Leopard in Exile (9 page)

lanterns; the candle flames reflected through flasks of spirits, filling the room with a warm, diffuse,

brandy-scented glow. As his vision cleared, he saw Lord Misbourne seated at his desk. If the Baron had

been roused from sleep by Wessex's visit, he gave no sign of it, rising to his feet when Wessex took a

step forward.

"Your Grace. What business brings you here at such a late hour?" Misbourne asked mildly.

"This." Wessex stepped forward and laid the Mirror Rose on the desk.

Misbourne did not touch it. "How did this item come to be in your possession, Your Grace?"

"I held up Baron Warltawk's coach," Wessex said without further explanation. "I found it when I

searched him. He gave me to understand that Geoffrey Hanaper was dead, and that Lord Rutledge

cannot now be found."

"And did Christian have any suggestion of where we should look for Lord Rutledge?" Misbourne asked,

using Warltawk's given name. "The other is true, by the way. Mr. Hanaper died three days ago. We have

been able to keep it secret thus far—with so many visitors in London, I felt it wisest. It is an unfortunate

matter."

"Lord Warltawk suggested that the Marquess had taken a repairing lease upon the Continent," Wessex

said.

Misbourne sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Endymion Childwall had been the closest thing to a friend that

Misbourne had permitted himself, Wessex knew. It was the Marquess's own father who had recruited

Misbourne for the Shadow Game, years ago.

"Then we have lost him," Misbourne said with a sigh. "He was in Town this morning, but undoubtedly he

was only awaiting Warltawk in order to flee. By the time I can contact Paris Station he will already have

gone to ground upon the Continent; we will never take him then. I can only be grateful we have not lost

this." He picked up the Mirror Rose. "Though I do not know how much use it will be to us once

Endymion tells Talleyrand its secrets."

Misbourne gazed at the quizzing-glass for a moment, men put it in the drawer of his desk. "But I know

that you will find some good in all this. We have found our mole, at least. It is Rutledge."

"Have we?" said Wessex. "Somehow it seems all too pat: Hanaper's suicide, Warltawk's arrival,

Rutledge's departure. We are meant to think that, certainly—yet if the Marquess were a traitor in French

pay, he would hardly have omitted to take so valuable a bargaining chip as the Mirror Rose with him.

And Warltawk is no French agent: he's a Jacobite, if anything, and lives to amuse himself. I cannot see

him conniving with
le Pope Noir
to any purpose. This is a ruse. Let me follow Lord Rutledge to

France—"

"No." Misbourne spoke decisively. "You are too well known to be of any use to me in France. Paris

Station will have to do what it can to apprehend Rutledge… and we to mend the damage he has done."

"You're right of course," Wessex said smoothly. He turned a bland countenance to Misbourne, but

behind that facade his thoughts were spinning. Rutledge made a plausible mole, but all of Wessex's

instincts told him that the Marquess had not betrayed them… or if he had, it was not in that way. There

was still a traitor, somewhere within these walls. And he must find and exonerate Rutledge to prove it.

"If that is all, my lord, then I pray you will hold me excused. I am thought to be giving an entertainment

this evening, and it would look well if I were actually to attend."

Misbourne smiled dutifully, but the thought that Rutledge had been the pawn of France for two decades

hit him hard. He waved dismissal, but when Wessex had turned and reached the door, he spoke again.

"When you are through playing, come and see me, Your Grace. I have a mission in mind for you."

"What sort of mission?" Wessex could not keep himself from asking.

"An execution."

The Game of Kings

(Paris, June 1807)

T
he
Palais de l'Homme
held public rooms, private rooms, and those that were simply secret. In one of

those rooms that did not exist, two men sat talking.

Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord—the butcher with the face of an angel and the manners of

Satan himself—had been born into the French nobility half a century before and had been nearly as

oppressed by it as any impoverished peasant The Revolution had freed him from the duties of a priest

and allowed him the chance for revenge upon the parents who had disinherited him because of his

lameness.

Since the days when Napoleon was First Consul, Talleyrand had consolidated his own power, a power

he meant to be more enduring than that of either Church or State. Napoleon had made himself Master of

Europe, but if Napoleon were to fall tomorrow, Talleyrand would survive. Without his master's

knowledge he had treated secretly with both England and Russia. His reach was as long as his ambition

was vast, and he feared nothing.

Not even the man who sat before him.

"So. As I promised, the Emperor has made you Governor of Louisianne. All he cares about is the New

World gold that will keep the Grand Army in the field and buy the loyalty of his agents in Spain. You are

to provide it any way you can—including taking the Spanish treasure ships, if you can do so without

implicating France. You may do whatever you like with the colonists—they are a surly and ungrateful

people, as much Spanish as French. And now, d'Charenton… what of your promise to me?"

The man who sat opposite him was some fifteen years his senior. He had been born into a noble

Provençal family, and served both in the Army and then the government before his… proclivities…

became known. The King had reprieved him, but it was the Revolution which had freed the Marquis de

Sade from confinement in the Bastille. When the People had cast out the Holy Church, those forces

which the Church had kept at bay had been freed to flourish. In the atmosphere of libertine humanism

that flourished in the days before the First Consul had begun his climb to power, no act was unthinkable

and no practice forbidden. By the time Napoleon had found it politic to make his peace with Rome,

d'Charenton had rendered himself indispensable to the apostate madman determined to become the

master of Europe.

"I assure you, Monsieur Talleyrand, the Holy Grail is in the New World, and I will find it. Who has the

Grail is the master of the world. No army will be able to stand against him. With the Grail in his hands,

the other Hallows will quickly fall to the Emperor—and with them, victory eternal!"

"And having such power in your hands, you will instantly turn and give it to the Emperor?" Talleyrand's

voice was mocking.

