The Mask of Night

All one can do is calculate the risks and proceed accordingly.

Raoul O’Roarke to Mélanie Fraser

12 March 1814

Mélanie tightened her grip on the pistol before Tommy could knock it from her nerveless fingers. “Blow up Spendlove Manor?” she repeated.

Hortense was staring across the table at Tommy, eyes wide with uncomprehending horror. ‘That’s impossible. What does blowing up Spendlove Manor have to do with the Dauphin?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Tommy said. ‘Perhaps they need to remove Carfax before they can put their plan with the Dauphin into effect.’

“Or perhaps St. Juste wanted to get rid of Carfax,’ Mélanie said.

“Why?” Tommy asked.

“Never mind. When’s this supposed to happen?”

“Tonight. The time wasn’t clear. Of course it’s possible the plan stopped with St. Juste’s death—”

“I don’t think so. I think this is what Billy Simcox said went too far. Are you asking me to believe you came down here to stop this all by yourself?”

“I didn’t see a lot of alternatives. If I’d gone to Carfax he’d have had me arrested, and if I’d gone to Charles he’d probably have strangled me.”

Hortense pushed her chair back from the table. ‘Carfax isn’t the only one in that house. Mélanie—’

‘Yes, I know. We’ll get them out.“ Mélanie glanced at the tarnished brass clock on the dining room mantle. Five twenty-five. Charles would be back at the carriage any moment now. If she wasn’t there he’d come looking for her.

She got to her feet, holding the gun trained on Tommy. “Stand up. Arms out.”

He got to his feet with economical grace. “I must say I’ve often fantasized about having your hands on me.”

‘Mélanie,’ Hortense said, ‘we don’t have time—’

‘We need Charles’s help.“ Mélanie confiscated a pistol from Tommy’s coat pocket. “Out the front door. If you run I’ll take it as a sign of being double-crossed.”

“You’re taking me to Charles, aren’t you? This will be an interesting test of his opposition to capital punishment. If we’re attacked, it would help if I had a weapon.”

“If we’re attacked, I’ll throw you one. Maybe.”

They made their way down the hall and out the front door. Long shadows slanted across the ground, and the sky was the color of a slate smudged with soot. The rain continued to pour down. Tommy glanced up and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well. If I had an umbrella, I don’t expect you’d let me keep it.”

By the time they made their way to the waiting carriage her sodden pelisse and gown clung to her skin and the water had soaked through her half boots to her silk stockings. She caught a whiff of tea and meat pie when she opened the door of the carriage. Randall sat inside with the hamper of food. He sprang down from the carriage. “Mr. Fraser’s not back, ma’am.”

Mélanie pulled aside her pelisse to glance at the gold watch pinned to the bodice of her gown. It was already ten minutes past the agreed upon half-hour. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain spread through her.

“I suspect he’s run afoul of the guards,’ Tommy said. ‘I can get you into the house.’

One of the more irritating things about Tommy was that he was very often right. “Hortense,’ Mélanie said, ‘Randall will drive you to the inn—”

‘I’m not leaving—’

“Jeremy Roth is there,’ Mélanie continued. ‘A Bow Street Runner who’s working with us. Tell him that Spendlove Manor is probably set with explosives, and Charles is likely held prisoner there. If I’m not back here when Roth arrives, he should use his judgment about how to proceed.”

‘Your coachman can take the message. I’m going with you.’

‘You’ll only slow me down. I’ll get Flahaut out.’

‘You can’t promise that.’

‘I’ll have a better chance on my own.’

‘But—’

Mélanie pushed Hortense toward the carriage. ‘There’s no time.’Hortense glanced at Mélanie a moment longer, then gave a quick nod and climbed into the carriage.

Will Gordon looked across the inn parlor at Roth and Addison. “What do we do now?”

They were spared the necessity of answering by the clatter of wheels and rattle of horse hooves from the inn yard. Of one accord, the three of them went into the hall and opened the door to the yard, greeted by a blast of rain-laced wind. A traveling carriage stood before the inn, but the crest it bore did not belong to the Frasers. Lord Worlsey sprang down, lowered the steps, and handed down Bet Simcox and a second lady with dark corkscrew curls escaping from beneath the hood of a scarlet cloak. Simon Tanner followed, along with Alexander Trenor and a large, sandy-haired man Roth had never seen before.

