Stormfire (93 page)

"Would this . . . quirk in his nature be responsible for some of the other duels? I mean, people must be talking . . ."

Amauri jumped at the suggestion. "I've even heard Murat speak of it. I'm sure everyone's heard by now . . ."

"Thanks to you, my pet," she drawled ominously.

"Me?" Amauri looked genuinely startled. "How can you blame me? Culhane and Lachaise are seen everywhere together. Doesn't it strike even you as strange that Culhane is seen with so many women, but only one man?"

"Not strange at all, after what you've done to him, you sneaking wretch!" she hissed, her whole demeanor changing to that of a tigress circling its prey. "There's only one place such a filthy lie could have started." Eyes like frozen fire, Catherine advanced on her husband. "Sean was nearly beaten to death in that prison because he wouldn't submit. He was shot trying to escape being gutted on a block."

Deliberately, she threw the sherry in Amauri's face and smashed the glass. The broken bowl jaggedly pointed at him.

His eyes narrowed. "Are you insane?"

"No," she said bluntly, "but I have been. And I've killed before, too. My own husband, as a matter of fact. He didn't die heroically at all. He was just as vicious, just as devious, just as selfish as you. And if I were to kill you," she went on softly, "say, some night when you crept into my bed, everyone would just think I'd gone crazy again. After what you've done, I'd gladly spend my days in a madhouse reviewing the pleasure of cutting your throat."

Amauri's face had gone gray. "Don't forget I can have you arrested," he muttered hoarsely, "and that whoreson, too."

Unexpectedly, she smiled. "Go ahead. What have you given us to live for, anyway?"

"You
are
mad!"

She laughed almost gaily and tossed the goblet into the fire, where it shattered; then she turned and hissed, "Just keep your doors locked, husband."

The Rat From Venice

Culhane paid little attention to the slim, dark stranger who watched him fence, but he did notice his opponent's lack of concentration. He pressed Lavalier harder to force his attention, but the Frenchman fell back and finally gave an irritated wave of his hand.
"Suffit, suffit
That's all for today."

Sean lowered his foil. "What's the matter?"

The stranger smiled slightly and strolled away to join three officers lounging in the corner. He said something, using one hand expressively. With a low burst of laughter, the men slid glances in Culhane's direction.

Lavalier looked at them with acute dislike. "What's wrong?" the Irishman repeated quietly. "Who is he?"

The Gascon thrust his foil into the rack and tugged off his mask. "That's Antonio
Neri.
Ever hear of him?"

"Should I have?" Sean put up his equipment.

"Get your coat and come with me," Lavalier said abruptly.

"Mind if I ask where we're going?"

"I need a drink. I suggest you have one, too."

Lavalier fiddled with his glass and stared into its depths. Cradling his own drink, Sean waited patiently, scanning the other occupants of Pascal's dingy
café.
Pascal's was Lavalier's favorite haunt.

"Merde.
"
Lavalier downed most of his glass. He waved for the proprietor to bring another. "You're in trouble,
ami, "
he bleakly announced. Sean smiled faintly. "No, not like before. Neri's a Venetian. A professional. He's been called in to kill someone and I think it's you."

"So?"

"So, he's good; some say the best. He's also very expensive. They must have taken up a collection to bring him in."

"The military?"

"They aren't permitted to fight you; that humiliates them."

"Too bad. Besides, if he challenges me,
Fouché will
be on him like a shot."

"Neri
never challenges. He's no fool. You'll be the one to call him out."

The two men fell momentarily silent as Pascal, the proprietor, brought Lavalier's drink. He gave Sean's full glass a disapproving glance and lumbered off.

"I'm not about to call him out," Sean said softly to Lavalier. "I'm not going to land in prison."

"Oh, you'll fight him all right. He'll find a way to make you."

"I'll wear my most fetching smile when he insults me." The bitter reference to the perverted rumors about him embarrassed Lavalier, and the Irishman regretted his remark. "Look, he can call me anything he likes. I have a tough hide."

"What about your sister-in-law? Has she a tough hide, too?"

