Lord of Fire (21 page)

Oh, very well,
she thought impatiently, relenting against her better sense.
I will give him a chance.
She would start afresh in the morning, for even a silver-eyed devil ought to be good on a Sunday. Marching back to bed, she climbed in under the covers only to lie awake, gazing at the rain and waiting, wide-eyed, for tomorrow to come.

 

Lucien rode through the gates of

Revell Court

minutes before the few plump raindrops that had slapped at him and his horse during the journey home turned into a deluge. Ducking his head against the rain, he held his greatcoat closed to protect Garcia’s letter in the breast pocket of his waistcoat from the elements. The door swept open before him as he strode into his house.

Shrugging off his dripping greatcoat presently, he left it in the hands of his butler. “I shall be in my office, Mr. Godfrey. I am not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord,” the butler said, bowing his head.

Lucien bounded up the steps two at a time, wove through the maze of hallways in the upper floor, then climbed another staircase, narrow and wooden, that led up, up into the attic of

Revell Court

.

In the dark, the rain drummed on the roof just above him and the wind whistled through the eaves. He had claimed one small section of this dusty, lugubrious region above the servants’ quarters for his private working space. He unlocked his office door and felt around for a tinderbox and candle, which he lit. As the small flame rose, he closed the door behind him and locked it again. Due to the covert nature of his work, no one besides himself, not even Mr. Godfrey, was allowed into the hallowed space of Lucien’s office for any reason, not even to dust the bookshelves, which needed dusting badly. He sat down at his desk, pulled out Garcia’s letter, and coolly cracked the seal.

Glancing over the paper, he smirked in amusement at his friend’s contrivance. Garcia had disguised the coded message as a fictional hotel keeper’s bill of unpaid charges. Below the seńor’s irate note, the three columns of numbers bore the secret burden of the coded message. Every date, quantity, and charge listed corresponded with a numbered page of the Catholic Bible that Garcia had given him to use as their handbook. Each number referred to a page in the Bible, a particular line, and the correct word within the specified line. Proper names of key figures and active agents were distinguished from the other numbers by being circled. A circled number one, for example, stood for the pope; two, for Napoleon; three, for King George; four, for the prince regent; five, for the czar; and so on.

Scanning down the list of charges, he paled to note a circled number seventy-seven. Every known, active agent had a code number—Lucien’s own was twenty-one. Though he didn’t know every agent’s number by memory, he knew that seventy-seven signified Claude Bardou.

While “Sanchez” railed at him for the items he had broken, eaten, or otherwise consumed during his imaginary stay at a Spanish
pensione
, Lucien dipped his quill in ink and began flipping through the pages of the Bible as the numbers directed him. Swiftly and meticulously, he reconstructed Garcia’s message. When he had written down the words that matched the numbers, all that remained was to translate it from the Bible’s Latin.

Greetings, my friend. I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to warn you that Claude Bardou is alive and at large. We have learned he has assembled a small band of loyalists. As to their mission, my sources conflict. One says Bardou means to attack the Congress of
Vienna. The other claims he is organizing a rescue mission to free Napoleon from
Elba. We must prepare for either possibility. God keep you. Garcia.

Lucien sat back in his chair, stroking his jaw. His gaze had hardened. His slow, firm exhalation made the candle flicker. Garcia mentioned nothing about the possibility that Leonidovich had presented, that Bardou might be working for the Americans.
So much for third-hand rumors,
he thought. He picked up his pen and immediately began writing to his colleagues stationed in
Italy and
Austria. The thought of Napoleon being smuggled off of the island
Elba and back into
France was galling, but the threat to the Congress unsettled him even more deeply, because four members of his family were there.

His eldest brother, Robert, the duke of Hawkscliffe, had been appointed as one of Castlereagh’s assisting delegates to the Congress. Robert had taken his new bride, Bel, with him to enjoy the glamorous festivities surrounding the Congress, as well as their little sister, Lady Jacinda, and her companion, Lizzie Carlisle, who was Robert’s ward and was like a second sister to the Knight brothers. His heart pounded with dread as he wrote to Robert and to Castlereagh, sans code, warning them in the strongest possible terms of the threat.

When his letters were finished and sealed, he brooded on the possibility of contacting Sophia Voznesensky to see if she knew anything about Bardou’s new mission or his current whereabouts. The dark beauty was one of Czar Alexander’s deadliest creatures, a Russian agent whose past missions had included seducing Bardou to gain information about his orders.

Bardou and Sophia had worked together since the Treaty of Tilsit, throughout
Russia’s five-year-long alliance with
France. Though the two nations had become enemies again, Sophia had captured Bardou’s fancy in a powerful way. Tough and ruthless as Sophia was, she had never been quite able to escape from the claim Bardou had staked on her. Lucien knew this because he, too, had once had a brief affair with her. Shaking his head, he decided not to seek her out. It was too dangerous for her. Bardou was insanely possessive of the woman. Besides, Lucien had never entirely trusted her.

With bitter memories tormenting his mind, he thought of going to
Alice, seeking comfort in her arms.
How he longed to bathe his spirit in her light, her innocence, her steadying softness. But that girl had cut him to ribbons today,
he thought, staring into the small flame of his candle.
A man had his pride. Next time, by God, she would come to him.

