Judith Ivory (18 page)

Yet, the room held another presence: The lantern moved. Footsteps tapped. Swinging light, chunks of dark shifted over the walls, around the furniture. Then,
right at her shoulder, the oil lamp flared. And a small, wizened old man materialized out of the shadows.

He looked at Christina, frowned at her. His wrinkled, old face was pinched in an expression of disgust. His eyes jumped across the bed to where Adrien, arms extended, was looking down in bewilderment at his own chest. He was pinned to the bed by a giant motionless form.

“I have been,” the old man spoke in a tight, disapproving tone, “halfway around England looking for you tonight.” He followed this with a sniff of the air and a vocal shiver of repugnance. “By heaven, this place smells like a distillery!”

Adrien pushed his burden from him and turned to look at the speaker. He held up an arm to shield his eyes from the lantern light at the foot of the bed. “Claybourne?”

Then, with a double take out the corner of his eye, Adrien’s gaze dropped fully to the bed. He picked up one rather large chunk of glass—the bed shimmered with broken bits of it. Very carefully, he turned the piece over in his fingers. He frowned, as if still trying to piece together what had happened. Then he looked at Christina. He reached and unfolded her small hand. A crooked smile began to play on his lips as he slipped his finger into the broken bottleneck. He gestured with the item to the other man. “This is not,” he said, “a woman you want to trifle with, Edward.”

“I thought,” the old man ground out between his teeth, “you were going to keep in close touch in case there were any rapid developments! I have traipsed all over London and half the countryside looking for you!”

The intruder was a short old man in a white wig. He didn’t quite look real. His face was powdered to an even and unnatural monotone. His eyes shone out of it like little coals. His clothes, though neat and well-made, were out-dated. As was the walking stick he carried—the sort that had been in fashion twenty years before, as tall as a shepherd’s crook. The effect was odd. Intense. Eccentric. Slightly out of touch. And somehow forbidding; in some way she couldn’t name, Christina was instantly afraid of this little man.

Adrien moved some of the glass away by folding the blanket down. “Well, you found me,” he said. “And there better be a damned good reason for you to come in here like this.” He swung from the bed, then let out a breath. “Jesus. Be careful when you get out of the
bed, Christina. There’s glass everywhere, all over my clothes—”

“I’ve half a mind to haul you in”—the old intruder was on his own bent, seeing, hearing nothing but his own anger—“let you spend a night in jail. At least, then, I’d know where you were, when I wanted you….”

Adrien padded across the room, not the least disturbed by the old man’s tirade. He undid the straps of one of their bags and began to dig through it, his nakedness almost an insult—of so little consequence before this intruder.

Yet it bothered Christina. The eerie lighting of the room drew sharp shadows across the ripples of muscle along Adrien’s back. He bent, moved. His shoulders, buttocks, thighs alternately flexed, released. The peculiar old man grew quiet. He watched Adrien. Every movement. Every muscle. He became strangely docile—the way a poisonous snake is charmed, lost in the notes of sensuous music.

“I’d forgotten how nasty they’d sliced you,” he said. “Does the scar hurt?”

“No.”

“Nor limit you, apparently. I understand you blackened the eye of old Pinn’s son this morning.”

“He fell against a desk.”

The old man laughed. “After you knocked him down.”

“He was clumsy.”

“He was undoubtedly a dolt to have provoked you. Though I doubt his fall had anything to do with physical clumsiness.” Again, the old man laughed; nervous, prim.

It occurred to Christina that the old man was possibly disconcerted by any nakedness, not just Adrien’s. And that Adrien already knew this. It seemed possible that Adrien—flagrant, casual—had set out to rattle the
other man in precisely this way. Yet, all the while, making it seem the other man’s shortcoming.

Adrien turned, stepped into a pair of silk breeches. The old man’s stare froze. “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed. I assume we are about to have one of our little talks. And I’m not about to do that naked in a bed of glass—”

“No, no—You have no smallclothes!”

Adrien threw an impatient look as he tucked in his shirt tail. He picked up his cravat, then went to stand before the mirror.

The old man wouldn’t let go of the subject. “Is it true the French wear no smallclothes?”

“I don’t inspect Frenchmen for underclothes.”

“But you have put none on—”

Adrien looked at him in the mirror. “They rumple up, where one sits. They’re uncomfortable.”

The old face twisted up with pleasure. He dissolved into chuckling, rasping laughter. “And they ruin the line of a well-made figure. Ah, vanity.” After some long seconds of this merry amusement, he spoke, wiping at his eyes. “My dear young man, you are so wonderfully transparent. Even the smallest surprise about you circles back on the same conclusion.” He tried to calm himself with two or three fond sighs.

