The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

Chapter Thirty-One

"Damn you, Vaughn!" exclaimed St. George, rattled out of role. "You were supposed to be dead by now."

"No, no!" intervened Lady Euphemia, stomping onto the stage. "That's not your line. You were supposed to say — "

Elbowing Lady Euphemia out of the way, Vaughn sprung up onto the stage. "A common problem, it seems. A good corpse is so hard to find nowadays."

Bracing his spear in both hands, St. George sent it whipping through the air with the competence of a man who knew his way with a stick. "Not so hard as you might think, Vaughn. If one knows how to make them."

Vaughn regarded St. George's fancy spear-work with a jaundiced eye. "Haven't we had enough of theatricals? Drop that spear."

St. George brought his spear up in a defensive angle. "Never."

"Never say never," replied Vaughn suavely. His sword sliced through the air in a silver arc.

Unfortunately, the blade connected with the wooden end of the spear and stuck there, like an axe in a chopping block. The shock of it reverberated straight up Vaughn's sword arm. It didn't do his wounded shoulder any good, either. Favoring his left side, he stumbled back a step, cursing.

A broad grin of satisfaction illuminated St. George's face, lighting it to devilish handsomeness. "What was that you were saying, Vaughn?"

With some difficulty, Vaughn wrenched his blade free, taking a chunk of wood with it.

"I say, Vaughn," called out a loud voice from the audience. "Are you meant to be the dragon?"

"Can't be," replied the unmistakable tones of Percy Ponsonby. "Green, y'know. Dragons, I mean."

"Dragons," said Vaughn, his eyes locked on St. George as they circled one another on the stage, "come in many different colors. Eh, St. George? Or should I say…Jamie?"

"You can call me…Your Majesty." St. George jabbed with the spear.

Vaughn leapt lithely out of the way, opening a long rent down St. George's sleeve with a quick side slash.

"I don't think so," Vaughn retorted, his silver eyes glistening dangerously. "Not for the by-blow of a second-rate pretender."

"No, no, no!" protested Lady Euphemia, waving her arms about in the prompting pit. "The Pretender doesn't come on until the second act when we do the reenactment of Culloden."

"By-blow?" demanded St. George. "I advise you to watch your words, Vaughn."

"I don't see why," Vaughn drawled, feinting at St. George's shoulder. "A bastard is a bastard by any other name."

A shocked murmur ran through the audience, who were paying far more attention than they had to any of Lady Euphemia's carefully planned verse. Most seemed to be laboring under the delusion that the production had taken a shift for the better, and were loudly applauding every insult, with speculation on how it was meant to turn out.

"Five pounds on the dragon winning!" someone called out, setting off a flurry of competing wagers.

At the back of the room, Mary caught sight of her brother-in-law, following Vaughn's path to the stage with a look of grim determination on his face.

Sliding off the stage, Mary grabbed her former fiancé by the arm. "St. George has an infernal device behind the backdrop."

Geoffrey's brows drew together. "Explosives?"

Mary nodded. "Packed inside the King's statue. Can you get the audience out?"

"I'll deal with the audience if you clear the wings," said Letty promptly, squirming around her husband's side.

No further words were needed. Geoffrey made for the wings, hauling Lady Euphemia out of her pit with ruthless efficiency. Letty's methods were rather more conspicuous, but just as effective. Scrambling up onto a chair, Letty shouted over the din, "The Prince of Wales has refreshments on the lawn!"

The words "Prince of Wales" and "refreshments" worked their magic. Both the social-climbing and the hungry stampeded to the exit, wanting first crack at the heir to the throne and the lobster patties, respectively. There was much elbowing and shoving and poking with canes as London's elite displayed the savage spirit of their Saxon fore-bearers.

Leaving them to it, Mary hurried back towards the stage, where Vaughn and St. George exchanged blows and insults. She didn't like the way Vaughn's jacket seemed to be clinging wetly to his left shoulder. If the idiot would insist on fencing with a fresh bullet wound…St. George, on the other hand, was in prime fighting condition, his cheeks flushed with the exercise and a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. He was more broadly built than Vaughn, more heavily muscled. Vaughn was leaner and quicker — but for how long? The loss of blood was already taking its toll. He managed to jump over the sweep of St. George's spear, designed to trip him up, but there was a sluggishness to the movement, and he staggered as he landed on his feet again.

Taking advantage of his momentary imbalance, St. George raised the spear with deadly efficiency and dealt Vaughn a powerful whack on his wounded shoulder.

Going gray, Vaughn doubled over, his breath whistling sharply through his teeth. The point of his sword scraped the boards of the stage. Mary didn't think; she acted. She sprinted forwards, intent on throwing herself between them. If she couldn't stop St. George, at least she could slow him down.

"Sebastian!"

The hoarse cry hadn't come from Mary's throat, but that of another woman, fighting her way against the horde of departing guests. Breaking free from the throng, she struggled up onto the stage, using her elbows to lever herself up. Mary could hear the sharp screech of tearing fabric as a splintered edge of wood pulled at her dress. Her blond curls were disarrayed with her exertions; the porcelain prettiness of her complexion marred by red splotches on her cheeks, but Mary knew her instantly.

"Don't even think of it!" snapped Mary, making a grab for the Black Tulip's confederate.

Lady Vaughn was too speedy for her. Scrambling past, she launched herself, not at Vaughn, but at the Black Tulip. Flinging herself at St. George, Lady Vaughn latched on to the arm that held the spear, hanging heavily on to it with both arms so that the wooden shaft missed Vaughn's side and scraped across the floor with a sound like nails on a windowpane.