 

Swirling arms of fog wrapped
London’s crowded skyline in a damp shroud as Rollo Greene waited nervously across the river on the Lambeth coal wharf, just downstream from
Westminster
Bridge
. He could see a boat’s lantern coming through the fog, casting a feeble beam of light over the glossy onyx surface of the
Thames.

Right on schedule.

He pulled his top hat lower over his eyes, glad of the blade concealed inside his walking stick. The surrounding warehouses, breweries, and timber yards were dark and silent. His carriage waited in the shadows nearby. As the boat crept nearer, moving slowly against the current, he made out the masts and hanging nets of a fishing skiff. As the crew brought the boat up to the dock, he wet his lips, hid his jittery uneasiness, and put on his big, easy, American grin.

It faded somewhat as an enormous, hulking silhouette emerged from the lantern-lit mist. Standing at the bow of the boat, a cigar clamped between his teeth, the man must have been six-foot-five, seventeen, eighteen stone.
Holy Jesus.
The tip of his cigar glowed red in the darkness. Then the whole fishing boat rocked as the monster stepped up onto the rail and jumped off the bulwark, landing with terrifying agility on the dock. He shrugged his haversack up higher onto his boulderlike shoulder.

Rollo gulped silently as the blond, square-faced giant came marching relentlessly toward him, a slight limp in his stride. Somehow Rollo shook himself into action, drawing up his diminutive height as he went toward the Frenchman, his cheerful grin held in place by sheer fright. “Monsieur Bardou, I presume?”

The giant flicked a derisive glance over him. His eyes were pale blue, deadened, and mean. Rollo offered him a bow. “Name’s Rollo Greene, sir. I’ve been assigned by our esteemed friends in
Virginia
to assist you.”

Bardou eyed Rollo’s walking stick as though he knew at once that it concealed a weapon. He did not look particularly concerned of the fact. He removed his cigar from between his teeth, exhaled a stream of smoke, then tossed the butt onto the dock.

“Do you have my papers?” he asked in a gritty, flat-toned voice. His French accent was thicker than Rollo had expected.

He had heard that Bardou was of peasant stock, but had managed to rise in the midst of
France’s turmoil and had gotten himself passably well-educated. Enough so, Rollo hoped, to ape the manners of a gentleman—particularly a German gentleman. The English aristocracy was gullible enough to be fooled, especially if one claimed kinship to the old Prussian warhorse, General Blücher.

“Everything is in order, sir. If you’ll step into the carriage, I will take you to your hotel. I’ve arranged a suite for you at the Pulteney—finest in the city. The czar even stayed there during his state visit this past summer.”

Bardou looked at him in mistrust, then studied the carriage closely and peered inside before getting in.

“It is a strange feeling, is it not, being on enemy ground?” Rollo commented to him in fluent French as the carriage rolled into motion. He pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses, then poured carefully, offering one to Bardou. “From your homeland. I brought it in your honor. Go on,” he urged him with a smile. “Our friends in
Virginia
would hardly appreciate my poisoning you, Mr. Bardou. I am at your service.”

Bardou took it from him skeptically and waited for him to drink first. “You have arranged for my cover?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. You will be meeting
London society in the guise of Baron Karl von Dannecker of
Prussia. I’ve found a well-connected young gentleman who is willing to introduce you into the highest circles.”

“Funds?”

“In the account. It has all been arranged.”

For a long moment, Bardou gazed out the carriage window as they crossed
Westminster
Bridge
. “And my Sophia,” he asked more softly, “is she still in
London?”

“I saw her at Vauxhall a week ago. Beautiful as ever.” Rollo sighed.

“What is this Vauxhall?” Bardou asked gravely.

“Pleasure gardens on the river. It has a theater, dancing, fireworks. I’ll show it to you. Most diverting.”

“I will need Sophia,” he said. “She is always . . . useful.”

Rollo furrowed his brow. Claude Bardou had been hired by a powerful group of enraged gentlemen-planters, friends of President Madison, who wanted revenge on the redcoats for the burning of
Washington
. Though America’s gold coffers were empty thanks to the British blockade, the pride of the Southern gentlemen had been so incensed at the humiliation of having their shiny new capitol burned that they were paying for Bardou’s services out of their own personal fortunes, which they had built on the backs of their African slaves. Rollo did not know how the Virginians would feel about Bardou’s bringing in outside help.

“Mr. Bardou, with all respect, your fee has already been negotiated. Do you really think Madam Voznesensky will agree to help?”

“Sophia will do as I tell her.” Bardou met his gaze, needing no words to suggest that Rollo had best do the same. He took another sip of his wine.

Rollo blanched at the deadened look in the man’s pale blue eyes. A change of subject was most definitely in order. “Where did you learn to speak German?” he asked awkwardly.

“
Westphalia. I was in charge of protecting King Jerome for a while.”

“Ah, Napoleon’s baby brother, correct?”

Bardou nodded. “Do you know a Lord Lucien Knight, Mr. Greene?”

Rollo did not know what prompted him to lie, but when his gut told him to do something, he did it. He shook his head. “Heard of him, don’t know him. Why do you ask?”