A Spark Unseen

25

I left Mary in the salon with the police and hurried up the stairs. The fires in both houses had been deliberately set, of course, and two gendarmes found it their duty to inquire as to why. While I feigned fright and illness like a proper sort of lady, Mary acted the part of a heroine. She was speaking much faster than the poor Frenchman could possibly write, using her best British Cockney, filling her story so full of nonsense I was surprised he had not already given up and gone home, especially when a more coherent statement could be had next door. Mrs. Reynolds’s recitation of events was nearly the same if one could sift through the chatter, except for the five strangers hurrying down her stairs in the confusion — “burglars” she’d called them — two with a large box between them, two more supporting an old man who appeared to be either ill or asleep. The thought of this made my feet move faster as I went softly up the steps. I locked the storeroom and ducked back through into my uncle’s workshop.

Joseph slouched against one wall, silent and with his hands in his pockets. His cousins had made themselves scarce before the gendarmes came, but his brother, Jean-Baptiste, sat against the wall, trimming his fingernails with a short, sharp knife. Lane straddled one of our two unbroken chairs, elbows propped on its back to face Henri, who was tied to the other one. His jacket strained at the shoulders where his arms were pulled tight behind him, each ankle bound to a chair leg.

A quiet conversation in French had been going on between the two of them, but they stopped when I entered, two dark heads turning to look at me, one with his sleek smugness only slightly ruffled, the other tan-skinned, gray-eyed, still bloody, and not a little wild. He was calm, I saw, but fighting his temper; I knew that set of jaw and the stony quality of his eyes. I wondered what sort of infuriating things Henri had been saying to him, but mostly I thought that the person Lane actually needed to be having a conversation with was me. I had no notion how he fit into what was happening here at all.

Lane stood and came across the littered floor to meet me, as if he did not want me near the man in the chair. I opened my hand and showed him the empty green bottle in my palm.

“They will have given him this,” I said, ignoring the feel of Henri’s eyes watching us. “If they got it all down him, then we have five, perhaps six hours. Last time he … he did not wake well.”

Lane took the bottle, rolling it in his fingers. “This is how you got him here?” I nodded, and he turned his body just a bit, partially blocking the view of the man tied to the chair. “Is Mr. Tully all right? Has he been … well?”

“Well enough,” I replied. We both knew Uncle Tully was not well now. “What are we going to do?”

Lane put a hand on the back of my head, kissing me once on the forehead before he went back to Henri, sliding easily into his backward position on the chair. I met Henri’s dark eyes and the impertinent smile playing about his mouth, and suddenly had a very good idea of the sort of thing he’d been saying to Lane. That peck on my forehead had been about more than affection, and we were all aware of it.

“Tell me what you know about Ben Aldridge,” Lane said to him. We were speaking English now, I noted.

“If you are meaning Arceneaux, you should be asking that question of her, my friend,” Henri replied, eyes still on me.

I saw Jean-Baptiste’s knife slow as he watched the proceedings intently, waiting for the word to intervene. Though a brew of anger and betrayal simmered just beneath my rib cage, I was also silently willing Henri to stop being an idiot.

“Or perhaps you have not had much time for talking,” Henri continued, smiling at me. “That blood on your face is not your own, is it, chérie?”

My hand jumped to my cheek. Of course I had Lane’s blood on my face, which would explain the way Joseph had stared, and Mary’s offer of a handkerchief. And since when had Henri ever called me his “darling”? I dropped my hand and lifted my chin. Henri probably deserved whatever he got.

But Lane only said, “I will ask you again.”

He had not even changed his position in the chair, yet there was something behind his words, something that riveted the attention. From the corner of my eye, I watched Joseph straighten and Jean-Baptiste’s knife go still. There wasn’t a man in this room that was not going to do exactly as Lane said when he spoke like that, including Henri, I realized, and the revelation startled me.

Henri shrugged against the ropes. “I was told to find out about his background, to mingle in his society. But he was a man favored by the emperor, high in the imperial circle. …”

“Then you knew him,” I said, “before the ball.” This hurt me. I could not help it. “And Mr. Babcock? Did you know about that, too?”

Lane looked back at me. “Is Mr. Babcock here?” Before Henri could respond or I could think how to answer, Joseph started speaking rapidly in French. Joseph almost never spoke in English, but it was good to remember that he understood his share of it. I watched Lane’s face darken and, when Joseph had finished, Lane said, “I’m sorry, Katharine.”

I took a breath against the pang in my chest and looked back to Henri. “Did you know? Is that why you took me to the morgue?”

Lane’s gray eyes slid between us, but Henri was looking directly at me. “I swear to you I did not. And I did not intend to lose sight at the ball. On the grave of my mother.”

“And what did you intend?” asked Lane.

Henri grinned. “Why, to find you, of course. Wickersham said she would lead me to you if she could and so she did, though the lady is not the talker. But I am guessing you know this. You should take her dancing more, mon ami.”

