Sylvia Day: Passion for Him

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.”