The Black Tulip was not amused. With a wordless growl of annoyance, St. George sent her flying with a careless backhand, stumbling backwards into one of the footlights. The glass lamp toppled over and smashed, shards of glass sparkling as they scattered, like spray from a fountain.

Off balance, Lady Vaughn tottered for a moment, arms flailing in the air, before losing the battle with gravity and falling heavily over another footlight, banging her head painfully against Turnip's discarded boat, which had been pushed to a resting place at the edge of the stage.

"Another broken vessel," commented St. George bitterly, feinting at Vaughn. It was unclear whether he meant the woman or the glass. He didn't spare so much as a glance for her fallen form.

"You seem to attract a number of those," taunted Vaughn, ducking and weaving, seeking an opening where the long reach of the spear wouldn't thwart his aim. "Why is it that you think they all desert you in the end, St. George? Could it be your looks? your breath? your mad dreams of conquest?"

For all his brave repartie, Vaughn's voice rasped in a way that made Mary distinctly nervous.

He was tiring, the strain showing in his voice and his movements, increasingly sluggish as he ducked St. George's blows. Unhealthy sweat beaded his brow, and his coat was damp with another sort of liquid entirely. Vaughn might have the real sword, but what was two feet of metal compared with eight feet of solid wood? There was no way Vaughn could get close enough to St. George to run him through without getting past that shifting barrier of painted wood. It was too heavy to send flying with a flick of his sword — an attempt bent back his wrist and nearly his sword — and too long to dart past.

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Mary slipped past the crumpled body of Vaughn's wife and snatched up a long oar from the interior of Turnip's Trojan boat. It must have been purloined from someone's rowboat; rather than a pasteboard imitation, it was the real item, a long shaft of wood with a rectangle on one end. It wasn't a ham haunch, but it was nearly as long as St. George's spear, and that was what mattered.

With her oar at the ready, Mary circled the fighters, looking for an opening. St. George was too tall to hit over the head unless he bent over first. She doubted he would be that obliging. A glancing blow to the head wouldn't do more than distract him. That moment of distraction might be all that Vaughn needed to get under St. George's guard and run him through. But watching Vaughn hop over a long sweep aimed at his shins, Mary had another idea.

St. George knew he had the winning hand. With a triumphant snarl, he pressed forwards, the spear lifted to be brought down upon Vaughn's unprotected head. Dropping to one knee, Mary stuck the oar out in front of St. George's legs. An expression of tremendous surprise crossed his face, and he seemed to hover in the air for a very long moment. The spear went spiraling harmlessly into the air, bumping and skidding across the boards of the stage before rolling neatly off the edge.

St. George fell forwards with a tremendous thump that wrenched the oar clean out of Mary's hands. Vaughn leapt agilely back out of the way as St. George hit the ground spread-eagled, an arm stretched out on either side. A small explosion of dust motes rose and settled around him.

A faint groan emerged from the vicinity of the floorboards.

Planting one foot on St. George's back, Vaughn grinned at Mary. "Well done, dear girl."

"Thank you." Mary shrugged her hair back over her shoulders, for the first time aware of her tattered and dirtied draperies, disarranged to the point of indecency. She had lost the filet somewhere along the way, and her armlets had all bunched up around her wrists.

From the expression on Vaughn's face, he didn't seem to mind.

"My very own Boadicea," said Vaughn softly. "You could set a fashion among warrior maidens."

Mary spread her empty hands. "I'm afraid I've lost my spear."

Vaughn's eyes glinted with amusement. "I'd be more than happy to loan you one."

Mary could feel the warmth in her cheeks as she cast a reproving glance at him over St. George's fallen body.

The warmth wasn't just in her cheeks, though. All of her felt uncomfortably warm, with a prickly sort of heat that wasn't just from bawdy double entendres or the intimacy of Vaughn's gaze. In the sudden silence, she could hear a curious crackling noise, a crackle and hiss like paper being crumpled.

With a sick lurch at the pit of her stomach, Mary remembered Vaughn's wife toppling over, with the shattered glass of the broken footlights radiating out around her.

Licking her dry lips, Mary pivoted slowly, following the low trail of flame from the shattered footlights across the stage.

It ate merrily away at Lady Euphemia's prized red velvet curtains, devouring any fallen props in its wake. The flames were already licking delicately at the base of the backdrop, blackening the bottom of the painted castle. Adventurous shoots of flame wriggled upwards, scaling the castle walls.

Behind the backdrop lay the Black Tulip's infernal machine.

"Quick!" Using both hands, Mary pushing Vaughn off the stage ahead of her. He landed on both feet. Barely.

"It won't — " Vaughn began, slightly out of breath.

"An infernal machine," she said tersely, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him along behind her, anxious to put as much space as possible between them and the stage. Heaven only knew if Rathbone's contraption worked. If it did, she didn't want to find out. "Backstage."

She was too busy forging straight ahead to see the change in Vaughn's expression, but she felt it as he rocked to a sudden halt, breaking her grip. With a sharp phrase on her lips, Mary turned, just in time to see Vaughn's face, frozen like Lot's wife turned to salt, in an expression of guilt and horror.

"Anne," he said heavily. Before Mary could do anything to stop him, he wheeled back towards the stage.

Mary caught futilely at his sleeve, her fingernails grazing his sleeve with a hideous rasping noise.

"Don't — " she begged, but the sound of her own plea was drowned out as a thunderous rattle shook the stage and the world cascaded into flame.