A Lady's Revenge (35 page)

“Yes, but your henchmen are going to murder two earls, a viscount, a child, and a woman? You don’t think a casualty list of that magnitude won’t raise a few eyebrows?”

“Of course it will,” Valère said evenly. “But all evidence will point to an unfortunate tragedy, nothing more.”

Guy’s stomach churned at the way they had all been duped by this madman.
Somerton.
The chief could be upstairs, even now.

“Besides, had I completed my task in such a vulgar manner as you suggest, I would have been deprived of my little amusements.” His chest expanded, and his features transformed into an expression of victory and complete insanity. “I will most assuredly receive a marshal appointment now.”

Cora pressed farther into the stone wall, her gaze intent. “I am so pleased for you. I can think of few people more qualified to stand at Napoleon’s side.”

After what Somerton revealed about the slaughter in the West Indies, Guy could not agree more.

“Your tone displeases me,
ma
petite
. Perhaps it is time to reacquaint you with your friends.”

She shot a fearful glance toward Guy, or rather, the doorway leading to escape, gauging the distance.

In a move reminiscent of his rescue mission in France, Guy risked discovery and leaned forward until her startled gaze locked with his.

Cora’s body quaked with relief when Guy’s shadowed face came into view. He was alive. From what she could see, he appeared to be intact, too. No gaping bullet wounds, no plunging dagger holes, only a few more cuts and bruises. Afraid she would alert Valère to Guy’s presence, she turned her gaze to the squirming bag.

The Frenchman knelt down beside the sack of crawling rodents and slid his knife beneath the knotted rope. The woven cloth sagged open, and a dozen brown angry rats grappled for freedom.

Another quick glance at Guy, and Cora knew what she had to do.

Taking three wide steps to the left, away from the door, she drew Valère’s gaze back to her.

The Frenchman stood, watching her with a feral gleam of amusement while kicking away a rat that came too close.

“Where do you go,
mon
coeur
?” He followed her progress around the room.

The rats’ whiskered noses lifted in the air, tracking the foul scent covering her body. Cora’s courage faded when, as one, they turned toward her.

Her skin itched and pricked as she recalled the scrape of their tiny claws on her bare flesh and the piercing pain of their sharp teeth. She allowed herself one cleansing shudder and then shored up her nerves and concentrated on her current task—keep Valère’s attention on her.

The rats scuttled closer.

As she moved farther into the recesses of the dank cell, Cora raked her hands down her breasts, molding the soaked chemise to her chilled skin.

“The personal revenge you seek,” Cora said to Valère, gratified to find his hard gaze on her hands. “It confuses me.”

“Why is that?” Valère asked in a hoarse voice.

“You and I, we are spies. We deal in lies and deceptions.”

She paused, flinging the excess slop off her fingers. It slapped against the walls.

Several rats broke off from the pack, scurrying toward her to investigate the new source of potential food.

“Your point,
ma
chère
?”

Her hands skimmed over her hips. “It is rare to come across another agent who matches either of us in intelligence and cunning.”

She sensed more than saw Guy slip into the room. With his back facing the door, Valère took no notice of the intrusion.

Valère’s chest heaved, his breaths now audible in the small room. “I grow weary of your verbal games. Say what you mean. I have business upstairs, and your friends are hungry.”

Using the same scraping motion, Cora smoothed her cupped fingers down her offal-caked arms. “I would have expected you to consider my flawless penetration of your company with a modicum of admiration and mutual respect. But instead of appreciation, you showed yourself to be petty and ridiculous. You acted like a spoiled child who had his sweets taken away.”

“I will show you spoiled, you stupid English cow.” He lunged for her.

Cora flung a stream of stinking filth into his face.

“Ah!” He stopped short, wiping the liquid from his good eye.

Guy swooped in, bringing a long cudgel—no, a broomstick—down on the back of Valère’s head with enough force to snap it in half. The blow sent the Frenchman to his knees, and his knife skidded into a corner.

Cora ran toward her clothing piled on the floor.

Holding his head, Valère squinted up at Guy. “You!” He made to rise, but his knees buckled again. “English
cochon
!”

“Cow, swine, dog,” Guy said. “The French really need to be more creative with their curses. So dull, wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”

Cora stood, hiding the paperweight behind her back. “Indeed,” she said, unable to come up with anything more clever.

Guy pulled a pistol from the back of his breeches and pointed the barrel at Valère’s head. With a voice devoid of amusement, he said, “Your reign of brutality ends tonight, Valère.”