Culhane stiffened.

"You see?" Lavalier murmured, then shrugged. "Perhaps he won't dare involve her. Napoleon would hear of it."

Culhane's eyes narrowed. "Why should Napoleon care about Kit when Josephine is called harlot by the whole world?"

Lavalier looked at him impassively. "Josephine is protected by her position. No abuse of her reputation can topple her unless Napoleon lets it." The Gascon went on as if Sean were not still staring at him.
"Neri
is a superb stylist, but he can revert to gutter tactics. Beware of his feet. He's also been thought to poisoin his blade."

"Why should Napoleon care about Kit?" repeated the Irishman softly.

"Josephine's current lover sometimes gossips. He says the lady is afraid of
la comtesse.
That one does not fear shadows."

Sean stared at some point fixed between Lavalier's ear and infinity. "So the bastard sold her . . . ."
  

"Sean, if you go for Amauri, Napoleon will throw you in prison until you rot. You'll be of no use either to her or the child."

"I'll get him. If not today, then another. Even if I have to cut his throat in an alley."

The next day, on return from fencing, Sean had barely unlocked his door when it jerked open from inside. He crouched toward his boot knife as the door moved inward;
Mei
Lih's frightened face in its opening did nothing to dispel his readiness to attack. "My lord, you must go quickly! Your friend has been hurt!"

Moora impatiently pushed
Mei
Lih aside. "Gil Lachaise was taunted into a fight as he was leaving the
École Militaire.
It was
Neri."
Then she added awkwardly, "He accused Gil of being your lover."

His face contorted, he spun away.

Mei
Lih shrieked after him, "Don't go unarmed! Come back!"

Antonio
Neri
was dining at Justine's with three officers in a private room. Handsome as an El Greco don, he courteously stood, his companions also rising in his wake as Culhane and Lavalier were ushered into the room by a waiter.
Neri
was slightly younger than Sean, a head less tall, and less well shouldered, but he was as alert as a ferret. "
Buona sera, signori,
"
he said easily, crooking a finger at the waiter to linger. "Will you join us? The veal is particularly good tonight."

"Thank you, no," drawled the Irishman, "but you must enjoy it before it gets cold. No point in ruining your last meal."

Neri
waved the waiter away. "Are you calling me out,
signore?"
he murmured after the door closed.

"You don't leave me much choice. Monsieur Lavalier will act as my second."

"I am at your convenience."

"Will the courtyard behind the Ursuline Convent at midnight suit you?"

"Admirably." He gestured to the man on his right. "Colonel
La Rousse
will be my second. Captains Marquand and Rossiers will observe, if you don't mind. You may, of course, invite your own friends if you wish. I suggest rapiers." His eyes flicked to the weapon partly concealed by Lavalier's cloak. "Ah, yes. I see you have anticipated my choice." He bowed slightly. "Until midnight,
signori."

The Ursuline courtyard, normally deserted at midnight, had the appearance of a fair. Word of the duel had passed like wildfire and officers ringed the court. Among them were women in masks and hooded cloaks. Torches in brackets along the arched stone colonnades and lanterns among the spectators gave sporadic light. More lanterns bobbed like fireflies through parklike gardens which bordered the court entrances as the last arrivals picked their way through ancient flowering trees and flowerbeds.

Lavalier's lips curled in disgust as he eyed the crowd. One of the women had brought her opera glasses. "Voyeurs. They find a killing better entertainment than the Opera
Buffa."

Leaning against a column, arms crossed over his chest, his tall companion stared into space as if unaware of the shadowy crowd, its murmurs and low laughter lifting on the damp night air. The scent of lemon and lilac drifted in from the garden, their heady perfumes incongruous with grim tile-topped walls. The arcade lined three sides of the bricked court; the fourth side, along the garden, was fenced with ornamental ironwork with a gate. Secluded
^J
from the busy Carrousel by the construction of the new Rue
de Rivoli
and Rue
de Castiglione,
the court, used for centuries to settle affairs of honor, offered little danger of official interruption.