The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Mother?” Richard gasped. Good God, Delaroche hadn’t even started torturing him, and already he was hallucinating. But that certainly looked like his mother, and right behind her was . . . Amy?

Richard blinked. It was undeniably Amy—and a good deal of Amy was on view thanks to the unlaced state of her blouse.

“Don’t even think of moving,” Lady Uppington snapped at Delaroche, as Amy sprinted past her and made straight for Richard. Behind her three guards, one fat, one short, one tall and thin, crammed through the entrance and stumbled to a stop just short of Lady Uppington and her pistol.

“Did he hurt you?” Amy grabbed at Richard’s bound hands, and began plucking at the complicated series of knots. “I don’t see any blood.”

Amy concentrated on picking the fibers free from Richard’s wrists, trying not to look at the iron maiden that gaped open in the corner of the room. The straw underfoot pricked at Amy’s bare feet and the stench, a dank stench of rooms long unaired, with a fetid hint of something even more distressing, of blood and fear, made Amy’s stomach clench. She dug her nails into the rope.

Over Amy’s bent head, Richard saw his mother carefully circle so that she could keep the guards within her sights as well as Delaroche.

“Drop those muskets! Drop them, I said!” Lady Uppington harrumphed in annoyance. Three dull thuds followed.

Lady Uppington glowered over the sights of her pistol. “If any of you so much as consider moving, I shall shoot Monsieur Delaroche. Do you understand?”

Much shifting from foot to foot and mumbling ensued from the guards.

“No talking!” admonished Lady Uppington with a wave of her silver-handled pistol that made Delaroche flinch. “Oh, don’t be such a coward, you nasty little man. I assure you, I’m a crack shot. I won’t hit you unless I intend to hit you.”

As far as Richard knew, his mother had never been near a pistol in her life. But who really knew what women got up to in their spare time? It was a terrifying thought. But it wasn’t quite as terrifying as the sight of Amy reaching under her skirts and sweeping up with a dagger in her hand.

“The rope is all bunched together,” she explained in response to his horrified glance. “I can’t untie it.”

“How in the blazes did you get in here?” Richard asked dazedly, trying to keep his eyes off the blade sawing back and forth between some very vital veins. A fiber snapped and he felt the rope slacken a fraction.

“I’ll explain later.” Amy cast a quick, anxious look at the three exceedingly restless guards. Richard flinched as the knife nearly went into his palm.

How long until the sleeping draft took effect? Jane had emptied well over ten doses of the white powder into the small bottle of brandy, enough, she had promised Amy, to put an elephant to sleep for a week. Goliath might look a bit like an elephant, but neither he nor David showed any sign of succumbing to lengthy slumber, and Amy had her doubts as to how much longer Lady Uppington could hold them back. Could Jane have been mistaken about the dosage? David yawned, but, then, he had been yawning before, and it was well past midnight. True, both the big man’s and the little man’s movements seemed slower, but that might be a result of Lady Uppington’s pistol, not the drug.

“Ouch!” Richard yelped.

“Sorry, sorry,” Amy muttered, turning her attention back to his hands. Another fiber snapped, and another. With a determined twist of his wrists, Richard broke free of the rope.

Amy dropped to her knees and began frantically sawing on the ropes binding Richard’s legs. She didn’t like the way that Slingshot was eyeing Lady Uppington, or the way Delaroche was edging closer to a lethal-looking double-headed ax mounted on a crimson velvet stand.

“I’ll take over.” Richard leaned over, wafting Amy away from his legs. Between his mother holding a gun on Delaroche and Amy untying him, he was beginning to feel uncomfortably peripheral to his own rescue. Miles would never let him hear the end of it. Hell, he’d never be able to show his face in male company again. He might as well resign his memberships in his clubs and join a sewing circle. His mother, blast it, was getting far too much enjoyment out of poking Delaroche in the ribs with her pistol.

“Stop!” Lady Uppington snapped, as the little guard staggered a few paces sideways. A few steps closer to the pile of muskets. The little guard stopped, swaying on his feet.

“Sleepy,” yawned the little guard, sagging against the wall.

Richard wrenched at the knots binding his legs, pulling a tail of rope loose with a satisfied grunt. Nearly free.

Thump!

Straw and dust scattered in all directions as the large guard fell heavily to his knees and toppled over facedown on the floor. His smaller colleague gave another large yawn and tumbled on top of him, snoring. Delaroche wrenched his head around in shock. So, too, did a startled and delighted Lady Uppington. Her pistol wavered forgotten in her hand for a mere moment as she beamed at the small pile of sleeping men.

That moment was all Slingshot needed. Moving with all the coiled energy Amy had feared, he knocked the pistol out of Lady Uppington’s hand and grabbed her from behind, wrenching her back with such force that her feet rose off the ground. The pistol skittered across the straw-strewn dungeon floor.