Adrien pulled the points of his stiff collar against his jaw and wrapped his neckcloth around. Then he flipped the cravat through on itself and turned the collar nubs down. All the while, he was watching in the mirror. Thank God, Christina thought. He wasn’t quite so cavalier as he appeared. In his corner of the room, she could see his face—a glimmer that appeared now and then in the mirror—frowning, contemplating, observing their strange visitor with a fixed stare.

“We passed your friend, Mr. Lillings,” the older man offered by way of conversation. “On his way to your house?”

“I presume. He’s been staying there.”

“Why don’t you tell me a little about him? Is he a very old friend?”

“We met at boarding school. As boys.”

“And how did Mr. Lillings acquire his French connections?”

“I don’t know.” Adrien shrugged. “He came with me once or twice to visit my grandfather. Then later, he studied art in Paris.” Adrien twisted his neck once to adjust the fit of the neckcloth. “He’s quite a good draftsman, actually.”

“Would you say he was clever?”

Adrien turned, looked at the old man directly. “Yes. He has a good eye.”

“I said, ‘clever.’ That’s not the same thing.” The old man cleared his throat. “Mr. Lillings must not be part of our plans.”

Adrien shot a worrisome glance in Christina’s direction. “Let’s discuss this downstairs. There’s a room in the back where we can talk.”

“None of your evasions on this. No Mr. Lillings, do you understand? He has French upper-class allegiance.”

“So do I.”

The old man snorted. “As if that mattered in your case.”

“I assure you, it doesn’t in Thomas’s.”

“He’s your friend.”

“Which is why I want him with me.”

“Which is why you are no person to judge in this matter.” He drew in a reprimanding breath. “The man, my dear fellow, has been to France three times in the last month. That we know of—”

“Hand me my shoes,” Adrien interrupted.

The old man was momentarily halted by this request. Mechanically, he reached down to the shoes in front of him.

Adrien was bent over the knee-buttons of his breeches, fastening them over his stockings. The old man came to the foot of the bed with the shoes.

As he handed them over, Adrien passed another quick glance, from the old man to Christina. Christina recognized this for what it was—a warning from one man to the other. The old man turned. She had the regard of both men for a moment. Then, the older one raised his brow. “This one speaks English?”

Adrien tapped a foot into a shoe as he drew on his waistcoat. “This one,” he said, “speaks English and swings brandy bottles.” Adrien winked at her and picked up his coat. He threw her an enormous smile—which did not, she decided, make up for the conspiracy of exchanged glances the moment before. “Now, if you’ll help me with that lump lying there on the floor”—Adrien pointed to the unconscious man—“we’ll all three go downstairs and leave the lady to modestly separate herself from the wet bedding and shards of glass.”

Claybourne was reopening the subject of Thomas as they went through the door to the back room. Whereas Adrien could only think of Christina. How much had she gleaned this time? Honest to God, that woman seemed always in the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter how he tried, the whole business—from mistaken attacks in the woods, to conversations in the night, to stupid Claybourne on one of his rampages—seemed to be laying itself out in front of her.

As for Claybourne, Adrien was doubly angry with him. Not only was he a fool to discount Christina—luckily for Claybourne, his dealings seldom required any real astuteness with women—but he was exceeding himself tonight in being his usual damned pain-in-the-ass. What could the pompous old goat possibly want, when they had so carefully gone over everything just this past afternoon?

“No Lillings,” Claybourne said, like the final word.

“Why?”

Claybourne sat while Adrien went to stoke the fire.

“At the very least,” Claybourne said, “he would be sympathetic to the man we’re looking for. Lillings lost his chief patron, an old artist-mentor, to the revolution. The man was guillotined about eighteen months ago. Did you know that?” Adrien made an acknowledgment. “Then you must realize that Lillings not only could be sympathetic, he could
be
the organizer of these prison raids himself—”

“Thomas! My God! He’s no more your prison robber than I am!”

The Old Man chortled at this. “Now there’s a good joke. You. To whom organization and initiative abroad means setting up a salon concert in Paris. Or a doxy.” He laughed again. “Or brawl. No, my prime problem with you is keeping you off the cutting edge of a scythe long enough to find this fellow. Though, I must admit, I considered you briefly.”

Adrien let a large log drop onto the old embers and new kindling. It fell heavily, collapsing the light structure of ashes and twigs in a puff of sparks. He jumped back, muttering, brushing at his breeches.

The Old Man was delighted with this. “You see? You are too impetuous, always in a hurry to get things done. The more I considered you, the more ludicrous it became. You are, my dear young man, the antithesis of our very calculating and disciplined Frenchman.”