I held my breath as Jean-Baptiste watched Lane, waiting for a sign. Nothing came. But I had seen the muscles in Lane’s back tightening. I came to stand just behind him. When the low voice spoke again, it was dangerously quiet.

“And what did you find about Ben Aldridge?”

“Nothing at all since my assignment was changed.” Henri’s eyes went sly. “Since Wickersham asked me to find the traitor who had left our ranks.”

By “traitor” he meant Lane, and then my own temper was igniting. “That is quite a word coming from you, Mr. Marchand.” I nearly spat the words. “Remind me what country you were born in again?”

“I am no traitor to France,” he replied, once again serious. “I do not betray France if I wish to see the emperor overthrown.”

“You favor the royal line, then?” Lane said.

Henri lifted a shoulder. “I would see a king in France.”

“So you help those that are the enemies of France?”

“I aid the enemies of Napoléon,” he corrected.

Lane smiled. “I sympathize. But you are not helping the enemies of Napoléon.”

“Allies or not, England will see the emperor overthrown,” Henri said. “She must.”

“England may. But Wickersham will not.”

Again Lane had not moved, or significantly changed his voice, but somehow the entire room had fixed its attention.

“Let me explain,” he said. “When you have information you are to write to Wickersham’s secretary, Mr. Johnson at the British Embassy, in English, with a particular wording that tells Wickersham when and at which of your chosen places you are to meet. Am I right?”

Henri remained silent.

“I know I am right,” he continued, “because those were the instructions I followed for over a year. Until the day I arranged my meeting, and Wickersham didn’t come. My information could not wait. It was so important, in fact, that I boxed up a silver service and took it to the embassy, said it was to be an imperial gift, that the order was late and that I’d been instructed to put it directly into Mr. Wickersham’s hands. In short, I made such a nuisance of myself that they showed me to Wickersham’s office. Only the office didn’t belong to Wickersham.” Lane spoke directly into Henri’s gaze. “It was Ambassador Cowley’s office. Wickersham was his secretary, unexpectedly sent to London for a few days. And the man Johnson, our contact? Always taking down Wickersham’s notes? Wickersham’s valet.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. I shook my head in confusion, and he reached up to find one of my hands, absently rubbing a thumb across the back of it. Henri stared.

“It explained a good deal,” Lane said. “Like why we were not allowed to take Ben Aldridge, only watch, even when I told Wickersham what he was buying and what I was sure he was building. And why the British government didn’t just come and take Mr. Tully in the first place. And why, the very next day after Wickersham returned from London, I began an annoying routine of having bullets whizz past my ears.”

I tightened my grip on Lane’s hand.

“My trip to the embassy was unappreciated. A new residence seemed wise. And why would that be, do you think, if all of these doings had the blessing of the ambassador? Wickersham is making a play for power, or position, or both. Or he’s working for someone else. Russia, maybe … Who knows who he’s dealing with, or who he might be double-dealing with? Anyone who wants the weapon for themselves or wants to keep someone else from getting it. I found Wickersham’s rooms. I searched them, and Johnson’s. I even watched him meet with you. …”

That surprised Henri, I saw.

“But he is careful, and in the end all I knew was the one government he was not working for, and that was the British. He played us all for fools. I don’t enjoy being played for a fool. Do you?”

A heavy silence filled the attic, the sound of truth settling in. I thought of Wickersham’s brash behavior in my morning room, his ungentlemanly overconfidence. I’d never once thought to question his credentials. I realized that Lane and Henri were now staring at each other, like two dogs circling, Lane’s thumb very deliberately tracing the veins of my hand.

“Oh, stop it,” I said, jerking my hand away. “Both of you.” I saw Henri’s brows go up at that. “I don’t care who Mr. Wickersham is at the moment. How do we get Uncle Tully back?”

Instead of answering, Henri asked suddenly, “What is the weapon?”

Lane and I glanced at each other before his gaze slid back to Henri.

“Listen to me.” Henri’s voice was grave. “I do not know this man, this Mr. Tulman, except for what Wickersham has said, that he was a lunatic caged and badly treated by his niece. I can see this lie, and I can see that you are not lying to me now, mon ami.” This last had been to Lane. “And as for the so-called emperor of France, I think we can find agreement, there, yes?”

Lane did not answer, but the gray eyes held Henri’s brown for some time.

“What is the weapon?” Henri asked again.

Lane glanced at Joseph and Jean-Baptiste, still standing ready, and then again looked at me. I gave him one tiny tilt of my head. He turned back to Henri. “It will sink an ironclad ship.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Quite certain,” I said. I saw him eyeing the discarded brass wheel I had snatched from him earlier, now sitting on the righted workbench beside us. I didn’t need to explain the importance of such a weapon to him.

“Your uncle,” Henri said, “he made the bells ring?”

I saw Lane’s brows go up. “Yes,” I replied.