Cora’s heart pounded in anticipation, and nervous excitement hummed through her body. Years of searching, intrigue, and compromised morals narrowed down to this one moment in time. She wanted Valère to die, had envisioned it for weeks.

“Wait,” she said. “I wish to see his face.”

“Stay where you are, Cora,” Guy said in a rough voice. “This is not a memory you want to keep.”

Ignoring his command, she approached Guy’s side and noticed a trickle of sweat gliding down his temple. “Of course, it is. I shall sleep better knowing the deed is done.”

Guy swiped away a layer of sweat from his forehead. “You will know without having to see the damned thing.”

Something about the quality of Guy’s voice and the intensity of his burning gaze alerted Cora to his inner struggle, but she could not discern the source.

“My, my,” Valère said, sitting back on his heels. “The two of you make quite a pair.”

“Shut up,” Guy warned.

“That is a pretty trinket you have wrapped around your neck,
mon
coeur
. Now where did you come by such an unusual cameo?”

Cora’s hand went to the necklace. Her fingers found it glazed with the same filth covering her body. Without thought, she rubbed it away until the ivory relief of a female profile set against the orange background materialized.

“Ah, yes. There she is,” Valère said with unexaggerated wonder. “
Marianne.
Our beloved
Déesse de la Liberté
. With such a treasure at my emperor’s side, France will be invincible.”

Guy snorted. “You dare use emperor and equality in the same breath, Valère?”

“Once the world embraces French ideals, my emperor’s generosity will know no bounds.”

“And if the world does not embrace Napoleon’s oppression?”

Valère’s smile was condescending. “Hardly oppression, my lord. But to answer your question, it is not a matter of if, but when.”

Cora heard the men’s discourse, but in the way one overhears a conversation in another room. Valère’s notice of her mother’s necklace disturbed a haze of thoughts and images buried in Cora’s mind. But everything was jumbled, and nothing would align in any logical order.

Why would her father give her mother a symbol of France’s freedom? Both her parents had familial connections to the country, but to present one’s wife with such a revolutionary icon reeked of unpatriotic alliances. Valère’s taunt surfaced again. “
Had
your
father
followed
instructions, he would still be alive and able to betray his country again and again.
”

“Tell me,
mon
coeur
,” Valère said, interrupting her disturbing line of thought. “Where did you come by the cameo?”

Her hand tightened around the pendant.

“Cora,” Guy said. “Do not engage this bastard in conversation. He is only trying to confuse you.”

She did not have to be reminded of Valère’s treacherous nature. But she sensed long-sought-after answers stood just outside her grasp. “My father gave it to my mother.”

“Oh,” Valère said. “When was this? Before or after his silence killed her?”

Cora stepped forward. “What?!” Bile clogged Cora’s throat, and her mind began to spin out of control.

Guy grasped her arm and kicked at Valère. “I told you to shut up, you bloody bastard.” Pulling her back to a safe distance, he admonished, “Don’t go any closer.”

“And why would I listen to an Englishman afraid of his own shadow?” Disdain dripped from Valère’s voice. “Your father thought he could outmaneuver me, but in the end it was I who won our little game of—how is it you English say it? Ah, yes—cat and mouse.”

Cat
and
mouse?
Cora didn’t have time to sift through Valère’s verbal swordplay. Her attention was drawn to Guy’s unsteady grip on the pistol. His hand shook so badly he would never have been able to hit Valère, not even at this close distance. Her gaze shot to Guy’s face, and her heart stuttered at his transformation in so short a time. His healthy, sun-kissed skin was now devoid of color with the exception of the black hollows beneath his dark eyes. Eyes that bore into Valère as if they had just witnessed the terrible atrocities of hell.

Not understanding Valère’s insults or Guy’s reaction, she ventured a tentative, “Guy?”

He did not respond, simply blinked his eyes hard, as if he were trying to force away an image.

“What does Somerton think of his assassin now,
my
lord
?”

Guy’s grip on her arm turned bruising as he cocked the hammer. Fearful he would kill the Frenchman before she got her answers, she blurted out, “I found the cameo on the carpet near my mother’s body.”

“Of course.” Valère’s face lit with a sickening triumph. “Your mother must have torn it free of my fob chain during… her last moments. The cameo’s loss did not come to my notice until I was safely ensconced in my carriage. I experienced a trying few days of worry and disappointment at being deprived of my favorite adornment. But you have protected it for me all of these years,
mon
coeur
.
Merci.
”

A lifetime of memories crashed in on her.

