Regency Spymasters 01 - Spy Fall (16 page)

“Fireworks!” The vicar’s wife clapped her hands with delight, obviously thinking the flames were part of the entertainment.

Mari’s balloon began a rapid descent, spiraling downward like a bird hit by a hunter. Cosmo’s heart contracted. The one time he’d have welcomed her detaching from a hot air balloon, she didn’t have a parachute with her.

A hush fell over the spectators, who’d begun to grasp that the fire was not a part of the spectacle.

Aldridge gazed skyward, ashen faced. “Lord, help her.”

Cosmo sprinted to Marcel and grabbed him hard by the arm, spinning him around. “Can’t you do something? She’s going to crash!”

His eyes locked on the balloon, Marcel shrugged Cosmo’s hand off. “She retains sufficient lift to prevent that.”

“What can we do?” Cosmo asked urgently.

Maxim’s calm voice penetrated Cosmo’s panic. “There is nothing we can do. The fate of the flight is in Mari’s hands now.”

“She is an excellent balloonist.” Fists on his hips, Marcel stared upward at the blazing, plummeting balloon. “Mari can land it before she runs out of hydrogen.”

Cosmo didn’t see how. First Elinor and now Mari. Horror iced his blood at the thought of losing another woman he loved.

Love
?

His mind stuttered over the realization. He loved Mari. Desperately. Despite everything—her spying, her lying, her determination to ruin his father. Yet, just as with Elinor, he could do nothing to save her.

Fortunately, she seemed intent on rescuing herself. Mari threw ballasts out of the gondola, lightening her load to slow her descent. She moved quickly and with purpose, displaying no signs of panic. Despite his encroaching anguish, pride throbbed through Cosmo at her cool composure, her admirable display of courage even as she hurtled toward probable disaster.

Another gust of wind swept the flaming, plunging balloon away from the horrified crowd and toward the barn, leaving a trail of billowing, black and gray smoke.

His heart beating hard against his ribs, Cosmo sprinted toward where he thought she would come down. Marcel and Maxim followed as she came to a slamming stop somewhere atop the barn, a crash landing that Cosmo heard but couldn’t see.

“Mari! Mari!” he bellowed, running toward the barn. As he rounded the corner, something tumbled off the roof and hit the ground with a sickening thud. His heart stopped. Then he saw it was the gondola. “Mari! Where are you?”

“Must you be so loud?” Her perfectly alive voice reverberated through him.

“Are you well?” he called up to the roof.

“I am uninjured, but a bit tied up, I’m afraid.”

Marcel appeared beside Cosmo, breathing heavily. “What do you mean?”

“I am trapped in the balloon netting.”

Cosmo dashed inside the barn and scrambled up the ladder to the loft. From the window, he hoisted himself up onto the roof. She was trapped in the black netting and cables, the skirt of her yellow gown twisted up around her thighs, baring a tempting expanse of smooth, contoured limbs. Her dark hair was loose and streaming about her shoulders. Relief swamped him, leaving his limbs weak and shaky.

She frowned. “What are you doing just standing there?”

He smiled. “Enjoying the view.”

“Well, stop that,” she snapped, the greens and ambers in her mercurial eyes flashing as she struggled to untangle herself.

“If you insist.” He started toward her.

“Halt,” she cried, alarm filling her voice.

He froze. “What is it?”

“Get off the roof. The last thing I need to concern myself with is you falling. Marcel and Maxim can assist me.”

“You’re worried about me? Did you bump your head when you crashed into the barn? You are the one in danger of falling.”

“I am not the one who is afraid of heights.”

He started inching toward her again. “Don’t be absurd. I do not have a fear of heights.”

She cast a narrow-eyed, sidelong glance at him. “What? You said you did.”

The barn roof creaked beneath his weight as he edged closer to her. “I only said that to get you onto Icarus.”

“You
lied
to get me to ride a horse?”

“Of course.” Reaching her, he grabbed her ankle to assure himself that she wouldn’t tumble off the roof. “Surely you know by now that I cannot be trusted.”

She emitted a
humph
that had no heat as he gingerly knelt behind her to untangle the netting. Sliding one arm around her waist to hold her steady, he relished the scent of lemon and cloves, and the feel of her warm,
alive
body snug against his. “It seems Icarus flew too close to the sun.”