Dropping the dagger with a clatter, Amy dove for the pistol—as did Delaroche. Hampered by her broad skirts, Amy pounced on the pistol just as Delroche’s bony hand swept it up off the flagstones. Her hand clutched empty air and a handful of stray straws. Her left arm banged painfully against the flagstones as she plummeted heavily forward. Winded, Amy gasped for air, but her breath caught in her throat as the long barrel of a silver-and-gold dueling pistol filled her vision.

Amy scrabbled at the dirty floor, hastily scooting backwards as Delaroche followed, a self-satisfied smile on his angular face.

Kicking her legs free of the enveloping folds of her skirt, she lurched to her feet. Delaroche followed her movements with the pistol. Behind Delaroche, Amy could hear the sounds of Lady Uppington’s scrimmage with Slingshot, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the gleaming pistol barrel pointing directly at her heart. To her left, she could hear Richard’s labored breathing and the desperate scrape of the dagger against the ropes that still bound his legs.

“You, Mlle Balcourt”—Delaroche stepped deliberately forward, forcing Amy to slink backwards, her eyes fastened on the pistol—“have outlived your usefulness. You have become . . . how do you say in your barbaric tongue? Ah, yes. A nuisance. But not, I think”—Delaroche herded Amy inexorably backwards—“for much longer.”

Amy skittered to a stop as a disquieting smile disfigured Delaroche’s thin face. Wrenching her head around, she froze as her horrified gaze encountered the bristling embrace of the iron maiden, two feet behind her. Amy made an inadvertent mewing noise of distress. That . . . he couldn’t . . .

“You fiend!” she gasped.

“As you wish,” he replied with a smirk. “Now, if you would be so kind?” Delaroche waved the pistol in a macabre parody of politeness.

Amy cast a quick, panicky gaze around her. To her right, the open lid of the iron maiden blocked a sideways leap. To her left . . . Amy’s breath rushed out of her lungs in a grateful sob as Richard bounded to her side. With one fluid movement, he yanked her out of the path of the iron maiden and positioned himself between Amy and Delaroche. A ragged tail of rope still trailed from his left leg.

“You’ve had your fun for the night, Delaroche,” he said grimly, brandishing Amy’s dagger. “Now it’s time for you to fight like a man.”

Delaroche snarled.

“Richard,” Amy whispered, “he still has a pistol.”

“Mother!” Richard’s eyes didn’t leave Delaroche. “Is that blasted thing loaded?”

“I don’t—urgh!” Slingshot tried to clap his hand over Lady Uppington’s mouth, but she administered a sharp elbow to the rib. “—know, darling!”

“Brilliant,” muttered Richard, circling Delaroche to put the maximum distance between himself and the iron maiden. Trust his mother to bluff her way into the dungeons of the Ministry of Police with a possibly unloaded pistol.

“There is one way to find out,” Delaroche chortled. He aimed the pistol at Richard’s heart. “Farewell, Selweeeck.”

Amy struck at Delaroche’s arm as his finger closed over the trigger, knocking his aim sideways. The pistol discharged, knocking a fragment of stone off the wall. Make that a loaded pistol, Richard concluded, as he came up from his defensive roll. The force of the recoil sent Delaroche reeling several steps backwards. Amy sneezed uncontrollably as acrid black smoke trailed from the pistol.

Delaroche stared in alarm at the smoking firearm. With a sudden movement, he dropped the useless pistol and darted for the double-sided ax.

“Richard!” Amy screamed. She tugged at a broadsword mounted on the wall between two grinning skulls. The weight of the weapon sent her stumbling backwards. Richard raced to her side, grabbing the sword from her just as Delaroche wrenched the ax free of its mount. “Here, take this,” he ordered, pressing her dagger back into her hand. “Free Mother.”

Delaroche swung at Richard, the double blade arcing in a deadly circle through the torchlight. Richard jumped back, leaving the edge of the ax to strike sparks against the stone of the wall. Richard tried to heft his sword one-handed, as he would an epée; his wrist nearly snapped under the strain. Hastily readjusting both hands on the hilt of the weapon and raising it with an effort, Richard cursed softly. Angelo’s fencing academy had never prepared him for this. Devil take it, this was the sort of sword one of his ancestors might have wielded at Agincourt. It had been made for burly barbarians wearing armor and riding massive warhorses—not a civilized nineteenth-century gentleman accustomed to dealing with the niceties of epées. Hell! Richard swung again, a clumsy stroke that missed Delaroche by half a foot.

Clang! The ax clashed against the broadsword, taking a chip out of the blade. Reverberations trembled up Richard’s arms.

Who would have thought that Delaroche would have so much strength in him?

Richard retreated, trying to remember everything he had read in his inquisitive boyhood about medieval warfare. It wasn’t much. Just something about having to strike from above rather than stab with a broadsword, and he wasn’t even sure that was right.

Delaroche’s ax whistled by him again; Richard jumped back as the blade passed within an inch of his abdomen. Delaroche staggered with the force of the swing.