“And he can make this weapon, to sink an iron ship?”

“Yes.”

Henri turned to Lane. “Then I have three questions, my friend.”

Lane smiled. Henri was, after all, tied to a chair. “Ask your questions.”

“Why did you not leave Paris when your life was attempted? Where have you been these past days, and what was so urgent to tell Wickersham?”

I watched Lane, to see if he would answer. These were all things I wanted to know, too. Lane shrugged, much as Henri had against his ropes. “I don’t mind telling you. I did not leave Paris because Ben Aldridge and I have unfinished business between us, business that has nothing to do with Wickersham. Even more so now. And as for where I’ve been, I was underground. Beneath a crypt in what I think was a wine cellar.”

“Ben must have been keeping you for Uncle Tully,” I said, suddenly putting this together, “to have you there, so Uncle Tully would work.” Which meant Ben would have never traded Lane for my uncle. “How did …”

I paused. Lane had straightened, his lazy stance in the chair gone. Jean-Baptiste slid up the wall to his feet. “You said Ben Aldridge was at Stranwyne, trying to take Mr. Tully. You mean he came himself? Into the house?”

“Yes. But they went to the wrong door. It’s been so long, he must have forgotten which was the —”

“Which wrong door?” Now Lane had gone absolutely still. “Was he in your bedroom?” I reached down and took his hand back in mine. He let me, but his eyes did not move from my face. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the scar on my neck.

“I am not hurt,” I said. “I —”

“This is most interesting,” said Henri, breaking into our conversation, “but perhaps you can continue your little quarrel at another time? I would like the answer to my last question.”

The gray eyes were back on Henri now, and there was a storm in them.

“What was your information that could not wait?” Henri insisted.

“I think I know what you went to tell Wickersham,” I said, pulling Lane’s gaze back to me. “You went to tell him that Ben Aldridge is the son of Napoléon the Third.”

Lane waited a moment before he nodded.

“Ah,” Henri said. “Then I am sorry for him. That is an unfortunate dealing of the cards.” He glanced very deliberately at my hand, pale in Lane’s tan one, the impertinent grin lurking once again at the corners of his mouth. “Would you not agree, chérie?”

I only just kept from rolling my eyes as Lane’s grip strengthened, his thumb beginning another slow trace of the veins in my hand.

“Yes,” Lane said. “That is very unlucky. For him.” These words had nothing to do with Ben Aldridge’s origins. Lane smiled, the wicked one I remembered of old, and Henri smiled back. Two knowing smiles that might have erupted into a fight if one of them had not been tied to a chair.

“Just stop it!” I snapped, pulling away my hand. “I don’t care what you two think of each other, or who Ben’s father is, any more than I care about Mr. Wickersham at the moment. We have to get Uncle Tully back! Lane, where were you when you got out of the cellar?”

Henri cut off Lane’s answer. “It was the Saint-Merri, was it not?”

Lane tilted his head in agreement.

“So I thought. You must take me there with you.”

Lane smiled again. “And why should I do that?”

“Because I know where the man you call Aldridge goes underground. I know where he had you. And … I know the back way in.”

The skepticism in the room could have been cut with the knife of Jean-Baptiste. Henri tried to lean forward, straining against his bonds.

“You must listen. It is where he has taken him. There is nowhere else. And they will be watching the Saint-Merri now that you are gone, mon ami.”

Lane stared hard at Henri.

“You will need the back way in.”

Lane sought my face and I saw the question there. He did not want to trust Henri, but he was afraid we might have to.

“Why?” I asked Henri. “Why help us bring him back?”

There was no tease in his voice when he replied, “Because if all that you say is so, Miss Tulman, I would not give this weapon to a Bonaparte. We may disagree on many things, but I do not think we disagree on that.” He gave an upward glance to the window. “You will have to decide soon. We must leave before the light or wait for the evening.”

Lane put his elbows on the back of the chair. “I don’t know that I believe there is a back way. But if we go to see, are we clear on who is in charge?”

“Oh, I have always been certain of that, mon ami.”

Lane’s brows came down, but Henri again stopped his teasing, his face going serious. “I have no wish to see the old man harmed, but I swear to you, I would not put this weapon in the hands of the emperor.”

The room was quiet, only the ticking of Uncle Tully’s clocks marking the silence. “Untie him,” Lane said to Joseph.

All the impudence I was used to seeing on Henri Marchand’s face returned full force. Before Joseph or his brother could even move he had sighed with relief and slipped his arms from their bonds, wriggling out of the loops around his wrists, stretching happily before reaching down to untie his own legs. He stood, slicking back his hair, and grinned at me.

“It is easy to be fooled by a magician, chérie. Do not forget that I like tricks of all sorts.”

“Call her that again and I will hit you twice,” Lane said, matter-of-fact. We all believed him.

Henri smiled as he straightened his sleeves. “What an amusing time we shall have.”