"I have no interest in the things of this world," d'Charenton said sullenly. He was as much vain as proud,

and loathed being the object of ridicule.

It was fortunate that the man was mad, Talleyrand thought, for if d'Charenton had not been, Talleyrand

could not even have pretended to believe him. Of course d'Charenton wanted the Grail for some purpose

of his own. Anyone who did not was too foolish to have any hope of gaining it.

It was Talleyrand's business to encourage d'Charenton to seek the prize, and his business also to assure

himself of its ultimate possession. Talleyrand was that rarest of creatures, a true atheist. He believed the

Grail to be a fantasy, but a fantasy for which men would kill and die—and a fantasy that would ultimately

ensure the supremacy of France.

And thus, Talleyrand had placed an agent in d'Charenton's suite, an agent who would share the Imperial

Governor's highest counsels. An agent who would report to Talleyrand and d'Charenton even as he

planned to betray both of them; trustworthy because he believed he deceived them all, and acted only for

himself.

A man whom Talleyrand would betray in turn when he no longer had need of him.

"Then there is no reason for us to quarrel," Talleyrand said smoothly. "The Emperor desires to rule this

world, and you desire to rule the next. And I exist only to fulfill the desires of each of you. Now,"

Talleyrand said, suddenly practical. "I shall send you and such ships and soldiery as France can spare to

Louisianne at once. You will move at once to secure the colony, suppress rebellion, and end

collaboration with the English. The
Occidenteaux
will find you a hard master, I hope?"

D'Charenton smiled and rubbed his hands together. His rings glittered. "And there will be no

interference?" he repeated eagerly.

Talleyrand shrugged. "Louisianne is far away, and news travels slowly across the ocean… when it travels

at all. Why should the Emperor care what happens to a rebellious colony—providing his revenue

continues uninterrupted? Give him the Spanish treasure ships, increase the taxes, and you may do with

the people as you choose."

He thinks I am a fool
. D'Charenton regarded his longtime adversary-turned-ally. Talleyrand meant to

turn the Grail to his own use, and thought he could steal it from d'Charenton to do so. But d'Charenton

meant to put it beyond his or any man's reach the moment he gained it, in a way Talleyrand could not

foresee.

As Talleyrand said, the New World was far away… a land without a King to make the ancient

land-pledge, and hold the power of the soil and the Ancient Races at his command. But if there were one

who knew the ancient ritual, who knew what payment would be asked, and who could lay his hand upon

that payment at need, such a man would be a power to challenge not only the Emperor, but the very

Powers That Were.

"Then there is nothing more to say, Monsieur Talleyrand. I shall leave at once for Nouvelle-Orléans," the

Due d'Charenton said.

The street was quiet when Wessex and Hirondel passed through the dooryard of the Globe and Triangle

once more, and for a moment Wessex thought longingly of Sarah and home. He did not think she would

easily forgive him for abandoning her so completely tonight, but he could see no other choice. Right now

Rutledge was only a few hours ahead of him, and it was three days to Paris. If he could catch his quarry

before he went to ground, Wessex might yet repair some of the damage done this night.

If he did not delay now.

If the luck was with him.

With a sigh, Wessex turned Hirondel in the direction of the Dover road.

Herriard House glittered with light, and the line of carriages waiting to disgorge their guests stretched for

almost a mile. Tonight all the Polite World celebrated the Prince's wedding, and if the revelry was not

unmixed with relief, then that was a truth that went unspoken, especially among the Prince's Circle.

Sarah had viewed Wessex's departure some hours before with a certain wry amusement. She had as little

taste for these social set-pieces as he did, but fewer duties that would permit her to avoid them.

Fortunately each of her guests this evening had been willing to believe His Grace to be elsewhere in the

grand crush, so Sarah had not been forced to admit to his absence. And so as the night passed she

smiled and danced, and played the proud hostess, and counted the hours until the house would be her

own again.

It was comforting to know that her husband's sense of duty was equally strong, and that he would not be

so derelict unless the need was dire. Unfortunately, when he did return, she would have no good news to

greet him with. Despite her best efforts, she had learned nothing of what Wessex wanted to know, for no

one at all had the least thing to say about Baron Warltawk.

The sun was peeping over the housetops as the last carriage trundled away from her door.

"Has His Grace returned?" Sarah asked Buckland hopefully.

"I regret, Your Grace, that he has not." Even Herriard House's formidable butler showed signs of

exhaustion after the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Despite herself, Sarah's shoulders slumped. What predicament had Wessex become entangled in now?

And what could she do about it?

"Doubtless he is roistering with low company, and will join us in his good time," Sarah said, forcing a

smile. "Tell the servants to clean up later, and tell Knoyle I will not be needing her tonight. I am sure that

all of you are as tired as I!"

Sarah turned away and ascended the stairs to her bedroom. Safe behind her own door, she plucked the

feathers and jewels from her coif and ran her hands through it until her light brown hair lay free over her

shoulders. She shook her head, savoring the freedom, and began to undress.

Damn the man! Where the devil was her husband?

He'd been one jump behind Rutledge every step of the way, but Wessex did not waver in his belief that

the Marquess was not the traitor he sought.

When Hirondel had begun to tire Wessex had stopped to bespeak a fresh mount from among those the

White Tower kept stabled along the main road. He ordered Hirondel led on to Dover by slow

stages—for if Wessex returned at all, it would be to that city. He scribbled a hasty—and entirely

cryptic—note to Sarah that he stared at for a long moment before consigning it to the common-room fire.

Words were a dangerous thing, when commended to a scrap of paper that might fall into other hands

than those of its intended recipient.

Then Wessex was on the road again, riding after a man who seemed simply to have ceased to exist.

By late morning of the following day Wessex had reached Dover and satisfied himself that Rutledge was