His gaze seemed to sharpen.
“I don’t suppose I could ask you to take me as your guest?” she asked. “As the head of the French delegation, your Prince must have a private box.”
“Indeed. It is in a place of honor, right in the front row,” replied Rochemont. “Unfortunately, the seats are all taken, for Talleyrand has a special guest coming.”
“Oh?” Arianna assumed a petulant pout. “Who?”
“It’s a secret,” said the comte is a low voice.
“I promise not to tell.”
“Perhaps . . .” The soft leather of his gloves slid down her bare arms. Turning, he drew her into the shadowed corridor leading to the side saloons. The sound of muted laughter swirled in the smoke-scented air, its music melding with the faraway melody of the violins. “Perhaps I could arrange a favor, Lady Saybrook. But tell me, what are you willing to give me in return?”
“That would depend on how special the favor is,” she countered.
“What would you say to being part of the pageantry?”
The slithering sensation on her skin had nothing to do with his touch. “You could arrange that?” she asked. “I’ve heard that the program has been worked on for months, and that every detail has been carefully planned. Surely the organizers won’t allow a last-minute change.”
“True. However there
has
been one change concerning the presentation of the grand prize to the winning knight. Due to the importance of the Prince’s guest, Von Getz, the secretary of the Conference, has appointed me to be in charge of arranging a slight variation to the original ceremony.”
A change to the ceremony?
Arianna felt her pulse begin to quicken. “That must have cost you a fortune—it’s said that von Getz’s influence does not come cheap.”
“The secretary likes money—but he also has a weakness for chocolate bonbons.” Rochemont smirked. “Monsieur Carême recently hired a pastry chef who created some unique treats. No matter that the man turned out to be a criminal and was forced to flee when we caught him robbing the palace. There were enough of the sweets left that I was able to assemble a very sweet bribe.”
Nearly overcome with the insane urge to dissolve into giggles, she managed to keep a straight face. “How clever of you.”
A rough laugh, and suddenly Arianna felt herself shoved deeper into the alcove between the archway colonnade. Cold marble kissed against her back as the comte pivoted and pressed his body against hers. “I’m clever at a great many things, Lady Saybrook. Including seducing a woman into my bed. You’ve led me on quite a chase, but I sense that I’m getting close . . .” His lips were now hovering a hairsbreadth from hers. “Close enough to taste triumph.”
Touching her fingertips to his chest, she forced a fraction more space between them. “I was under the impression that men like the thrill of the hunt.”
“We like the thrill of the kill even more—metaphorically speaking, of course,” replied Rochemont.
“Of course.” Arianna met his gaze without flinching. “So, what part do you have in mind for me?”
“It’s been decided that Talleyrand’s guest will present the prize to the champion, instead of the Austrian Emperor. I’ve been wondering just how to orchestrate the ceremony, and then it suddenly occurred to me that you, my dear Lady Saybrook, would be the perfect person to carry out the trophy,” explained Rochemont. “What say you? Is that a sweet enough enticement?”
“Oh, yes,” she said.
Oh, yes.
Did the fox think he was pursuing a helpless rabbit? Ha! She intended to lead him right into the snapping jaws of Saybrook.
A low, feral sound rumbling in his throat, he sought to capture her mouth.
She evaded the embrace with a sly turn of her cheek. “
Tut
,
tut
, my dear comte. You’ll have to wait until late night hours after the Carrousel. A smart lady never lifts her skirts until she has been paid in advance.”
Rochemont allowed her to slip free. “You drive a hard bargain. Lady Saybrook.” He brushed a wrinkle from his sleeve and patted his cravat into place. “I shall expect you to come to me then—and to make the experience worth my while.”
“You may count on it being unforgettable,” replied Arianna, her voice a silky, smoky whisper. “I perform at my best with men like you.”
“Nothing.” Henning grimaced as he put the papier-mâché head of a snarling Saracen back in the cabinet. In the wavering light, the grotesque teeth seemed to gleam in mockery. “Twenty-four of the bloody grinning Infidels, and not a single suspicious hinge or hollow space that I can make out.”