“Thank God,” Worsley said when they had spilled into the entry hall. “Where are Charles and Mélanie?”

“At Spendlove Manor,” Roth said.

“Oh, Christ.”

“Well, that’s torn it.“ The sandy-haired man made for the door.

“For God’s sake, Sam.“ Bet Simcox caught his arm. “Tearing off like that won’t solve anything.”

Roth jerked his head toward the private parlor door which Addison was holding open. “Let’s talk this through.”

The group moved into the parlor. In the light from the oil lamps, Roth studied the sandy-haired man and the lady in the scarlet cloak. “You must be Nan Simcox and Sam Lucan. I’m Jeremy Roth.”

The lady tugged at the ties on her sodden cloak. “You’re a Bow Street Runner.”

“It’s all right, Nannie,’ Bet Simcox said. “I keep telling you he’s on our side.”

“Nineteen years on this earth and you still haven’t figured out no one’s on any side but their own?”

Roth looked into Nan Simcox’s bright blue eyes, the twin of her sister’s. And of Billy Simcox’s. “I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Simcox. I should have prevented it.”

Nan laid her cloak over a chair back and tugged the folds smooth. “The way Bet tells it, it wasn’t your fault.”

Lucan folded his arms across his chest and regarded Roth. “Mélanie and this husband of hers trust you.”

“We’ve been telling you that all the way from London,” Trenor said.

“Mélanie’s tough as nails, but I’ve never known her instincts to be wrong. We’ve got to get them out of there.”

“Where?”

“Spendlove bloody Manor. That’s where—“

“They came to tell us—“ Worsley said.

“We had to—“ Nan Simcox began.

“Let me,” said Tanner. “Synopsizing’s part of my trade. Mr. Lucan and Miss Simcox left their hiding place—at considerable risk to themselves—because they’d received word through underground sources about the gentleman who had employed Julien St. Juste and Billy Simcox.”

“Bastard,” Nan said. “Bloody, damned—“

“What’s he done?” Addison asked.

“He’s been hiring,” Lucan said. “A crew of the worst ruffians in Seven Dials. Sort who’ll do anything—and I mean anything—for the right price.”

“What for?” Roth asked.

“To come down here. Do a job. There has to be killing involved. A lot of killing.”

Gordon glanced at Roth and Addison and then at Worsley. “There are soldiers guarding Spendlove Manor. Do you think the plan could have been to take them on? Or—“

“Or they aren’t soldiers at all,” Roth said. “They’re these hired ruffians in British uniforms.”

“British soldiers are hired ruffians,” Nan said. “Only these’ll be more efficient at it.”

“Charles and Mélanie are there?” Worsley said.

“They went to look the place over. They should be back by now. Vickers is there. And the soldiers. And your father apparently.”

“My father—“

“See here,” Nan said, “what’s your father doing with a crew from Seven Dials?”

“He may think they’re soldiers,” Roth said.

“Or he may be their employer,” Worsley said in an expressionless voice. “And Vickers?”

“Is apparently an agent for your father. We think he hired St. Juste. If he set the whole thing up—“

“Too much talk.“ Lucan moved to the door. “If Mélanie and Fraser aren’t back by now, something’s gone wrong. Have to storm the place. We should be a match for those twelve.”

“Fifteen,” said Nan.

“No.“ Worsley’s voice cut the air. “We don’t know the situation on the inside. Someone may be holding a knife to Charles’s and Mélanie’s throats. Or my father’s. Or my father may be holding a knife on Charles or Mélanie.”

‘All the more reason to get them out as quickly as possible,’ Lucan said. ‘If—’

A crossfire of voices drowned him out. The verbal melee came to an abrupt halt as the door was flung open. A woman stood there, the hood of her dark blue cloak flung back to reveal disordered golden brown hair. ‘Which of you is Mr. Roth?’ she asked.

‘I am,’ Roth stepped forward.

