Leslie Lafoy (38 page)

“And the spark … This is the beautiful part of it all, Emil. The transfer document is wired to bundles of matches. The bundles are lying hard between strike papers and the fuses. If the document is moved so much as a fraction of an inch in any direction…” She smiled at him. “Boom.”

“You’d die.”

She had him. He didn’t know a damn thing about explosives, didn’t know in looking that she’d just manipulated him with a whopping lie. It was only a matter of time. Rolling her eyes, Belle snorted. “
I’m
not going to set it off, Emil. I’m just telling you what would happen and how fast
you’d
die should you be thinking about shooting me and taking it off my body. At that point, being blown to bloody bits along with you wouldn’t really matter to me, now would it?”

She saw his lips move, read the silent curse that passed over them. “Oh, and one other thing for you to consider, Emil,” she went on as Aiden carefully shifted his stance behind her. “While I was at the solicitor’s office this morning having the transfer drawn for the land grant … I had him write a last will and testament for me. It’s in his office, safe under lock and key. In it I leave everything I own—including the land grant—to Barrett Stanbridge.

“Even if you somehow manage to disarm the ignition mechanisms, Barrett gets Lafitte’s treasure. I had the will drawn and witnessed
after
the grant transfer was drafted. My will indicates that it was given under duress and legally supersedes it.”

His gaze darted to the shadows at the back of the stairwell, telling her that Carden had been right. “He’d better be alive, Emil,” she warned.

“He was ten minutes ago.”

“Ten minutes ago doesn’t count for much right this moment.” He licked his lower lip and she could see the sheen of moisture forming along his upper lip and across his forehead. “I have a proposal, Emil,” she offered while his mind was still reeling from the repeated shocks. “Out of it we both get what we want and walk away.”

He swallowed and took two deep breaths before he asked, “And that would be?”

Behind her, Carden softly cleared his throat and Aiden shifted his stance again. “You allow Barrett to be carried out of here and I’ll defuse the bomb and give you the transfer document. It’s been drafted just as you demanded in the ransom note. To the bearer. I won’t challenge your claim and I’ll destroy the will. You can have the grant free and clear.”

He measured the distance between them, his eyes narrowing in calculation.

“Oh, Emil, please,” she scoffed. “I’m not about to get close enough to actually hand it to you. That would be incredibly foolhardy. Once Barrett’s past, I’ll back toward the front door and lay it on the newel post as I go by. It’ll be there for the taking once we’re gone.”

“And if you try to bolt with it?” he countered angrily.

“Then you can shoot me in the back,” she proposed blithely, “blow me and the paper to kingdom come, and then try to get past Barrett’s friends.” She allowed him only a second to appreciate the corner into which he’d been backed. “Do we have a bargain or not, Emil?”

“Don’t move,” he commanded, brandishing the pistol yet again. “You two,” he snapped, looking past her to Aiden and Carden. “He’s in a room to the right at the bottom of the stairs. Be quick about it.”

“Barrett’s all that matters,” she whispered as they moved around her. She watched them cover the remaining hallway, keeping their shoulders close to the stairwall and their attention on the muzzle of the gun.

As they rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, Emil quickly swept the sleeve of his coat across his mouth and said, “Now disarm it.”

“I’ll get the snips,” she explained, reaching into her pocket and drawing them out. Holding them up so that he could see, she added, “But I’m not cutting any wires until Barrett’s safely outside.”

His teeth clearly clenched, he studied her. In the relative silence, Belle could hear the low rumble of Carden’s and Aiden’s voices. Strain as she did, though, she couldn’t hear Barrett’s. Her heartbeat quickened and her throat tightened with dread. Determined not to succumb, she forced her thoughts in another direction.

“Just out of curiosity, Emil … Was it you Mignon saw at the theater that night?”

“Most unfortunately, with Emma. If she hadn’t been there, I would have been able to spin a believable tale for your cousin and it all would have been ever so much simpler.”

“I don’t see how,” Belle observed. “You would still have had to dispose of Rose and Emma. And Mignon, as well.”

“And you, too, Isabella. But when Mignon left the theater with Stanbridge, everything became ever so much more complicated than it should have been. Cursed bad luck that he turned out to be an investigator and that implicating him in Mignon’s death drew the police attention it did. But I managed to compensate for it all quite well, if I do say so myself.”