Saybrook shook the head he was holding before placing it on its rack. “I agree that they appear harmless—the layers of paper are so thick that the space left inside isn’t big enough to hide much of a threat.”
“Ye think Lady S’s suggestion that they are planning to use some sort of gunpowder bomb is bang on the mark?”
“Actually I do,” answered the earl. “Rochemont’s burned hands are too much of a coincidence to dismiss. Besides, the other alternatives are too hit or miss. Even if they convinced one of the knights to charge Talleyrand’s box with scimitar flashing or lance lowered, the chances of him killing both men aren’t very good. Wellington is, after all, a man much experienced in war. He won’t sit there like a petrified pigeon waiting to be slaughtered.” Vapor rose up from the stone floor in slow, serpentine swirls. Chafing his hands together to ward off the chill, Saybrook watched a ghostly tendril wrap itself around the metal lantern. “No, a man as clever as Renard would choose a more reliable method.”
“Think of the
Grognard
,” said Henning suddenly. “If I were Renard, I’d put a marksman in the crowd. Be damned with a bomb—a well-aimed bullet and the deed would be done in a flash.”
Saybrook shook his head. “I might agree if it were only one target. But two?” His fingers twined and tightened together into a fist. “No, there are too many variables working against gunfire. Even with the crush of the crowd, a rifle would be hard to smuggle in. And then there is the time it would take to reload.”
“A brace of pistols,” suggested the surgeon, loath to give up his idea. “They are easily hidden inside a coat, and at close range it would be hard to miss.”
“It won’t be all that easy to get close to the section reserved for the dignitaries,” argued the earl. “It’s possible that one of the diplomats has been recruited to be the assassin, but still . . . the first shot would set off a panic. In the chaos, aiming a second shot would difficult, even for a battle-hardened soldier.”
“Bloody hell, Sandro. If you’re so convinced it’s a bomb, how the devil is Renard going to deliver it?” He scowled. “And then detonate it? We’ve gone over the weaponry with a fine-tooth comb.”
“I don’t know,” admitted Saybrook. “Let’s move on to the costume closets.”
“A bomb isn’t going to be concealed in a button,” groused Henning.
The earl picked up the lantern from its perch on the rack of lances. “The Carrousel is tomorrow. It has to be here, Baz. A clever assassin would ensure that there wasn’t a last-minute mishap in bringing it into the building. So I mean to go through every stitch of—”
The scudding beam caught the folds of an ermine-trimmed cloak draped over a stool. Dark as midnight, the spill of lush fabric was almost hidden by the corner of storage cabinet and the rough-hewn moldings of the door.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Henning gave a wordless shrug.
Saybrook hesitated for a moment, eyeing the square-cornered shape. “Let’s have a look.”
“Auch, we’ll be here all night if ye mean to poke through every bit of cloth.”
“Have you a more pressing engagement?” quipped the earl as he swept back the cloak to reveal an ornate brass box.
The gleam silenced the sarcasm hovering on Henning’s lips.
“It’s locked,” said the earl after trying the lid. The steel probe reappeared from his pocket and made quick work of the catch.
The surgeon crowded close, straining to see over Saybrook’s shoulder. “What—” He blinked as a flash of burnished gold momentarily blinded him. “What the devil is
that
doing in here?”
“I believe it’s the Champion’s Prize,” replied the earl.
Henning gave a low whistle as he watched the earl struggle to lift a large ornate eagle from its nest of purple velvet. “That bird must be worth a bloody fortune. Why, it looks to be made out of solid gold.”
Saybrook set the statue on the floor. “It’s heavy,” he agreed. “But there’s something odd . . .” Squatting down, Saybrook surveyed the intricate workmanship from several angles. “Baz, point the beam here . . .” He indicated a spot under the half-spread wing. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
Sliding a thin-bladed knife from his boot, the earl pressed the point to an emerald set discreetly in the precious metal.
Nothing.
Henning released a whoosh of air.
The sharpened steel moved to the ruby. Again, nothing stirred, save for the faint rasp of the surgeon’s breathing. It was only when the blade pricked against the pale peridot that the
objet d’art
came to life. The gem clicked a quarter turn to the right and sunk into the sculpted feathers as the eagle emitted a strange whirring sound.
