Joanna Bourne: The Forbidden Rose

“I am not,” Victor snapped.

She ignored that, too. “You have walked into his hands. Do you have any least vestige of a reason for doing this?”

“I’d be a poor father if I didn’t gut him for you. He won’t duel, though. My brother’s child, and there’s no honor in him.”

“Of course there is no honor in him. A man of honor does not feed me poison in my evening tea. He does not bring armed men, capable of countless evil deeds, into my salon. He does not let them point pistols at me. He does not . . .” She threw her hands up.

“I rescind my challenge.” The old man frowned. “I will hire assassins instead. I have made the acquaintance of several Italians who are suitable.”

“De Fleurignacs do not hire assassins. It is not honorable to ask someone to do your killing for you.”

The marquis appeared struck by this. “You are right. If Victor will not with duel with me, I will use poisonous reptiles. It should not be difficult to find one. I’ll ask Jean-Paul what he recommends.”

“You’re not going to kill anyone with snakes, Papa. And Jean-Paul will not help you. Besides, I think it would not work. Snakes are unreliable.”

Damn, but this is like marrying into the Borgias. He picked up a statue, a bronze Pan. Heavy. Very pastoral. He didn’t look at the scarface Jacobin who was edging sideways, trying to get a clear shot at Maggie.

This is risky as hell. I wish she wasn’t here.

Behind him, Victor said, “Who is this man you’ve brought here? Whoever you are, get out. You’re meddling with family matters that are none of your concern.”

Everybody ignored him. He left his post by the fireplace and came closer, trying to get a look. “I know you. I’ve seen you before. Where do I know you from?”

The gun was still pointed at Maggie. Not yet. Not yet. Without turning, he said, “I’m Maggie’s husband.”

“She’s not—” Victor straightened. “You’re him. Without the scar. You’re the prisoner. You’re LeBreton.” He whirled, shouted and pointed. “Kill him. Kill this one. He’s an escaped prisoner. Shoot.”

The gun wavered away from Maggie.

Now. He threw the statue. It hit the gun and knocked it aside.

He grabbed a silver box from the table as he lunged by. Brought it down on the Jacobin’s face and heard him scream. He grabbed the man’s gun hand. Cracked the elbow over his knee and heard it break.

The pistol bounced away on the carpet. The Jacobin’s eyes rolled up in his head. Without a sound, he went white and crumpled.

One down.

He let his man slide limp and roll onto the carpet. Hawker had dealt with the other one. The thin melancholy Jacobin had his hands in the air, gun pointed at the ceiling. Hawker’s knife pricked his throat.

Maggie scooped the gun up from the floor, fast about it. Not getting in Hawker’s way or joggling his knife, she helped herself to the pistol the other man held. She took a place, straight and intent and merciless as a Fury, confronting Victor. The gun in her left hand pointed to the floor. The other was steady and unwavering on her cousin.

“Marguerite, put that down.” Victor held his hands up, palms outward, placating. “Be careful. It’s loaded.”

Maggie didn’t turn a hair. She looked good, armed.

She said, “Of course it is loaded. Why would I point a gun at you that isn’t loaded?” Her father padded up behind her. “No, Papa, I will not give you a gun. I will keep both of them. If I want him dead, I’ll do it myself. I am perfectly capable of pulling a trigger.”

Some low complaining from her father.

“Neither of us will kill him. Even animals do not rend their own families. Because he has become a viper, shall we do the same?”

“That’s enough. Stop this,” Victor said.

Didn’t the man see Maggie’s face? He might as well have been arguing with a fire.

Slowly, Maggie took one step and then another toward her cousin. “What am I to do with you? Even when the world becomes sane again, you will not. You will always be malignant.”

“You bring this brigand into my home to attack my men. You hold a gun pointed at me. You’re as mad as your father. I’m the one who’s saved this family, year after year. I am the de Fleurignac heir. I am—”

“It’s over, Victor.” Distaste, sadness, and anger warred in her voice. “I have asked myself why you did this. Maybe you were afraid. You feared for you life at the hands of your revolutionary friends. Maybe it was greed for the inheritance.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You will never get close to us again, Victor. Not to Papa. Not to me. It is the end between us. You will leave, now, and you will not come back to the house again.”

“You are so sure of yourself. I wouldn’t be.” Behind a tight mask of rage, Victor was thinking about killing them. Planning how and in what order. How he’d get away with it.

Armed men rattle and clank when they walk. A small troop was coming up Rue Palmier, getting closer. Pax had done his work.

Doyle said, “Maggie, we have company.”

She’d heard it, too. “We have sent for the Garde, you know. You have time to get away, if you leave now. Take the back way out, through the kitchen. I will delay them.”

“They won’t arrest me. I’m a friend of Robes—” Victor realized that wasn’t going to work. “I am a friend of Fouché.”

“Fouché is nobody’s friend. Run, Victor.” Even now, she’d save the bastard if she could. “If you stay, the laws you have made will eat you up. Hide in the country. In a few months they’ll forget you. Everyone is sick of bloodshed.”

“I have nothing to be afraid of.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Victor’s eye. “Fouché promised I won’t be arrested.”

You’re about to find out . The Jacobin on the floor was down with his arm broken and a cracked head. He wouldn’t be a problem. The other one hadn’t hurt anybody that he knew of.

He caught Hawker’s eye. “Let that one go.” Hawker lowered his knife. The man took one quick look around the salon and scuttled for the door. His feet clattered out the back way, taking the escape Victor had refused.

One less to keep an eye on. “Your man has more sense than you do.”

Victor was tempted. Then he set his shoulders back and decided to be a fool. “You’re the ones who should run. A madman . . . an escaped prisoner of the Republic.” He gave Maggie a contemptuous smile. “And a bored noblewoman who dabbles in counter-revolution. A leader of La Flèche. If they arrest me, I will trade you for my freedom. I can name a dozen enemies of the Republic, starting with the servants in this house. The gardener’s son, Jean-Paul. I know all of you. I have you in the palm of my hand.”

“You have a froth of conjecture.” Maggie held the gun steady. “The men who have come to the door will not be impressed. It is your last chance.”

“It’s too late anyway.” Doyle came to stand beside her. “They’re on the doorstep. Give me those pistols. I don’t want to have to explain them to the military.”

She let him take them. He knocked the powder out of the pan, onto the floor, as he walked across the room. He dropped both guns inside the pianoforte and closed the lid. He didn’t pay attention to Maggie’s father saying what that did to the strings.

In the foyer, Janvier’s image crossed the tall mirrors to answer the knocking at the front door.

One more piece of business to take care of. Victor was right about one thing. He could still spit venom. Doyle stepped around the Jacobin on the floor. “I’ve been looking forward to talking to you, Victor, when I wasn’t tied up.”

Victor edged sideways. “They have come for you, Guillaume LeBreton. Not for me. Your name, your description, is all over Paris. I saw to that.”