‘My name is Hortense B-Beaulieu. I have a message from Mélanie Fraser. If I could speak with you—’

‘If it’s from Mélanie, the rest of these people should hear it as well.’

‘You’ve seen Mélanie?’ Lucan said at the same time. ‘Is she out of Spendlove Manor?’

‘No, she’s gone in. To look for her husband. We think he’s been taken captive. And the building’s mined with explosives.’

Lucan lunged for the door. Worsley caught his arm. ‘This doesn’t change anything. An attack will take too long.’

“Well standing about here isn’t doing any good,” Nan said.

“Be quiet,” Bet told her. “What do you want to do, Lord Worsley?”

“I’ll go in. They can’t very well deny me admittance to my family’s home without giving the game away.’

‘You want to go into a building that’s set to explode?’ Lucan said.

‘If I can get in and explain to my father, it’s the fastest way to get everyone out. Assuming it isn’t my father who’s set the explosion. In which case presumably he’ll be long gone, and I’ll warn whoever’s left in the house.’

Tanner watched Worsley with a hard gaze, but it was Lucan who spoke. “And if they take you prisoner, too?”

“Then the rest of you burst in.”

Roth looked at him a moment and slowly nodded. “Most of the soldiers are patrolling outside, aren’t they?”

“That’s how it looked when I was there,” Gordon said.

“And when I was,” Addison added.

“So while Worsley’s distracting the soldiers at the front of the house, we can take out those at the back. That should even up the odds.”

Lucan grinned. “Never thought to hear such sense from a Bow Street Runner.”

“Thank you,” Roth said. “I do my best.”

Mélanie and Tommy approached the manor house through the beech wood to the north. The sky was almost black and only a faint glow from behind the clouds lit their way. She still had her pistol out, but if Tommy ran she’d be hard pressed to hit him in this light. It seemed to have taken endless time to traverse the estate. She tried not to think about candle ends burning down and trails of gunpowder leading to charges of saltpeter. Surely the explosion wouldn’t be set to go off so early. Surely St. Juste’s confederate wasn’t planning to blow himself up along with his targets.

They were nearly at the edge of the trees when Tommy grabbed her arm and pulled her back. She stumbled against the bark and then she heard it too. Booted footsteps on the damp ground.

“They’re patrolling,” Tommy muttered in her ear. “We’ll have to draw them off. If I pull their fire, there’s a window straight ahead you can go through. I levered it open earlier before I almost got caught by the soldiers. Do you remember what we did at Almeida?”

She nodded, the memory of the Spanish farmhouse that had been turned into a makeshift headquarters by French soldiers sharp in her mind. Odd that for all his own treachery, Tommy still didn’t know she’d actually been a double-agent in those days.

“I had a look round earlier,” Tommy went on, the vibration of his voice against her skin. “The ground floor looks empty at this end of the house. The cellar’s the obvious place to hold prisoners. And lay explosives. Though those must be closer to the front of the house if they want to be sure of getting Carfax.”

She nodded again, already unlacing her half boots. She stripped off her silk stockings and unhooked her pelisse. Pity she hadn’t thought to bring breeches.

Tommy exchanged a glance with her. She offered him his pistol. He shook his head. “You’ll need it more than I will. I hope.“ To her surprise, he squeezed her hand. “Au revoir, pet,” he murmured, and slipped out from the trees.

A heavy footstep, a shout, and more footsteps followed. Ostentatious crashing through the hedge as Tommy led them away. Mélanie darted round the hedge, glanced about, and ran to the house. The window opened as Tommy had promised. She pulled herself over the sill and dropped onto polished wood. A console table. She rolled to the ground just as she heard the sound of boots sloshing through mud in her direction.

“Bloody hell! We’ve lost him.”

She peered over the ledge and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, eased the sash down.If it had been shadowy inside the lodge at twilight, it was velvet black in the manor house with the sun gone down. But just in case her form might be visible through the window, she crawled on her hands and knees, over what felt like Turkey carpet and age-worn floorboards, and felt her way to the door.