The taloned feet rose half an inch out of the large round malachite base, revealing a hidden mechanism. Reversing his knife, the earl tapped the tiny lever with its hilt and sat back on his haunches as the top of the stone gave a shiver and a hairline crack appeared around the middle of the orb.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” muttered Henning.
The eagle tilted forward with the top half of the base. Inside was a hollow interior, and nestled like a egg within it was a shiny metal ball. It too was hinged.
Saybrook gingerly nudged the lid open. And uttered a soft oath.
“Christ Almighty, don’t touch anything,” warned the surgeon. “Move over, and let me have a closer look.”
“Gladly,” replied the earl drily, edging over to allow Henning a better view of the glass vials, looped wires, and brass discs that were neatly embedded in a dark granular substance.
It was a rather lengthy interlude before the surgeon spoke. “Hmmph.”
“Would you care to amplify on that statement?” asked the earl.
“In a moment, laddie.” Flattening himself to the stone, Henning checked the contraption from a few different angles before giving another grunt. “Ingenious. I saw a recent scientific paper from the University of St. Andrews describing a chemical experiment on fuseless explosions, and the accompanying diagram looked almost identical.” Another slight shift. “And I had heard that Sir Humphry Davy was conducting some private work on the subject at the Royal Institution. However, I thought it was still in the theoretical stages.” Pushing up to his knees, the surgeon dusted his hands. “Apparently not.”
“Does that mean we should theoretically be running like the devil?”
“No, no. We’re safe.” Henning pointed out a thin brass rod welded to the inside of the lid. At its end was a small ring. “Right now the vial of acid is missing so there is little danger of the bomb going off.”
Saybrook eyed the elaborate coil of wires and disks as if it were a serpent ready to strike. “How does the cursed thing work?”
“Oh, very cleverly,” responded the surgeon, scientific enthusiasm overriding all else for the moment. “A glass vial of acid, designed with a tiny hole in the bottom, is inserted in the ring. When the top is closed, the liquid will drip onto this bit of wax here . . .” His finger indicated one of the disks. “Once it burns through—and that rate can be pretty much calculated in a laboratory depending on the thickness of the wax—it will allow the acid to touch the mercury fulminate percussion caps here”—he pointed again—“and spark a tiny explosion. From there, the fire will travel down the cordite-soaked twine wrapped around the wires to gunpowder, which has been specially corned to increase its volatility . . .”
A short technical explanation followed on the force generated by such a tightly contained explosion.
“So, what you are saying is that this bird is deadly enough to fell two people in one fell swoop.”
“Hell, yes,” said Henning. “Anyone within a half dozen feet will be blown to Kingdom Come.”
“Don’t sound so bloody cheerful about it,” snapped Saybrook.
“No need to get your feathers ruffled, laddie. I’m counting on you to make sure the eagle will have its wings clipped, so to speak.”
“Right.” The grim lines of worry etched deeper around the earl’s dark eyes. “It seems we have two options. We can disarm the thing now. Or we can wait and catch the miscreant in the act.” He pondered the dilemma for an instant before adding, “A damnably difficult choice, for I would like to have unassailable proof that Rochemont is behind this.”
“Perhaps we can do both.” Henning fingered his stubbled chin. “There can’t be any overt sign that the bomb has been tampered with. But if we are able to slip a thin piece of steel between the wax and mercury fulminate percussion cap, that will prevent the acid from setting off a spark.”
The lanthorn’s beam started a slow, undulating dance around the room. It flickered over the crates, the rack of long lances, the massive storage cabinet . . . and then darted back to the jousting weapons. A soft, silvery glow glimmered against the varnished wood. Each of the pommels was festooned with an elaborate design of hammered metal and studs of semiprecious stones.
“Will silver do?” asked the earl.
“Aye,” replied Henning.
The blade slid out of his boot. “Let’s get to work. Come tomorrow night, the comte is going to find that his highflying hopes of throwing Europe into chaos have been plucked of their last, lethal feather.”
Arianna took another turn around the room, her agitated movements impelled by a volatile crosscurrents of emotion colliding inside her. Impatience. Uncertainty. Anger. All churning with the ferocity of a storm-tossed sea.