Sweet Revenge (7 page)

A flurry of wild slashes drove him back several steps. Steel rang against steel as he parried her blows. Regaining his balance, he countered with a series of probing jabs. He handled his weapon with expert ease—it was clear that he wasn’t trying to draw blood, merely to disarm her. Which somehow made her temper flare. Did he think he could toy with her, simply because she was a woman?

Steady, steady.
Reminding herself that fighting a
mano a mano
battle was foolhardy, she edged closer to the curtained window. Saybrook shifted his stance to match her movement, opening up an angle to an iron-banded door, a tradesmen’s entrance, set to the left of the mullioned glass.

Arianna drew a quick breath and darted forward.

With a spinning lunge, he moved to block her path. His boot came up, lashing a well-aimed kick that buckled her knee. As she stumbled, he flicked a chop with the flat of his hand, sending her weapon flying across the room.

“Damn you to hell!” she spat out, rubbing at her bruised leg and then at her wrist. Dropping the French accent, she added a perfectly irate English curse.

“I’ve been there and back,” replied Saybrook calmly, watching a few more downy fluffs seep from the gaping wound in her padded middle. “But be assured, mademoiselle, that I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers from you. And nor are you.”

She shot him a daggered look.

“No need to stare like that. I’m well aware that you would like to cut out my liver and make it into pâté. However, having left a small chunk of myself on the battlefields of Spain, I would prefer to keep the rest of my body intact.”

“I—I was not really trying to hurt you,” she muttered. “I was simply—”

“Trying to escape,” he finished for her. “I don’t really blame you for trying. But I cannot permit that to happen.”

She looked away, expelling a sigh. “How did you know?”

“Like you, I try to be observant, and pay attention to the small details. You are good—very good—but there are certain subtle ways in which a woman is different from a man.”

Her mouth formed a mocking curl. “How
very
clever of you to have noticed, Mr. De Quincy.”

“Your hands, for one thing,” he went on pleasantly, ignoring her sarcasm. “By the by, how did you learn the art of disguise?”

“I had a friend in a theater troupe in Barbados. It seemed a useful skill to know.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Though binding your breasts is cursedly uncomfortable. So is walking around with a wool stocking stuffed in your crotch.”

“I shall take your word for it,” replied Saybrook dryly.

She twitched a grudging smile. “You are a
very
odd man, Mr. De Quincy.”

“That is rather the pot calling the kettle black, Miss . . . or is it Missus?”

“Miss.” Her chin rose a fraction. “Smith.”

“Smith,” repeated Saybrook. “Ah, I should have guessed.”

She merely shrugged. “Speaking of taking my word, sir, I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with poisoning the Prince Regent.”

“I hope, for your sake, that is true.” Reaching over with his knife, he speared a morsel of chocolate from the worktable and lifted the blade to his lips. “It would be a great pity if your sweet secrets went with you to the grave.”

“I know it looks rather suspicious, sir, but I can explain my masquerade,” said Arianna. “However, it has no relevance to your investigation. . . .” She paused.

“I’m afraid I must judge that for myself,” responded Saybrook.

“It’s a rather lengthy story.”

“Nonetheless, I must insist on hearing it,” he said.

“What if I were to tell you that I possess information that could help lead you to the real culprit?” she countered.

“Then I should suggest it would be greatly to your benefit to share it with me.”

Her jaw tightened. “Not without getting something in return from you.”

“You are hardly in a position to bargain,” pointed out Saybrook. Shifting his weight, he began to massage his thigh. “Might we sit down and negotiate over a plate of your special chocolate,” he suggested. “I am willing to listen—” His voice cut off abruptly.

Arianna followed his gaze and caught sight of a shape—more of a shadow—through the light-colored weave of the window draperies. It moved again, a blur of dark against the coarse linen.

“What—”

Reacting at the same split second, Saybrook grabbed her and flung her to the floor, just as one of the glass panes exploded and a bullet whizzed overhead.

W
ith the sound of the gunshot still echoing in her ears, Arianna crabbed toward the side door.

“Stay down,” barked Saybrook, seeing her push up to her hands and knees.

A plume of smoke wafted in through the gaping hole, and with it the acrid tang of burnt powder. Arianna gagged, the smell triggering another rush of memories.
Blood. Screams. Death.
Kingston was a notoriously violent port of call, and escaping the clutches of a slave ship captain had sparked a horrifying brawl.

Arianna’s pulse kicked up a notch, and as she pressed a palm to the wainscoting, she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. No matter which way she turned, the Grim Reaper seemed intent on shadowing her steps.

Get hold of yourself, Arianna,
she thought with an inward grimace. However, the warning was unnecessary. Already her instinct for survival had taken charge and her mind was racing to assess her options.

A quick glance showed that Saybrook had crawled to the door and was lifting the iron latch.

It released with a soft
snick
.

