Sliding, falling . . .
Amelia awoke to a hand held over her mouth and a whisper in her ear.
“Shh . . . Someone is in the house.”
Colin’s voice anchored her in the semidarkness. For the space of several heartbeats, the horror and fear from the vivid dream lingered. Then the feel of Colin’s body pressed to her back and his strong arms around her provided much needed comfort.
Awareness seeped in slowly. She noted the elaborate moldings on the ceiling and felt velvet beneath her calf.
They were on the settee in the library. From the look of the fire in the grate—now reduced to mere embers—she had been asleep for at least a couple of hours.
Turning in Colin’s embrace, she faced him and pressed her mouth to his ear. “Who is it?” she whispered.
Colin shook his head, his dark eyes glittering.
Amelia held still, absorbing the tension that gripped his frame. Then she heard it. The sound of a booted foot falling on the parquet floor.
Boots. At this hour.
Her heartbeat leaped from the steady rhythm of slumber to a racing tempo. Unlike her dream, this time it was Colin who was endangered.
He pressed his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss. Then he slid silently off the edge of the couch. On his knees, he fastened his breeches. He drew his discarded shirtsleeves over his head, then reached for his small sword.
She, too, slid to the floor and belted her robe.
“Secure the door when I leave,” he whispered, pulling his blade free of its scabbard with torturous slowness to avoid making any sound.
Denying him with a shake of her head, Amelia crawled over to where a faint glimmer betrayed the jeweled hilt of his dagger lying atop his waistcoat and coat. The moment her hand wrapped around it, he was behind her.
“No.”
“Trust me.” She turned her head to press her cheek to his.
His jaw clenched. “My sanity hinges on your safety.”
“You think I feel differently about you?” She touched his cheek with a shaking hand, tracing the faint line that marked the spot where a dashing dimple appeared when he was happy. “Rest easy. My sister is the Wintry Widow.”
There was a long pause, his throat working as he considered what she was saying.
“Let me help,” she breathed. “How will we ever move forward together if you always leave me behind?”
She knew how the thought of her in danger tormented him, because she felt likewise about him.
Finally, Colin managed a jerky nod. With a swift kiss to his parted lips, she pulled the dagger free of its sheath.
I love you. The words were spoken soundlessly, his lips against hers.
Amelia lifted his hand and kissed the back.
Colin wrenched away from her and moved to the door. At some point while she was sleeping, he had closed it. Now, he turned the knob and cracked it just wide enough to see. The well-oiled hinges made no sound.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone. She counted to ten, then slipped out after him.
Bolstered by the feel of the dagger hilt, Amelia crawled along the runner toward the stairs, her senses acute. The sound of the wind blowing and the nocturnal call of a preying owl grounded her to the moment. She breathed shallowly, her emotions suppressed by the instinct to survive and the need to protect Colin. There was a sudden silence, as if the house held its breath, and then she heard the barest hint of sound—a stealthy footfall straight ahead.
She paused. Pushing to her knees, she huddled in the darkness.
A clear shot, just one.
To her right, a movement caught her eye. Holding the blade and aiming the hilt, Amelia prepared to throw. Her arm was steady, her nerves taut but manageable. She had never killed before, but if it became necessary, she would act first and face the consequences later.
Her arm went back, her focus narrowed on a slim shaft of moonlight lying directly across the bottom step.
Although there was no discernable sound of progress, Amelia sensed the intruder moving closer to that tiny beam of light.
Closer . . . closer . . .
Suddenly, Colin lunged. She knew it was him by the white of his shirt, as he arced through the moonlight. He crashed into a body so well concealed by shadows that Amelia had been unable to see the outline of it at her present angle. A loud crash heralded the colliding of the two figures into a breakable object.
She leaped to her feet. Crossing the hallway, she reached the opposite wall, improving the chances of a successful strike.
It was too dark to identify one form or the other. With both figures tangled in a writhing mass of limbs, she could do nothing but pray.