Listening to the sounds coming up the stairwell beside her, Belle decided that wisdom lay in not challenging his perceptions. Anyone who had murdered four people had to be mentally unbalanced; insulting him unnecessarily wasn’t a good idea. Not when the end of the ordeal was within momentary reach.

Aiden emerged from around the corner first, holding what appeared to be a door firmly in his hands. A door that had been made into a litter, she realized, her heart twisting with full realization. Barrett lay motionless on it, his head at Aiden’s end. Her knees buckled and she grabbed the stairwall for support. Her teeth clenched, she focused on the promise in the rise and fall of his chest, and fought the impulse to draw her own Colt.

“He’ll be all right,” Aiden said, his expression grim as he backed past her. “He’ll mend, Belle. Honestly.”

Carden’s eyes were blazing with outrage as he met her gaze while moving past. “Get yourself out of here,” he commanded quietly. “Now.”

“Two trills when you get to the road,” she said just as quietly, easing backward in their wake, her gaze fastened on Emil’s. Blindly, not trusting him, not quite trusting herself, either, she took one of the ignition bundles in hand and snipped the wires that connected it to the explosive. Dropping the wire to the floor, she carefully backed toward the door and removed the second one in the same manner. Emil inched forward, matching her step for step, always keeping the distance between them constant, always keeping the gun pointed at her chest.

The trills came, high-pitched and emphatic, just as she reached the base of the stairs that led upward. Cutting the wires that bound the land grant transfer to the dynamite, Belle removed the paper and laid it on the newel as she’d promised she would.

“Leave the dynamite,” Emil demanded as she started to move back again. “I won’t have you tossing it in through the doorway once you’re outside.”

He didn’t know how to properly, safely handle it; leaving it for him could have deadly consequences. So could not leaving it, she realized as he waved the pistol menacingly. “You’re a deeply suspicious man, Emil Caribe,” she observed, holding the bundle against her flesh with her left hand while pulling loose the knot with her right.

“I intend to be a wealthy man,” he countered brightly, as she bent down and gently laid the two bound sticks on the scarred wood floor.

“Be careful if you decide to handle it,” she felt compelled to warn him as she regained her feet and moved toward the door behind her. “If you jar it with any force at all, it’ll go off. Spark or no spark.”

He nodded, his gaze shifting to the newel post and his strides lengthening. In his distraction, Belle turned and bolted out the door and onto the top, tilted step. She didn’t bother with trying to hit the other ones, but simply vaulted over them and onto the street below. Darting out of the line of Emil’s potential fire, she headed toward Carden’s carriage and the too still, battered man lying on the ground beside it.

“He has the dynamite,” she called to Inspector Larson as she passed him. “I wouldn’t be in any great hurry to—”

The explosion was sudden, deafening, and enormous. Instinctively, Belle dove forward, wrapping her head in her arms. Debris rained down on her back, on the pavers around her. She counted five seconds and then rolled to her knees, casting a quick look back over her shoulder. The doorway and most of the front wall were gone. So were the steps, the little entry area, and half the stairs. All of it reduced to splinters. Two sticks of dynamite had effected as much damage as a twelve-pound keg of black powder. The next time she thought to strap a bomb to her midriff, she’d use only one. It would be more than enough.

“Are you all right, Belle?”

Carden, she realized as he hauled her to her feet and back to her senses. “Instability is one of dynamite’s more noteworthy drawbacks,” she said, absently brushing off her clothes as she resumed her course toward Barrett. “I’m sure they’ll work on that over time.”

“How is he?” she asked, dropping to her knees and taking his left hand in hers and desperately willing him to open his eyes for her, to give her even the tiniest smile and tell her that he’d be just as right as Aiden said he would be.

“He has a badly broken arm,” Dr. George answered crisply. “At least three ribs that, if not broken as well, are at the very least fractured. His facial injuries appear to be superficial. However, there’s swelling on the back of his head that would suggest that he has suffered a concussion. How severe it might be remains to be seen. We need to get him to my surgery as soon as possible.”