Their family’s frequent trips to the Continent, her father’s rages, her parents’ murders, the murderer’s French accent, the cameo, her training, the British ships, Valère… Where before, she could not make sense of it all. Now, everything aligned in perfect symmetry.

All of this time she had held the key to the murderer’s identity around her bloody neck. Why did she never mention the cameo to Somerton? Surely he would have understood the symbol’s importance. Instead, she had kept Valère’s trinket to herself, thinking she held a precious memory of her mother and father’s last intimate moment together. What a complete, melodramatic fool she had been.

Fury unlike anything she had ever experienced before welled up inside of her. She ripped the necklace from her neck and threw it at Valère.

But he seemed to have anticipated such a response, for he used the distraction to his advantage. In a violent whirl of movement, the Frenchman grabbed a nearby rat and threw it at Guy’s head. Guy ducked and fired his weapon, nicking Valère’s right shoulder.

It was not enough to slow him down. He seized Cora by the waist and pinned her to his chest. From a concealed pocket, he drew forth another knife and pressed it against her throat.

It all happened so fast that Cora had no time to react.

“You English, with all of your high morals and petty emotions, make it too easy,” Valère said.

Cora stood on her toes to keep the knife’s sharp edge from slicing her skin. She peered at Guy and was taken aback by the savagery marring his handsome face.

“And you should have stayed on your knees.” Guy’s hand tightened around the spent gun. “Before I am through, you will be begging for a bullet.”

“You exhibit a great deal of confidence for a man without a weapon.”

The knife quivered against Cora’s neck, scoring her skin and releasing a soft trickle of warm blood.

She considered Valère’s shaking arm and realized the bullet wound must be worse than she had originally thought. Cora took comfort from the solid mass of the paperweight in her right hand, her fingers curled around its smooth surface. She would have one chance, and one chance only, to make her escape.

Guy said, “I do not need a weapon to kill a man who hides behind women’s skirts.”

Valère spat on the ground. “
Merde!
I do not hide—”

Cora arched her hand wide and bashed the paperweight into his temple, wincing when the crunch of bone reached her ears. The arm around her slackened, and in one smooth motion, she flipped Valère over her shoulder and onto his back.

A wildness overtook her. She had dropped the paperweight so she could assault Valère with her bare hands. Hands that had been taught how to kill and to caress. Hands that had cradled her mother’s head and Scrapper’s lifeless body. Hands that had loved Guy.

She used them now, as she had been trained, plowing her fists into Valère’s neck, his injured eye and arm, any area that would give her an advantage over her enemy. She had no plan of attack; her only focus was on eliminating the threat. As he had her parents.

And all the while she meted out her revenge on the man who had destroyed her life, she felt a piece of her soul—her humanity—flit away. Everything that separated her from monsters like Valère was vanishing beneath the pounding of her grief. She was becoming all Raven. Ruthless. Driven. Vengeful.

Strong hands wrenched her up and away, pushing her into the corridor outside the cell’s doorway. Guy cupped her face, his thumbs wiping something wet off her cheeks. “Wait here, Cora-bell,” he commanded. “Do you hear me? Wait here.” The look on his face was wrought with a combination of fear, concern, fury, and determination.

She nodded, words lost to her. He needn’t have worried. She could not have moved had her life depended upon it. Everything felt numb and leaden, from the fine hairs on her head to the tips of her toes. Nothing worked but the lock on her knees.

“My lord?” A harsh, feminine whisper penetrated the shadows to Cora’s right.

“Take her upstairs, Dinks. Now.”

“Yes, sir.” Dinks wrapped an arm around Cora’s shoulders, and Guy reentered the cell. “Come, Miss Cora.”

Cora’s feet remained rooted in place. Her maid understood her silent communication, for she settled in next to Cora, offering her familiar, unshakable support. “I’ve got you, little mite.” Dinks used her ever-present handkerchief that smelled refreshingly crisp and clean to wipe off Cora’s face, neck, and arms while murmuring beneath her breath. Busy work, Cora realized distantly. Something Dinks had always done when anxious or upset.

Although Cora appreciated Dinks’s efforts, it was not the maid’s vague reassurances that held Cora’s rapt attention, but rather the macabre tableau playing out in the adjacent chamber. No longer stunned by the blow from the paperweight, Valère made a valiant attempt to rouse himself, while Guy retrieved the Frenchman’s discarded knife.

Guy stood over Valère, his chest rising high with each inhalation. He stashed the longer knife in the back of his breeches and then held up the penknife she had given him. “This is the weapon that will bring about your defeat, Valère. This, a woman, and a paperweight.”