“No.” She leaned back into him as though seeking the comfort of his warmth. “Someone clipped Icarus’s wings.”

He stilled. “Are you suggesting sabotage?”

“How can you be certain?” Marcel asked as he hoisted himself onto the roof from the loft window. “Most of the evidence burned up.”

Maxim’s head popped up from behind his brother. “It’s possible you left a gas valve open. That could have allowed sparks to ignite the gas.”

She stiffened in Cosmo’s arms. “I did not leave the valve open. I am not a fool.”

“Why do you deduce it was sabotage?” Cosmo asked.

“Gas was escaping throughout the ascent,” she said. “That is likely what caused the sparks that lit the fire.”

“Impossible,” Marcel said. “I checked the balloon myself. There were no holes.”

“Someone could have put a hole in the balloon after we checked it,” she said. “It is the only explanation.”

“I don’t follow,” Cosmo said. “If someone did put a hole in the balloon, how would that cause a fire?”

“The blue discharges we saw from the ground were likely static electricity,” Maxim said.

“It is a phenomenon that occurs naturally,” Mari added while trying to help Cosmo loosen the ropes binding her. “A spark such as that could have ignited the leaking hydrogen.”

“Hence the term flammable air,” Cosmo said grimly. Understanding hit him anew that he was hopelessly in love with a woman who put her life in danger as easily as most chits chose a new gown. “That theory suggests our villain has a great deal of knowledge about ballooning and hydrogen.”

“Not necessarily,” Maxim said. “He might have assumed Mari would run out of hydrogen and have nothing to keep her aloft.”

“In that event, the fire is an unexpected bonus,” Cosmo said.

Marcel reached them. “Dunsmore, you hold on to Mari while I untangle the rope.”

“Gladly,” he murmured in Mari’s ear, so only she could hear. She placed her soft hand over his where he held her at the waist and gave it a slight squeeze, a silent communication, which nudged something warm and joyous in his chest.

Marcel’s face was grave as he worked at unknotting the ropes binding Mari to the roof. “Who would have a motive to kill you?”

“Someone who knew about the balloon demonstration,” Cosmo said. “It was a surprise to all of the luncheon participants. Including me,” he added a bit sharply.

Mari’s tapered fingers feathered over his hand, a soft, soothing motion that almost felt like a whispered apology. “It was a surprise to Aldridge, Dunsmore, and the other guests,” she said. “However, I told Rosie, and also mentioned it to Sarah this morning while she helped me dress.”

“You think Miss Chalcroft or the servant girl tried to do away with you?” Maxim asked from his perch outside the loft window.

“It is possible they shared the news with the others. Sarah might have mentioned it to the servants.”

Marcel pulled a rope from around Mari’s hips. “One wonders what motives the servants could have.”

“Or who is paying them for information,” Cosmo said. The idea of someone trying to kill Mari made his blood boil.

“There.” Unraveling the last knot, Marcel stared hard at Cosmo. “You can unhand my sister now, Dunsmore.”

Mari started to move, but Cosmo held her tight. “Not so fast.”

Marcel glared at him. “What are you about?”

“I have one more question.”

“What is it?” Marcel asked curtly, a thunderous expression on his face.

“Not for you.” From his place behind her, Cosmo edged his head around Mari’s shoulder so he could see her face. “Who is Pascal?”

Marcel’s dark expression twisted into a satisfied smirk. “I see you’ve heard of my sister’s betrothed.”

Late that evening, after she had bathed, Mari sat on a stool before the hearth, combing out her unruly dark hair and drying it before the fire. The subtle rap at her bedchamber door, well after most of the household had retired, did not surprise her.

“Enter,” she said, knowing full well who to expect.

Letting himself in, Cosmo closed the door softly behind him. Although he’d dispensed with his tailcoat and cravat, he still wore breeches and a linen shirt that bared the wisps of dark chest hair licking his throat.

He came to sit on the large comfortable chair behind the footstool. Taking the brush from her, he pulled it through her hair in long, soothing sweeps.

“Mm.” She settled against his knee. “That feels heavenly.”

“How are you?”

“Frustrated.” Closing her eyes, she relaxed her head back. “I am trying to determine who wants to hasten my journey to the grave.”

He swept the brush through the length of her hair. “I confess to wanting to kill you myself when I learned of your affianced husband.”

She stilled. “Who told you about Pascal?”

