Elizabeth Thornton (38 page)

“Hugh,” she cried out, and started forward.

Harper made a violent motion with one hand. “Get back!” he ordered.

“But it’s Hugh!”

“Get back!”

He waited until she’d stepped into the doorway of one of the closet bedchambers, then he turned back to the door. “Mr. Templar,” he said, “speak to me.”

There was a long, sighing sound, then there was nothing.

Abbie cried, “Harper, he’s badly hurt. He’s fainted. Open the door!”

Harper hesitated, said Hugh’s name again, and when there was no answer gently turned the key in the lock. In the next instant he was flung violently back against the wall as the door crashed open. Abbie saw one of the hotel footmen in gold livery and a white powdered wig. A knife flashed. He back-handed Harper in the face with the hilt, then drove it into his chest and Harper went down.

She was numb with horror, gulping air as she watched the dark stain appear on the front of Harper’s coat. The footman stepped over Harper’s body and kicked his pistol out of the way. Then he shut and locked the door. He was smiling.

“Miss Vayle,” he said. “we meet again. May I call you Abbie? I think of you as Abbie. Don’t you recognize me? Take a good look.”

She knew, then, that this was Nemo, but he didn’t look anything like the young man she’d encountered at the theater. This man was much heavier, and his face was lined. But he had light blue eyes, cold eyes, even when he was amused.

“No,” she whispered.

“Let me refresh your memory. You danced with me at the Assembly Ball. Harry Norton? Does that help?”

“
You
are Harry Norton?”

His eyes danced with amusement. “And later that night, I had the pleasure of your company in your bed. I cannot believe that the woman who stands before me now was that sniveling, whining bitch who promised never to cross me. But you didn’t keep your promise, did you, Abbie?”

Don’t cower!
her instincts screamed.
Don’t show him you’re afraid! That’s what he wants, then he’ll kill you
.

But she was afraid, deathly afraid. They were having an ordinary conversation like two ordinary people, and Harper was lying on the floor, bleeding to death—perhaps already dead. Nemo was going to kill her and she had no one to blame but herself. Hugh had told her never to open the door unless the code words were spoken, and she’d persuaded Harper, against his better judgment, to open the door. Hugh had told her to keep her pistol by her at all times, and she’d stupidly left it on the parlor table. If she’d done as Hugh had cautioned, she could have leveled her pistol right now and blown a hole through that grinning face.

But right behind her was the back door to the suite. She had Harper to thank for that. He’d made sure she was in a position to “fall back,” as he would say, before he’d opened the door. But it didn’t help. The back door was locked. She should have unlocked it the moment she knew there was trouble. Instead, she’d been frozen in place like a mesmerized rabbit before a striking cobra. By the time she opened the door, Nemo would be on her, and that would be that.

Why was he waiting? Why hadn’t he finished her off?

She was seized with a sudden fury. This was the man
who had killed Colette. He’d boasted of it when he assaulted her in her own bed. He’d skinned Jerome alive, he’d told her, and put a bullet through Colette’s brain. That poor French girl had chosen her to be the instrument of this monster’s downfall. It wasn’t going to end like this, not if she could help it.

Drawing more on instinct than logic, she straightened her shaking legs and threw back her head. “I can scarcely believe,” she said, “that Napoleon’s master spy would go to so much trouble to eliminate one worthless girl. Why are you afraid of me?”

“Afraid?” Something ugly moved in his eyes and was quickly subdued. In the same amused tone, he went on, “I fear no one and nothing. I have a reputation to keep up. You gave the book to British intelligence. You tried to trick me with a fraudulent book. What self-respecting spy could live with that? What if it were to get back to the Emperor? I would lose face.”

She was as terrified of his smile and twinkling blue eyes as she was of the wicked-looking blade in his hand. “How did you know the book was fraudulent?” She didn’t care how he knew. She just wanted to keep him talking so that she could edge toward the back door.

“Are you really so stupid? My agents were tracked down by British soldiers the same night you were released from prison. How else could British intelligence have known where to find them? Oh, don’t look so crestfallen. You never stood a chance. You see, Abbie, I have sources in high places. I was always one step ahead of you.”