Yes, that made perfect sense. The surgery. Where his bones could be set and casted and he could begin to get better. She nodded and held his hand tighter and silently promised him the most wondrous meals when he woke. Chicken soup with sweet vegetables and tender noodles until his stomach could handle heartier fare. Apple dumplings and whipped cream. He loved apple dumplings. They both loved the possibilities of whipped cream. God, he had to be all right. He had to be. If he died …

No. No, no. She couldn’t think of the worst. Fear would paralyze her, make her useless. Barrett needed her now every bit as much as he’d needed her to think around Emil. She had to keep her head squarely on her shoulders, to focus on the moment and not look for the abyss that might lie beyond it.

Tomorrow would bring what it would bring. Now was now and fleeting. But it was all she had and she’d live in it fully, hoping for the best, for happiness. And to do that, she had to stop sniffling, dammit. Had to stop shaking like a leaf in a storm.

Again Carden took her by the arm and drew her to her feet, forcing her to release her desperate hold on Barrett’s hand. And then he left her standing there feeling oddly adrift and with nothing to do but hold her breath as he and Aiden lifted Barrett off the door and maneuvered him into the carriage. As gently as they could, she assured herself, as mindful of his injuries as they could be. And Dr. George was helping, guiding them.

“Mrs. Dandaneau!”

She blinked and numbly turned toward the sound. “Inspector,” she said, dragging air into her lungs and realizing that she’d been holding her breath.

“It would seem on a most cursory survey that the explosion was quite thorough and initiated in the hand of Mr. Caribe. There are only small portions of him remaining.” He handed her a scrap of paper. “My men found this in the carnage. No doubt a portion of the land grant that Mr. Caribe was carrying on his person. I regret to say that I believe it is likely to be the largest piece that we recover.”

Small portions. She shuddered and looked down at the bloody bit of paper in her hand, at the mostly whole signature of James Madison. All that was left of what some people would consider a valuable treasure. “I appreciate your effort to find it for me, but there’s no need to collect any more of it. I don’t want it. I don’t need it.” She handed it back to him. “Perhaps you should keep this as evidence.”

“I was right,” he drawled, shaking his head and tucking the paper into his notebook. “You are an insane woman.”

No, there were different kinds of treasures. The most valuable couldn’t be measured in acres or in dollars and cents. “You’ll be dropping all the charges against Barrett?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Of course.”

“And I trust that, being a decent and honorable man, you’ll see that the newspapers print a prominently featured story that fully removes all tarnish from his good name?”

He cocked a bushy, white brow. “It wasn’t unblemished before this debacle.”

“Either you see it done, Inspector,” she said sweetly, “or I will.”

Considering her with narrowed eyes, he half-smiled. “How soon do you plan to leave London, Mrs. Dandaneau?”

“Not nearly as soon as you’re hoping,” she countered as she walked off toward the carriage. “Maybe,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes, “if there’s a God, not ever.”

*   *   *

Isabella added more coal to the fire, then straightened and turned her back on it. They had all finally, mercifully gone to their own homes. Carden and Aiden. Mr. and Mrs. Stanbridge. Now, at last, the house around her sat silent and still as the night deepened over London. Barrett lay just as silent in his bed, the covers drawn up and tucked neatly around him, his newly casted arm cradled by a pillow. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, counting the slow measure of his breathing, and recalled the instructions Dr. George had given her as he’d tucked his stethoscope into his bag and prepared to depart.

She was to keep Barrett sedated, to spoon laudanum between his lips when he began to murmur and thrash. For the better part of the next two weeks, Dr. George had suggested. And she was to summon help at the first signs of fever or a stupor that was deeper than could be attributed to the tincture. Not that the good doctor expected to be summoned back for any such emergency. He was convinced that Barrett, if allowed to rest in a peacefully drugged slumber, would fully and completely mend.

Belle swallowed around the lump in her throat. If only surgeons were God. If only she hadn’t, with her own eyes, seen Death take souls that every mortal had considered beyond its reach. A sudden catch in the breathing, a quick start, or sometimes just a long, slow sigh in their sleep. And then nothing more; the body that had been laughing, talking, eating, and mending perfectly well was a corpse. No one could see it coming. No one could ward it off. It came from nowhere, snuffing life, crushing hope, and making a mockery of medicine.