The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match (13 page)

“I assure you, I had nothing to do with these plans. I am quite,
quite
shocked to learn that I've been made an innocent party to such a deed. Whatever it may be.” She looked down modestly at her dress.

“And appalled at the perfidy of Madame de Sauveterre, I suppose?” growled Olympia.

“That too, of course. So naturally, once we recognized our respective roles in this affair, I offered the papers to Mr. Langley for his inspection.”

“To
Langley
? You offered the papers to the
American
?”

“Because he's the one who seems to know what's going on, that's why. Although I'd like to point out that if he'd made his objectives clear from the beginning, we might have avoided a great deal of trouble. Mr. Langley,” she said, turning to the American in question, “what do you propose we do next? Can I be of any assistance?”

“Just the papers, Mrs. Schuyler.” He smiled in relief. “Just the papers, if you please.”

“Look here,” said Olympia. “We are
not
giving Mr. Langley any papers, Mrs. Schuyler. My God. One doesn't simply take a man at his word in this business, simply because he's young and good-looking and puts on a fine performance.”

“Why not? You've taken me at my word, and I'm neither young nor good-looking.”

“You are extremely attractive, Mrs. Schuyler, as you well know—”

“But not young.”

“Not young? Then what the devil does that make
me
?”

“As ancient as the hills, I'm afraid, and I can't imagine why I find you so thrilling, except that—”

“I don't mean to interrupt,” Mr. Langley said, a little bewildered, “but the situation remains extremely urgent, and I'd like to—”

“Urgent?” said Olympia. “Why urgent?”

“Because, sir. While our original plans called for me to hand over Dingleby to the authorities in England, together with the papers that would incriminate her—”

“Oh, I see. That way she becomes our problem, not yours.”

“Exactly. But since boarding the
Majestic
, I have come to believe that she doesn't intend to wait until she reaches the Eiffel Tower at all—”

“The Eiffel
Tower
?”

“Yes. You know, that awful skeleton the Frogs put up a few years ago, for the great Exposition.”

“I know the tower, for God's sake. What is it, then? She means to blow it up?”

“That's what we thought, in the beginning. But it seems she had another object in mind all along.”

“
Another
object? What? Out with it, man!”

Langley coughed, making his bosom jiggle beneath the bombazine. “The ship itself.”

At that moment, the floor below them, which had been pitching back and forth like a child's rocking chair, tilted backward with such unexpected force that all three of them lurched with it. Langley had to grip the arms of the chair to keep from falling out, and Olympia grasped a stumbling Penelope around the waist. She moved to break free, but he said
Wait
, and sure enough, a few seconds later, the floor changed direction and they were falling, hurtling down the opposite side of the wave, until they reached the bottom and began the climb again, a little less steeply, and the room returned to a more recognizable angle.

“I'll be damned,” said Olympia, as if nothing had happened. “And how the devil did you come across this information, Mr. Langley? Where, may I ask, is the redoubtable Dingleby hiding herself this . . .”

And then his face changed expression, and his words trailed off to dangle in the air. His left hand, still tucked around Penelope's waist, dug into her flesh as if to pin her to his side.

He whispered, “My God, I am an idiot.”

Then he whipped around and ran from the room.

***

He shouldn't have been surprised that the cabin was empty. Miss Dingleby was nothing if not efficient. The wheeled invalid's chair sat in the corner; the wig and spectacles were tucked inside her capacious steamer trunk, along with the other accoutrements of her disguise: padding, greasepaint, glue. He muttered oaths to himself as he went, inspecting the lining and the false bottom, finding nothing, not a clue, not a single damned sign of what, exactly, she meant to do.

And a whole colossal steamship in which to do it.

“Olympia?”