Mercifully, a door opened on the upper floor. She bit back a sob of relief. The light cast by an approaching lantern bearer was sufficient illumination to catch an uplifted blade too short to be Colin’s small sword. Amelia pulled back her arm and threw, putting weight behind the volley with an oft-practiced lunge.
It spun hilt-over-blade in a lightning quick roll. A pained grunt rent the air. The knife that had been aimed at Colin clattered noisily, yet harmlessly, to the parquet.
St. John rushed down the staircase with a pistol held in one hand and a lantern held aloft in the other. Maria was directly behind him with a foil at the ready.
Light spilled across the foyer, revealing Amelia’s target. Clutching his chest, the intruder sank to his knees. The hilt of the dagger protruded from between his clutching hands. He swayed morbidly for a long moment, then fell forward.
“Bloody hell,” Colin breathed, rushing to her side. “Beautifully done.”
“That was excellent, Amelia,” St. John said with much pride, his gaze on the body lying slumped at his feet.
“What in hell is transpiring out here?” Ware demanded, descending the staircase. Mr. Quinn and Mademoiselle Rousseau joined the gathering in short order.
“Depardue,” the Frenchwoman said. She lowered to a crouch and set her hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently to his back. “Comment te sens-tu?”
The Frenchman groaned softly and opened his eyes. “Lysette. . .”
She reached for the dagger and withdrew it. Then stabbed him again, this time through the heart.
The sound of the blade scraping across a rib bone and a sharp abbreviated cry from Depardue made Amelia shudder violently. “Good God!” she cried, feeling ill.
The Frenchwoman’s arm lifted and fell again. Mr. Quinn lunged and yanked her back, the dagger pulling free with her retreat and hitting the floor. “Enough! You killed him.”
Mademoiselle Rousseau fought her confinement, hurling expletives in French with such venom, Amelia took an involuntary step backward. Then the woman spat on the corpse.
The display left everyone in stunned silence for a long moment. Then St. John cleared his throat. “Well . . . that one is no longer a threat. However, there must be more of them. I doubt the man would come alone.”
“I will search the downstairs.” Colin looked at Amelia. “Go to your room. Lock the door.”
She nodded. The sight of the dead man and the rapidly spreading pool of blood at her feet made her stomach churn. Now that help was at hand, the full effect of her actions began to seep into her consciousness.
“I found something. ”
All eyes turned toward the direction of the foyer, where Tim appeared, carrying Jacques by the scruff of his neck.
“’E was sneaking about outside,” the giant rumbled.
No one could fail to note the Frenchman’s fully dressed state.
“I was not ‘sneaking’ about!” Jacques protested.
“I think ’e let that one”—Tim jerked his chin toward Depardue—“in.”
“Do we have a traitor in our midst?” St. John asked ominously.
A cold chill swept across Amelia’s skin.
“Ça alors!” Mademoiselle Rousseau threw up her hands, one of which was covered in blood. “Should we be wasting time on him when there could be others outside?”
Tim looked at St. John. “We caught three more, not including these two.”
Colin’s face hardened. “We will question all of them, then. Someone will tell us something of import.”
Mademoiselle Rousseau snorted. “Absurde.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Simon asked with exaggerated politeness. “Torture him slowly over many days? Would that better slake your blood lust?”
She waved her hand carelessly. “Why exert yourself? Kill him.”
“Salope!” Jacques yelled. “You would eat your own young.”
St. John’s brows rose.
“She works with me,” the Frenchman cried, struggling in Tim’s grip. “I, at least, can bear witness to Mitchell’s innocence in the matter of Leroux’s murder. She has nothing of value.”
“I beg your pardon?” Colin said, his frame stiffening. “Did you say you both work together?”
Amelia wrapped her arms around her waist, shivering.
“Ta gueule!” Mademoiselle Rousseau hissed.
Jacques’s smile was maliciously triumphant.
“I think we should separate them,” Colin suggested.
St. John nodded.
“I will take Lysette,” Simon said with a hard edge to his voice.
When the Frenchwoman shivered with apparent apprehension, Amelia looked away and fought a flare of sympathy for the woman.