The brush paused, and then resumed the rhythmic, sweeping strokes. “Does it matter?”

“No, I don’t suppose it does.”

“Where is he?” His voice grew tight. “Does he not mind sharing you with other men?”

Other men. There it was again, that bland assumption that she spread her legs as readily as she ate strawberry tarts. “He is in a Paris graveyard.”

The brush stilled. “Dead.”

“Yes.” She nudged her head against the brush. “Don’t stop.”

He resumed his task with increased gentleness. “I am sorry.”

“No, you are not.”

“You’re right. I don’t want to share you with any man.”

“Please, let us not forget you are an aristocrat and a rake, and I am a woman who never intends to marry. We also have conflicting goals that make any emotional attachment between us impossible. You are just feeling tender because of today’s mishap.”

“Yes, we mustn’t forget our roles. What happened to your Pascal?”

“He died in a ballooning accident outside of Paris after setting down in what appeared to a safe landing spot, only it was a marsh.” Her lungs ached at the memory. “He became entangled in the rigging and fell into the water. He drowned.”

“Did you think of him when you almost met with disaster today?”

“No, I felt confident I could land the balloon. If the wind hadn’t pushed me into the barn, the descent would have occurred without incident.”

“Did you love him?”

“Pascal?” She had loved him, deeply, but now her feelings for Cosmo confused everything. She and Cosmo shared an astounding physical connection, a passion beyond anything she’d felt for her intended husband. She’d never before experienced the same level of carnal urgency, nor the powerful releases, that Cosmo wrought from her. The base part of her attraction to Cosmo she understood; what confounded her was the warm, joyous glow in her chest whenever he was near.

“Did you?” Cosmo’s words were strained. “Did you love this Pascal fellow?”

She realized he awaited her answer. “Yes.”

Pulling the brush through her hair, Cosmo quieted. Both his rhythmic movements and the warmth of the fire had a lulling effect. Weariness overcame her, the excitement of the day’s events finally taking its toll. Her lids became heavy, and the next thing she knew Cosmo had settled her against the soft, enveloping mattress of her bed.

“Je suis fatiguée
,” she sighed, snuggling under the counterpane he pulled over her.

“Sleep, my Angel,” he murmured. The warmth of his lips settled against hers for a brief, tender moment, and then he was gone. Her eyes closing, she mumbled a protest at the loss. She drifted off, waiting to hear the door open and click shut. When it didn’t, she dragged her eyes open to catch sight of Cosmo settling back in the chair before the fire, his ebony eyes watchful and contemplative. Feeling protected and soothed by his presence, she gave in to her fatigue.

After leaving Mari’s bedchamber, Cosmo went to the marquess’s study, where he poured himself a drink and settled into a worn leather chair across from his father’s desk.

Learning about Pascal gave him a new perspective on Mari. She must have loved the man a great deal, given that after his death she’d vowed never to marry. In all likelihood, she still loved him. It was obvious that discussing the man even now, several years after his death, remained painful for her.

It made perfect sense that Mari would adore a man who’d shared her passion for aerostation. Unlike him, whose greatest talent was bedding women and making sure they enjoyed it. More than ever, he understood that, at best, he was a passing fancy for her or, at worst, a tool she hoped to use to hasten his father’s destruction.

Eyeing the portrait of his sister, Cosmo threw back the entire contents of his glass, relishing the burn down his throat. “What do you suppose it is, Ellie,” he spoke aloud to the portrait, “about these French, who ensnare our hearts so completely that we would follow them anywhere?”

The brandy seared into his chest, masking the ache that lodged there, where contemplations about Mari intertwined with thoughts of Ellie. He seemed to be thinking about his sister a great deal these days.

He studied the portrait. The artist had done a remarkable job; he’d captured more than just Elinor’s physical likeness. Her essence shone in those light-filled gray eyes that glinted with banked laughter, just as they had always done in life. His sister had been the bridge between him and Aldridge, the subject of their mutual adoration. Without her, they’d gone seriously adrift of each other.

She’d posed in a white dress, standing with one elbow resting atop a low dresser, looking away from the artist, toward a window. The light shone on her, making her skin glow, emphasizing the glimmers of gold in those honey-colored curls, lending her an air of fragility. Funny. He’d never thought of Ellie as delicate. But in the end, she’d hadn’t been hardy enough to survive the birth of her child and the death of her husband.