He turned. Penelope stood in the doorway, cheeks pink and eyes bright with exercise. Her chest moved quickly, as if she'd been running. “Go back to the library, do you understand me? No. Not the library. Go to your cabin and lock the door. I'll find you when—”

“It's too late!” she gasped. “She's on the promenade deck, going after a lifeboat. Robert's trying to catch her, but—”

Olympia was already off, pushing past Penelope on his way back to the main staircase. By God, he was too old for this, too old to be running up and down stairs, pistol in hand, as if he were still twenty-five years old and desperate to rediscover some purpose in life, some reason for rising out of bed in the morning when you knew that God could simply snap His immortal fingers and take away whatever it was you loved most. By the time he reached the final flight, his strength was beginning to give out, but he pushed on regardless. He had no choice.

“Port or starboard?” he called out, knowing that Penelope was right behind him, bless her, curse her.

“Port!”

He wheeled to the left and burst through the door to the promenade deck, into a blast of frigid wind that robbed his breath. Shouts rang out from above, on his right side, near the lifeboats hanging on their divots above the awning, and he ran down the deck to the open air, where a stairway led from the promenade deck to awning deck, forbidden to passengers except in case of emergency.

By God, this was an emergency.

“Stay down,” he ordered Penelope, over his shoulder, and he climbed the stairs and ducked under the rail.

The awning deck wasn't lighted. He could only make out the shadows of the objects around him, cast by the ambient glow of the electric lights from the decks below and from the small deckhouse at the forward edge of the platform, nestled against the first of the two massive funnels that erupted from the bowels of the ship. Around them, the vast ocean heaved and swirled, a drop of at least thirty feet.

She's mad,
he thought.
She can't possibly think to launch a boat by herself, to navigate herself safely to shore in a sea like this.

A shout floated out from the darkness ahead. “Olympia! Look out!”

Out whipped his pistol. He squinted at the shadows, and as his pupils constricted, he made out a shape, separating itself from the lifeboats, heading down the deck toward him.

“Dingleby!” he roared, and the shadow stopped.

“Make another move,” she said, “and I'll kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Why not?” She laughed, actually
laughed
. “You've seen me do it. You know I can hit a target at any distance. You're the one who taught me, Olympia.”

“Not for
this
, Mary.” He used her first name, as he hadn't done for many years. Mary Dingleby, once his protégé, then his colleague; occasionally his lover. He had formed her himself, had taught her how to ply this exacting and reckless trade, had thought he knew her perfectly. Then she had betrayed him, and now she betrayed him again, except that this time he was expecting her. This time he felt no pain as he timed the rhythm of the ship, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

Crack.

The shadow jerked and released a shot of its own, which went whistling past his left ear, so close he felt the draft of its passing.

“You shot me!” she said, outraged.

He started forward. “You missed me. I expect, in your haste, you forgot to take into account the motion of the ship.”

“I'll shoot again.”

“No, you won't. I've hit your shoulder, and I'm afraid your aim will suffer for it, especially in this Stygian darkness. My God, what a night. What were you thinking?” He kept talking, walking steadily, watching the shadow for movement.

“I have planned every last aspect of this mission, down to the last detail.”

“Except for me.”

She hesitated. “You were a surprise.”

He had almost reached her. She was waiting for him, he knew; all this talk was only to distract him. He felt her warmth. He smelt the copper of her blood. Along the perimeter of the deck, he sensed movement. Penelope, he thought. What the devil was she up to? He didn't dare call out. His heart cracked in fear against his ribs.
Penelope.
He had to finish this, and fast.

“What have you done, Mary?” he asked softly. “Tell me, before a thousand innocents are killed.”

“They will have died for a good cause, which is more than one can say of their living.”

He shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“It's very simple. Millions exist in poverty, while you and your ilk dance the night away in your opulent saloons, eating your turtle soup and your filet de—”

“I don't mean the
cause
, Mary. God knows I have spent enough hours reading the lunatic ravings of your philosophers. What I don't understand is how a sensible woman like the Mary Dingleby I trained could possibly bring herself to believe in it. To believe in it so forcefully, she would destroy a monument, or a ship filled with women and children.”

Where was Langley, by God? Why wasn't Langley creeping up from behind? Was he going to have to fix the whole damned business by himself? A flash of movement appeared around the corner of the deckhouse. Penelope?