“You killed Alex Ballard.”

“But of course. We suspected that he knew too much. He signed his own death warrant when he went to your room that night.”

“You were both looking for the book.”

“Clever girl.” He clicked his tongue. “What a wild life you lead, Abbie. Two gentlemen turned up in you hotel room in the middle of the night, and you were nowhere to be found. At the time, I was very angry. I thought we had an agreement, and you’d broken it. But later, when I learned the circumstances, I practically split my sides laughing. You really are hopeless, Abbie.”

“Why didn’t you kill Hugh when you had the chance?”

“Unlike Ballard, he didn’t know anything, and too many dead spies would have caused an outcry in government circles. We would have disabled him, but that is all. We were afraid he might do exactly what he did do and take the book away from you. You’re right, I should have killed him. It would have saved me a great deal of trouble later.”

“And George?” she asked hoarsely.

“If it’s any consolation, he’ll live longer than you.”

George was alive
. The knowledge sank into her like rain in the desert. Not only did hope bloom, but so did her will to survive.

He removed his wig and tossed it on the floor. The dark hair that had curled so attractively when she saw him at the theater was plastered to his head.

“It’s hot in here, Abbie, don’t you think?”

Her time was up. She could either fight him or run.

When he began to shrug out of his jacket, she moved. She jumped back, slammed the door shut, and quickly turned the key in the lock. There was no light in the room and she was groping her way when she heard his laughter. It chilled her blood.

“Oh Abbie,” he said, “I was hoping you would try something. I don’t want an easy kill. Where’s the pleasure
in that? Run, Abbie, run, because when I catch you, I’m going to slice you into little pieces.”

He was allowing her to escape! This was a game to him, a game of cat and mouse. Her fingers closed around the key as something heavy slammed into the door behind her. On a moan of terror, she opened the back door and hurled herself out of the room.

Hugh knocked on the roof of the hackney to attract the driver’s attention. “Pull up, man,” he cried, then with a roar, “Stop!”

The coach pulled to a halt just before the turn into Oxford Street.

“What is it?” asked Tom.

“I don’t know,” said Hugh. “I can’t put my finger on it. The footman back there at the hotel? Why did he insist on hailing a hackney for me?”

“ ’Cos,” said Tom, “ ’e knew you was an easy mark.”

“But you were with me. Isn’t that unusual? Wouldn’t he have expected you to hail the cab for me?”

Tom snorted. “I’ve met ’is type before. Bold as brass, they is. But it worked. He was laughing at you when your back was turned.”

“Laughing at me?”

“ ’Cos he was too quick for you, and too quick for me, too. When I saw you put that shilling into ’is lily-white ’and, I wanted to spit on it. But that’s footmen for you. They ’as an easy life, so they never gets their ’ands dirty.”

Hugh frowned. “Hands? Wasn’t he wearing gloves?”

“No.”

Hugh stared at Tom with an appalled expression. Suddenly rising, he slammed the flat of his hand against
the roof of the cab. “Driver,” he roared, “get us back to the hotel at once! And I mean on the double. Now!”

She went down the stairs two at a time, and every step of the way he was right behind her. At any moment, she expected to feel his hand on her shoulder, dragging her back. Then it came to her that he was allowing her to outdistance him; that he was enjoying the chase, and when it suited him, and not before, the game would be over.

Cat and mouse
.

Colette’s face swam before her. She could see the French girl in vivid detail as she’d been that day in the bookshop when their hands had joined on the handle of her basket. Dark brown eyes shadowed with sadness; dark ringlets beneath a straw bonnet; and a sweet, sweet smile. She was so young.

Move! she
told herself when she felt her legs buckling.
Think of Colette. You can’t let her down
.

She pushed through the door at the bottom of the staircase and found herself in the kitchen. It was the dinner hour, and there were several footmen coming and going with loaded trays, and scullery maids bustling about, setting food on long tables.

“Help me, please!” She was panting, and could hardly get the words out. “He’s going to kill me.”