Getting the feel of his weapon, Richard swung again at Delaroche, hoping to catch him off balance. He missed, but the weapon moved more smoothly this time, and his adversary stumbled backwards, the ax dragging visibly. Richard’s lips curved into a predatory grin.

Amy’s ears rang with the wild clatter of their weapons as she ran to the aid of Lady Uppington, still struggling with her captor on the other side of the room. Lady Uppington’s kerchief had been torn off and her sooty hair straggled wildly around her face. The skin around one eye was already beginning to purple and swell, but Lady Uppington fought on undaunted, kicking at her assailant’s calves with her bare feet as he tried to pin down her flailing arms. Blood trickled down Slingshot’s face from a series of nasty scratches that raked from eye to jaw.

“Unhand me, you vile, vile man!” she panted. “Didn’t your mother”—kick—“teach you any manners?”

“Don’t you be saying anything about my mother!” With a growl, Slingshot’s hands shifted from Lady Uppington’s arms to her throat. Lady Uppington made little choking noises as he began to squeeze.

“Nooooo!” Amy launched herself at the guard. Her dagger tore through his sleeve, opening a long, bleeding rent along his upper arm. Roaring with pain, he dropped Lady Uppington, who stumbled, gasping, backwards. Enraged, he turned on Amy. Amy was dumbly regarding the blood darkening the keen metal of her dagger. Oh goodness. She had stabbed a man. And might have to do so again, if the expression on the guard’s face was any guide. Amy hastily yanked her bloodied dagger back into ready position.

Lady Uppington rushed for the fallen muskets, grabbing one off the pile.

“I’ll do it again!” Amy threatened shrilly as the guard advanced on her, his face mottled with rage and blood.

But there was no need. Behind the guard, Lady Uppington laboriously raised the musket. The heavy wooden stock crashed down on his head. Slingshot dropped, unconscious, to the ground.

“Ha!” Lady Uppington exclaimed raggedly. “And about time, too.”

Littered with bodies, the interrogation chamber was beginning to resemble the last scene of Hamlet. In the center of the room, Richard and Delaroche continued to bludgeon each other with weapons that had been old when Shakespeare was young. It wasn’t like any duel Amy had ever imagined; there was no graceful interplay of blades, no quicksilver parries, no lightning footwork. Instead, the combatants lurched awkwardly backwards and forwards, propelled by the sheer weight of their weapons. Both were breathing heavily; both clutched hilts slick with perspiration. Richard limped slightly where Delaroche’s ax had nicked him just above the knee. Delaroche favored his left arm, where Richard had whapped him with the full force of the flat of his blade.

“We should stop them,” Amy breathed, as a reckless swing of the ax passed uncomfortably close to Richard’s left arm.

Lady Uppington’s color was as high and her eyes as bright as her son’s. “Don’t, my dear. You’ll only be in the way.”

Delaroche lunged; Richard whacked the blade away. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he scolded, breathing heavily. “That wasn’t very polite.”

“I don’t need lessons in etiquette from you, Selweeck!” snarled Delaroche raggedly.

“Given what I’ve seen of your entertainment of guests, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Delaroche growled with rage and swung wildly—too wildly. “For our first lesson”—Richard’s blade thrust under his guard—“we’ll discuss the rules of surrender.” With a hearty heave, Richard levered his sword against the handle of the ax, sending Delaroche’s weapon spiraling out of his hands.

Delaroche skidded back. “Your surrender, Selweeck! Not mine!”

Richard advanced. “Your surrender, Delaroche. Or next time my blade strikes home.”

“Arrogant . . . ,” sputtered Delaroche. “English . . .” He whirled, and ran for the door to the dungeon. Richard dropped his broadsword and sprinted in pursuit.

“Guards!” hollered Delaroche.

But only a strangled “Gua—” emerged from his mouth, as he tripped over a fallen musket and plummeted heavily to the floor. Richard skidded to a stop just in time to save himself from tumbling over Delaroche’s prone form. Seizing the advantage, Amy grabbed the closest object to hand—Lady Uppington’s discarded bucket—and emptied the contents over Delaroche’s head just as he opened his mouth to bellow again. A whoosh of dirty water turned his cry to an indignant splutter. A sodden rag flopped from one ear.

“Quick!” Lady Uppington grabbed the rag and shoved it into Delaroche’s mouth, just in case he harbored any more thoughts of calling for reinforcements. Amy quickly bound his legs, while Richard secured his flailing arms. With his trussed limbs, his popping eyes and the ball of fabric in his mouth, Delaroche made a particularly unappetizing suckling pig.

Lady Uppington stood back and glowered at their adversary. “I say we throw him into the iron maiden.”

Whack! Delaroche’s head sagged forward as Richard dealt him an economical blow with a musket barrel. Richard grabbed his mother with one hand and Amy with the other. “I say we leave—now!”

Amy and Lady Uppington were only too happy to comply.