She inched the door open. No light or sound spilled in. She got to her feet and slipped into the passage.No candle or lamplight illumined the passage and no moonlight spilled through the windows. The wind tore through ancient brick and timber and the rain beat on the roof and windows, making it damnably difficult to listen for clues to where the guards might lurk. It would be a rambling Elizabethan Manor house, all bends and turns and idiosyncratic angles, instead of a nice symmetrical Palladian structure.

After a moment she could make out doors, table, windows by the wall to the left. Nothing that looked as though it led to stairs, so she felt her way to the right. Footsteps sounded above the wind and the rain. She wrenched open the nearest door and ducked into a dark space the smelled of lavender.

A flicker of light showed against the door.

“See anything?” a voice said.

“Not a hair.”

Silence. More footsteps. A sound that might have been a window being pulled open and a muffled shout of “Find him?”

Apparently the answer was negative, because the window was slammed shut with a decisive crash. “Disappeared toward the trees. Back to our post.”

Retreating footsteps. She counted to thirty and eased the door open. Silent darkness. She conjured up an image of the house. Surely there’d be stairs to the cellar toward the back. Near the kitchens. Damn the damp that made it impossible to smell anything beyond sour mustiness.

She inched along the wall, hearing Charles’s voice in her head. Stupid, Mel. Surely one of us should stay alive for the children. But were their positions reversed, she knew he’d be acting precisely as she was.

The passage veered off to the left and right. The right should be close to the outer wall of the house. She moved left, opened one door onto some sort of large chamber and another onto a cupboard full of dishes and silver and cut-glass. She must be near the dining room and therefore the kitchens. She pocketed a knife.

She opened the next door. Cold air, rising from below. She crept forward, felt a newel post, a railing. She hit the first step a little too hard. It squeaked. She felt her way to the wall, where the wood should be more solid. One step at a time, despite the fact that every nerve in her body screamed at her to hurry.

Ten steps, a half landing, ten more steps. A dank smell, sharper than above. Cold, slithery flagstones. She felt her way along the wall. Stone, covered with rough plaster. Seemingly endless feet of it. And then wood and an iron door handle. She risked a low sound her husband would know instantly, though it was designed to pass as a thrush’s call. (Actually, Raoul had taught it to her and she’d taught it to Charles.)

A slow drip of water that indicated a leak. Nothing more. She crept further on, found another door, gave the call again. Her throat hurt.

Silence. And then, an answering sound. Not from this door, but farther down the passage. The wind? A trick of her desperate mind? She followed the sound, found a third door, gave the call again. This time the answer was unmistakable.

Air rushed into her lungs. The door was bolted. Thank God she’d thrown her picklocks into her reticule. It took several fumbling tries to find the right implement and then jiggle it correctly. Her fingers were shaking, as though she were a foolish girl trying to undress her first lover. But at last the lock groaned and she fell against the door, pushing it inward.

Her husband’s arms closed round her. At least, she hoped it was her husband. Yes. She caught the familiar scent of sandalwood beneath the damp and grime.

“There may be a time when I was happier to see you,” he said, his lips in her hair, “but I can’t think when it was.”

“A timely appearance. But then you’ve always had a knack for them,” said another voice from a tactful distance off. Raoul’s voice.

Charles released her.

She put out a hand. “You’re—“

“Alive. And still on your side.“ His hand closed hard round her own.

“We don’t have time. The building’s mined to explode.”

“Where?” Raoul said.

“I’m not sure, but somewhere in the cellars is a good guess. The soldiers may not be real soldiers.”

“How long do we have?” Charles asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Right,” Raoul said. “You two find Carfax and the others and get the house cleared. I’ll find the fuse.”

“You can’t—“ Charles said.

“It’s foolish to risk all of us looking. I can pick a lock and snuff out a candle as well as either of you.”

Charles touched Mélanie’s arm. “You go. I’ll help O’Roarke. Give me your picklocks.”

“Charles—“ she and Raoul said in almost the same breath.

“There’s no bloody time to argue.”

She reached into her pocket, gave Charles her picklocks and Tommy’s pistol, and gave the knife to Raoul. “If you can’t find the fuse in ten minutes—“

“We can take care of ourselves. It’s up to you to take care of everyone else.“ Charles pushed her toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”