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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 Cartlan
d 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.”