“What's a thousand tourists, when millions suffer?”

“This is not the way to relieve their suffering. Tell me what you've done.”

“With pleasure. I have set a device of considerable explosive power—Mr. Langley, I'm sure, can tell you what an expert I've become in such matters—in a part of the ship that, upon the bomb's detonation, will cause her to founder immediately, and to sink within minutes. I had hoped to release all the lifeboats before the ignition of this device, preventing any escape, but I expect this will now prove impossible. No matter, however. These poor idiots are unlikely to reach the boats in time, let alone contrive to launch any.”

“Ah! Now I understand. You intend to go down with the ship?”

“Of course. I thought I might as well, since my dear Mr. Langley has arranged to have such an extensive party waiting on the docks to welcome me back to England.”

“How disappointing when one's colleagues betray one.”

“Isn't it, though?” But her voice held an edge of pain. He had taught her how to resist torture, but you never knew, did you? You never knew until the pain actually began, and you had to endure it. Maybe she would crack.

“Tell me where you've hidden the bomb, Mary.” He crouched on the deck a few yards away, keeping his pistol trained on her heart; it was easier to balance that way, while the waves tossed them about. “This is useless. It will cause great suffering, and do nothing for your cause.”

“Do you know something, Olympia? I really don't think I give a damn.”

She launched herself so suddenly, his shot went wild. He caught her by the shoulders, making her cry out, but the force of her attack sent them both sprawling on the deck while the ship rocked wildly beneath them. His head struck something hard. He saw a flash of silver, and then a sharp point nestled into the hollow of his throat, and he went still.

Hell. Hell and damnation.

“That's right,” Dingleby whispered. “Don't move, there's a good chap.”

His head swam. What the devil had he hit? One of the rings on the deck, probably, securing the rigging from the funnel. There were two Dinglebys in front of him. He focused hard, and they resolved into one. He hoped he hadn't concussed himself. Nuisances, concussions. And the pistol had fallen out of his hand, damn it all.

Penelope,
he thought.

“If you must kill me,” he said pleasantly, “do it swiftly, I beg you. And for God's sake, defuse that bomb. You can't refuse the last request of a dying man.”

“I can do whatever I damned well please, Olympia. I'm the one with the knife. No, no. I wouldn't move, if I were you. One more flicker of those giant muscles, and I will slit your throat from ear to ear.”

He couldn't see her eyes, not in this gloom. But he heard the sincerity in her voice. No, not sincerity. Worse than that: a kind of fanaticism, the sound of someone with nothing left to lose.

Very well, Lord,
thought the Duke of Olympia, who never prayed,
take the life of this old sinner, since it appears you have me at your mercy, but preserve your servant Penelope. Preserve Simmons and Langley and every damned fool on board, even the Americans. A bad bargain—one old soul in exchange for a shipful of lives—but I'm afraid it's all I have to offer.

He parted his lips. “My throat, Mary?
Tsk, tsk.
How could you? Remember all the times you kissed this throat.”

The point dug deeper.

“Dear me, Olympia,” drawled Miss Dingleby. “Poor chap. Did you really think I
cared
?”

Crack.

Her body made a stunned jerk and slumped against him.

For an instant, he thought he'd shot her himself, though his pistol was several feet away. A miracle. God had actually answered that prayer.

“Caught beneath a woman,” said Penelope. “I suppose it's not the first time. Nor, I expect, the last.”

The Duke of Olympia closed his eyes and thanked his Maker.

***

“Now then,” the duke said, when he had extricated himself from the clutches of Miss Dingleby, “where the devil's Langley gone?”

“To find the bomb, I believe.” She stared down at the body before her, unable to believe that she had done this. Taken Robert Langley's pistol and shot a woman between the shoulder blades. Her father had taken her hunting when she was young—there were no sons, and he was a notable eccentric, as old money usually was—but she hadn't fired a weapon in decades. Funny how it came back to you, when you had gone past conscious thought and had only the thrill of fear coursing through your limbs and your brain. When someone laid a knife against the throat of someone you loved.