"Merda." Pedro closed the draperies. With the back of the chair, he blocked the doors. If they had three outside, they should have at least four inside the property. The mansion had several rooms, but they would come here. Outnumbered and encumbered by an inexperienced whore, he had one alternative—retreat.
Pedro grabbed a sheaf of money and Braganza's book and shoved them inside his pocket. The angel was next. She stared at the door, face pale, ready to bolt.
"Come."
He gripped her wrist and pulled the shocked girl through the door concealed behind his father's portrait. Meager light clung to the bare stones. A dripping sound echoed over the corridor. Empty. If luck was on their side, the attackers’ intelligence had not discovered the duke's voyeurism and his habit of building secret passages in all his residences.
When the walls narrowed, she balked. "Where are you taking me?"
"I will lead you to safety, but you must stay calm. They can't harm us here."
"Who... who are they?"
"I don't know. Yet." But whoever they were, invading his property had slashed their life expectancies.
A point of light flickered ahead. A peephole to the parlor. Pedro's father had used it to spy on visitors and discover their intentions before accosting them in his private study. He brought his eye close to the opening, the smell of moldy wood and dust invading his nostrils. The room came into focus—an overturned settee, books and paintings scattered on the floor. Flavio, his trusted servant, lay on the oriental rug. The killing of an unarmed, elderly man had much to say about his attackers' intentions.
Faint breathing. Someone was inside. Curse this opening; it was too narrow. They needed out of the quinta. Pedro was pushing away from the wall when the parlor's door opened. A newcomer, dressed in the same militia uniform, entered the parlor.
With more pimples than a beard on his face, the youth took a shaky breath. "The count is missing."
A couch groaned, and then footsteps.
"Is this a joke?" The voice cut like a gelid blade on exposed skin.
João Ulrich. Pedro could recognize that voice anywhere. Cold sweat dampened his temples, his hand curling on the hilt of his sword. The slave trader from Mozambique came into view. Instead of the gold chains around his neck and the Chikunda bodyguards he used to have at his side, he wore a well-tailored short coat and a cravat. But the sleek black hair and thin mustache painted on his angular face were still the same.
"We cleared all the rooms."
"And the blonde pet?"
Pedro gritted his teeth at the lecherous glint in Ulrich's eyes.
The minion stared at his feet. "The woman is nowhere to be found, sir."
Flicking a knife, a cruel cigarette on his lips, Ulrich strutted around the newcomer as if presenting himself at a bullfighting arena. "My, my... So many mistakes. Gather the men. Burn this place down, if need be, but find the girl and the count."
"I won’t kill a girl, sir."
"No one lives to tell of Almoster's innocence." Ulrich drew the knife along the minion's throat, below his jaw. A thin line of blood spurted from the olive skin. The distance separating them could not conceal the sick shine in Ulrich's gaze. "She will die, but who said I would give you the pleasure? Bring her to me."
The girl cried out, and Pedro covered her mouth. Her eyes looked enormous on her pale face. Her fear was justified, as he had seen firsthand what kind of depravity the slave trader had in his arsenal.
Ulrich swiped the knife on the minion's coat, cleaning the blood. "Anything else?"
"No, sir." The soldier bowed and left.
Alone, Ulrich booted the settee back in place and sat with his feet crossed on top of Flavio's torso. Pedro wanted to punch his way into the room and rip the bullfighter's eyes out. Ten years looking for the criminal, and now he was in Pedro’s grasp. If he retraced his steps to the ballroom, he could surprise Ulrich in the parlor before he gurgled for help.
Pedro uncovered the girl's mouth. "You will stay here."
"But where will you go?" She posed a shy hand on his forearm, her eyes darting like a trapped bird. "Don't leave me alone."
He pulled away from her touch. He could end this, kill Ulrich, and silence the voices in his head.
"Please." Her voice broke, her gaze shimmering with tears.
She would shed many more if he was caught and left her unprotected. Damn it. Why should he care? If he lost Ulrich now, how would he track him later? He had hideouts in every port of Europe.