At the same instant, a force outside slammed into the door, flinging it open. A man burst in, the smoking pistol still grasped in one hand. With the other, he raised a second weapon, its hammer already cocked, and took dead aim at her.

A mirthless laugh welled up in her throat as she stared into the unblinking eye of the gun barrel. Of all the damnable ironies—she had survived on her own in some of the most brutal hellholes on earth, only to stick her spoon in the wall in a nondescript London kitchen.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Saybrook lunge with his knife, and the blade, still sticky with chocolate, cut across the assailant’s sleeve.

The pistol fired, echoing her scream.

Dazed and half deafened by the explosion, Arianna fell back against the wall. Through the haze of smoke, she saw a cloud of feathers floating in the air, but as her hands flew to her stomach, she found that only her padding had suffered a mortal wound. Save for a nick on her cheek from a shard of glass, the rest of her was unscathed.

“Buggering bastard.” The assailant cursed and slammed the butt of the spent weapon into Saybrook’s ribs, knocking him back against the worktable.

Biting back a grunt of pain, Saybrook threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding a vicious smash aimed at his head. The tabletop shivered, and a pewter tray crashed to the stone tiles, along with a basket of cutlery.

A kick caught him flush on his injured leg, and Arianna saw his face contort in pain. “Duck!” she cried, casting a look at the spent pistol just out of arm’s reach. If the fight shifted just slightly, she would have a chance. . . .

Saybrook’s hands clenched and somehow his fingers closed around his cane. Blocking a punch, he countered by ramming the silver knob into his assailant’s groin.

The man dropped to his knees with a strangled snarl. “You’re a dead man,” he rasped, sweeping up a bigbladed butcher’s knife from the floor. His voice was further muffled by the black silk mask covering his whole head. There was a slit for his mouth and two rough-cut holes for his eyes, which blazed with a malevolent gleam. “You and that nosy little she-bitch will soon be feeding the fish in the Thames.”

The slim ebony stick wasn’t much of a match for the length of murderous steel. Saybrook shuffled back, darting a sidelong look at the cleavers hanging at the far end of the overhead rack. Arianna saw it, too—another step or two would bring them within his reach.

“De Quincy!” she warned.

The assailant had scrambled to his feet, and with a roar of rage launched into a head-on charge.

Bracing himself, Saybrook managed to block the first stab. He held the advantage in height, but the other man was built like a bull, with thick limbs and slabs of solid muscle. The blade flashed again, slicing the cane in two.

“The next one will sever your jugular.”

Saybrook ducked the slash and spun around, raking the jagged wood across the man’s knuckles.

Blood welled up from the furrow, but the assailant kept hold of his weapon. Its steel danced through the air, sleek and sinuous as a snake ready to strike.

Anticipating the blow, Saybrook quickly dodged to his left, but his leg, weakened by the struggle, was slow to react. The knife cut through his trousers, scoring a gash in his thigh.

Arianna bit back a cry.

The momentum of the attack sent both of them sprawling to the floor. Saybrook landed awkwardly, his head hitting hard against the stone tiles. The other man fell on top of him, flailing, cursing, kicking.

The blood pounding in her ears, Arianna watched with a strangely detached sense of calm.
It was over
. Saybrook was trying to fight off the attack, but it looked as though his strength was ebbing fast. In another moment, she, too, would be dead.

With a savage snarl, the assailant reared up. His upraised arm hovered for a heartbeat in the hazy shadows. . . .

Thwock.
Steel stabbing into flesh made a sickening sound.

Then, as if in slow motion, the blade fell harmlessly from the man’s lifeless fingers and his body toppled forward, landing heavily atop Saybrook’s sprawled form. The impact appeared to rouse him from his momentary stupor. Twisting out from beneath the limp limbs, he eyed the hilt of a carving knife protruding from the man’s back and expelled a ragged breath.

“Thank you,” he croaked, slowly levering to his feet.

“De rien,”
muttered Arianna, wiping her red-stained fingers on the remains of her smock. “You saved my life earlier. Now we are even.”

She quirked a sardonic smile, but realized her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Clasping them to her mutilated belly, she slanted a look at the lifeless body. “Oh,
merde
.” Her words were barely a whisper. “Now I am really in the suds.”

Saybrook bent down and pressed a finger to the man’s throat. “The fellow is dead,” he confirmed after several long moments.

Arianna blinked. “I . . . You . . . you are hurt,” she said, eyeing his slashed trousers, the fringes of charcoal wool now black with blood.

“Just a scratch,” he replied. Sitting back on his haunches, he slowly peeled the mask from the corpse’s face.

“Merde,”
she muttered again, echoing her earlier epithet. It seemed exactly the right word to sum up her sentiments.

“Do you recognize him?” he asked.

Arianna nodded grimly.

“So do I.” But before he could elaborate, the hurried thump of boots upstairs warned that all hell was about to break loose.

How long had it been since the first shot?
A few minutes at most, she calculated.

“Bolt the door,” he suddenly ordered.

Arianna hesitated.