“I’m afraid you must add,” Adrien said, dusting the grime from his pants, “that I am imprudent as well. I’ve already told Thomas about the venture.”

The old man came up out of his seat. “What!”

“I’ve already included Thomas, discussed the whole project, and asked for his help.”

“You had no right!”

“It’s my neck we’re risking.”

“You will have to
untell
him,” Claybourne sputtered at him. “Send him on his way—”

“I won’t.” Adrien came over to the little table and sat. “Edward, I have enough to worry about without trying to fool you.” He made a smile. “I need Thomas. He is an honest fellow who still understands cunning enough to anticipate it. I can think of no man I would rather have watching my back.”

The Old Man glowered at him.

Adrien smiled encouragement. “Come now, it’s a
fait accompli.
You will think of a way to work it to your advantage. As you always do. And I’m sure this isn’t what you came all the way out into the night for. Why are we here?”

Claybourne’s face softened. Then spread slowly into a smile. “Ah, yes. I have some wonderful news. You leave tonight, not in a week’s time. My Madman plans to open a hole in the wall of the abbey at Limoigne and relieve France of several dozen aristos in detention there. It is his biggest venture yet! We can’t fail to snag him!”

Adrien’s fingers went cold. He clenched them. He had planned to go over in four days—three days sooner than he and Claybourne had planned this afternoon—to do just that: They were cutting a hole in the abbey wall to gain entrance into the back passages. Now, to hear his own plans out of the Old Man’s mouth—It was enough to stop the blood flowing in his veins.

“How do you know?” he asked.

The Old Man grinned. “I have my sources.”

“I wouldn’t trust just any source for such information. I’ve heard nothing of this, though I fancy I have worked my way into a trusted position within the man’s outer circle.”

“Exactly. You must see if you can do what Cabrel did. You must, in the next three days, work yourself in closer.”

“Cabrel?” Their newest recruit. The very promising young Frenchman who had provided the map to the abbey.

“Bertrand Cabrel,” Claybourne confirmed. “We sent him in from the French side. Which is how I want you to concentrate your approach. It seems that the little band is less suspicious of French introductions.” The Old Man’s joy grew. “I can’t tell you what a breakthrough this is. To actually know in advance, instead of always guessing.” He patted his vest and turned a smug look on Adrien. “But just rewards, I think. You know me. I like to come at everything from six different directions.”

Adrien was staggered. “You have others?”

“Others what?”

“Besides me. And this Cabrel. Are there others?”

“Of course.”

“I see.” Adrien sat back.

“There, there, it is only a precaution. I still want you to do the delicate work. You are the best suited. It is your old stamping ground this madman is rummaging through. And I wouldn’t trust Cabrel to sort out which man was which.

“Remember,” Claybourne continued, “I not only wish to stop this operation. I would like to lay hands on the man responsible. It would be a great coup for me in the face of the French trying so hard, and so unsuccessfully, to draw him out. Plus, I must admit, I am developing a personal interest. This man is so fascinating. Did you know he impersonated me to get himself and three
émigrees
—dressed as my footmen and driver!—through the dock check we set up at Plymouth? Sat back in a little black carriage and talked through the window. He had my intonation, my favorite epithets, my ways, even down to the lavender lozenges I use to settle my stomach. The guard there didn’t even question the authenticity, his words were so full of authority and lavender
scent. I tell you, the fellow pays close attention to detail. And is audacious. Outrageously so.”

The old minister gave an overall wistful sigh. “But alas,” he continued, “the man is like smoke. No one seems to know where he is at any given time. It’s as if he didn’t exist in concrete form. There’s a whole network of people drawn like a curtain in front of him. It’s almost impossible to get in touch with him directly.” Claybourne sighed. “Quite impossible.” Then he chuckled, “But now we have this new attack. We shall shuffle you in as a friend of Cabrel’s. With that, your present contacts, and your considerable charm with people, I expect you to have a wedge into the inner circle by the end of the week—with a clear sight on the ringleader.”

Adrien had barely paid attention. “Who?”

“Their leader. I want the identity, English or French, of the man organizing these raids.”

“I will need to know who the others are first.”

“Others?”

“The others, the decoys you have floating in the water with me. It will make elimination and identification of the man himself easier. You wouldn’t have me waste time considering and examining your own agents, would you?”

“No, no, of course not—”

“I want a list.”

The Old Man blinked. “Of my agents?”

“Every one.”

The Old Man was hesitant. “All right,” he conceded slowly. “But not on paper. We’ll discuss it. I’ll tell you their names so you can narrow the field. Also, you can have their cooperation if need be. But this is precisely why I must have you tonight. This is going to take some preparation. I want you to pack your things and leave with me now.”