“Come along, poppet,” Maria murmured, linking arms with her. “Let us gather tea and spirits for the men. We have a long night ahead of us.”
Colin stared at the man he’d thought was a friend and attempted to comprehend the fullness of the plot being explained to him. “You have been working with Mademoiselle Rousseau from the beginning? Before you met at the inn a few days ago?”
Jacques nodded. He was bound to a damask and gilded chair in Ware’s study, his calves tied to the legs, his hands restrained behind the back. “We did not meet at the inn. I have known her for some time now.”
“But you both acted as if you had just become acquainted,” Simon argued. When Mademoiselle Rousseau had proven to be more stubborn in holding her silence, he had left her bound and guarded in a guest room and joined the rest of the party in questioning her coconspirator.
“Because we had to make you believe that this matter was about Cartland and his murder of Leroux,” Jacques explained.
“Is that not what this has all been about?” St. John asked, frowning.
“No. The Illuminés sought to end your inquiries and activities in France, which have become increasingly troublesome. I was sent to discover the identity of your superior.”
Colin froze. “The Illuminés?” He had heard whispers of a secret society of “enlightened” members who sought power through hidden channels, but the rumors were unsubstantiated. Until now. “What do they have to do with Leroux?”
“None of this had anything to do with Leroux,” the Frenchman snapped. “In fact, Cartland’s murder of Leroux has been a complication.”
“How so?” Simon asked from his position on the settee. Dressed in his evening robe and holding a cheroot in one hand, he looked the part of a man at leisure, which was definitely not the case.
“The Illuminés learned that Mitchell was returning to England,” Jacques said. “I secured a cabin aboard the same ship with the intent to befriend him on the journey. It was hoped that our association would eventually lead to a disclosure of the identity of the man you work for here in England. I followed Mitchell the night we were to set sail, and I took advantage of the opportunity presented to me. I used the situation to build a friendship with Mitchell.”
“Fascinating,” St. John murmured.
“And what of Lysette?” Simon asked.
“Mitchell was my target,” the Frenchman said. “You were hers. The Illuminés do not like to leave anything to chance.”
“Bloody hell.” Colin growled his frustration. “And what of tonight? What role did Depardue play?”
“He was responsible for discovering the truth regarding Leroux’s death, which is a personal matter to the agent-general.”
“So I am still wanted in France,” Colin said, “and someone must pay for Leroux’s death. My predicament has not changed, merely your and Mademoiselle Rousseau’s role in it.”
Jacques smiled grimly. “Yes.”
“And now Depardue is dead.”
“Do not regret that outcome, mon ami. As Mademoiselle Rousseau can attest, he was a far from honorable man. I would never allow you to suffer for his crimes. I assured you of that from the beginning.”
“But you allowed Depardue into my house,” Ware pointed out. “Why?”
“Cartland sent him to find Miss Benbridge,” Jacques explained. “I agreed to assist him, but my intent was not to let him succeed. I had hoped to be the one to ‘discover’ him and kill him, thereby deepening your trust in me.”
“I do not understand.” St. John stepped closer. “Why does Cartland trust you?”
“Because of Depardue. When Mitchell and I were still in London, I searched for Cartland. I found Depardue and told him I was working with Lysette to apprehend Leroux’s killer. Lysette’s involvement made Depardue wary. This created an opening with Cartland, who needed alternate French support because Depardue did not believe him.”
“Where is Cartland now?” Colin asked.
“At the inn, waiting for word.”
Colin looked at Quinn, who stood.
“I will change swiftly,” Quinn said.
St. John rose. “I shall come along, as well.”
“I will stay here with the women,” Ware offered. Then he smiled. “Though I doubt they need my protection.”
Colin left the room and moved toward the library with a rapid, eager stride. Quinn fell into step beside him.
“It appears that your vindication is at hand,” the Irishman said.
“Yes. Finally.” Anticipation thrummed through Colin’s veins and made his heart race. The divide separating him from Amelia still existed, but the scent of their lovemaking clung to his skin and gave him hope. She loved him. The rest would come in time.