There was a sudden silence as everyone stared at her. When they looked over her shoulder, she whirled to face him. He was the same, and he was different. He’d removed his coat and waistcoat and was clad in only breeches and a white lawn shirt. He looked every inch the aristocrat. There was no sign of the knife.

His voice was cutting. “You slut! You slept with my
best friend. How many other lovers have you had, madam wife?”

“It’s not true!” she cried out.

“I’m going to thrash you within an inch of your life.”

As though on signal, all eyes were averted and everyone was suddenly busy. Was she the only one who could see the amusement in those pitiless eyes?

When he reached for her, she shoved one of the maids into his path, then sent trays of food toppling to the floor. On a sob of panic, she dashed through the corridor to the door that led to the courtyard.

The rain was driving down and the courtyard was deserted. It wouldn’t have mattered. No one was going to help her. This was how Colette must have felt in the bookshop. There was no point in appealing to anyone. He was too clever. He could make people believe whatever he wanted. And if that failed, he would kill them.

She calculated that she had about ten seconds to hide herself. The stable block was too far away, and there would be ostlers and stableboys there who might tell him where she was hiding. Or if they got in his way, he would kill them.

There were several coaches in the yard, their traces empty of horses, and she ran to the one in the darkest corner where the lantern had gone out. She winced when the door creaked as she opened it. Quickly, silently, she slipped inside and pulled the door to without latching it. A moment later, a pool of light spilled onto the courtyard as he came out the back door.

She pressed her lips together to muffle the sound of her breathing, and when that didn’t work she used her hand. She was trembling so hard, she had to grind her teeth together to try to stop their chattering.

“Abbie?”

She nudged the door open the merest crack. Now she knew why she’d had time to hide herself. He’d stopped to put on one of the coats that had been hanging on hooks in the corridor.

He put his hands on his hips. “I know you’re here somewhere,” he said. “I was watching from the window. You didn’t go into the stable. So where are you, Abbie? In one of the coaches?”

Her fingers were gripping her mouth so tightly that her teeth were cutting into her lips. When she saw him open the door of the coach nearest to him, her whole body contracted.

She had to do something. She had to find a weapon to defend herself. Something. Anything.

Most coaches were equipped with pistols, but most pistols didn’t work because their owners forgot to load them. An empty pistol was better than nothing. She hoisted herself slowly onto one of the banquettes and fumbled for the holster just under the coach lining. When her hand closed around the smooth, wooden pistol butt, she let out a shaken breath, and slowly pulled the gun free. She heard him slam the coach door, and she edged farther along the banquette.

Her fingers touched something and came away sticky. She stared down at her hand but could see little in that dim light. Slowly, she turned her head. A boneless heap was curled grotesquely in one corner of the banquette.

It was her imagination. Her nerves were playing tricks on her. It couldn’t be what she thought it was.

She put out her hand and touched something cold and clammy. The boneless heap was a man, and he was dead.

A piercing scream tore from her throat.

Nemo was on her in moments. She didn’t think of using the pistol. She was paralyzed with shock, and the
pistol was clutched in her hand in a death grip. He yanked her from the coach, and with a back-handed slap to the face sent her flying against the wall.

He slammed the carriage door shut and knelt down beside her. It was too dark to see more than his outline, but she felt the point of his blade at her throat.

His voice was savage. “Say anything to anyone and it will be the last thing you do. Do you understand?”

She sobbed out. “You killed him.”

“I needed his livery,” he said carelessly. “Now keep your mouth shut.”

Her thoughts were chaotic. No one killed for a suit of livery. He was mad. She had fallen into the hands of a monster. Colette. Poor Colette. She would be next. Then George.

People were running into the courtyard, maids, ostlers. He hauled her to her feet and dragged her into the light. “My errant wife,” he told them, “has promised me that she won’t stray again. All right, ladies and gentlemen, the show is over. Go back to your work. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m taking my wife home.”

There were a few titters, some low grumbles, but they were working folk who thought they were in the presence of gentry, and they backed off.

“Now move!” he told her, and he hustled her toward the arched carriage entrance that gave onto the main thoroughfare.