long, happy life on this puny island of the victors, when Bardou’s own life and his future had been decimated. To stalk his enemy, Bardou needed Ethan Stafford to conduct him into the world of London’s rich and titled so that he could learn more about Knight and how best to destroy him. Though Bardou had held him captive for five weeks, Knight had told him almost nothing. Since he had held up against physical suffering, Bardou had begun considering ways to torment his heart and mind. Unfortunately, Knight had no wife or children, but he did have four brothers, two of whom were in
London.

Bardou was leery of attacking Lucien Knight’s twin, the formidable Colonel Lord Damien Knight, but the rakish Lord Alec, the youngest of the Knight brothers, seemed somewhat easier prey.
It was a pity that their little sister, Lady Jacinda, was away at
Vienna,
he thought as he crossed to the door.
She would have been perfect for his purposes.
Bardou had no choice but to resort to the women in Lucien Knight’s life. He intended to gain an introduction tonight to his enemy’s most recent mistress, Lady Glenwood.

Masking his dark thoughts behind a cool smile, he opened the door. “Good evening, Herr Stafford.”

Ethan Stafford bowed to him. “Von Dannecker. Are you ready for our jaunt to Vauxhall?”

“I have been looking forward to it all day,” he replied as he pulled on his greatcoat and locked his hotel door.

The young English gentleman no doubt found this whole arrangement strange, but every man had his price. If the charming Mr. Stafford had any inkling that Baron von Dannecker was not who he seemed, he was too wary—and too determined to keep his showy house and fast carriage—to ask questions.

A few minutes later, they were racing eagerly through the streets of
London in
Stafford’s fashionable drag. With his pockets full of gold once more, the young man was in high spirits.
Stafford showed off his skill at four-in-hand driving at such a reckless pace that it was no time at all before they arrived at the riverside and took the ferry across to the pleasure gardens.