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“It’s all in there as well. Beginning with Elaine Burghley and ending with the name of Gwyneth Shepherd.” Speaking her name gave Paul a pang. He cast a quick glance at the two men. They had stopped under the arch, hands on the hilts of their swords, as if they were waiting for something. Gritting his teeth, he admitted to himself that he could guess what it was.
“Good. Then give it to me.”
Paul hesitated. “You haven’t kept to our agreement,” he said, trying to gain time. He pointed to the two men. “You were going to come alone.”
Lord Alastair followed his gaze with indifference. “A gentleman of my social rank is never alone. My servants accompany me everywhere.” He took another step forward. “Now, give me the papers! I’ll see to the rest of it myself.”
“And suppose I change my mind?”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether I take those papers from your hands when you’re dead or alive,” said his lordship, and his hand went to the ornate hilt of his sword. “In other words, it makes no difference whether I kill you before or after I have them.”
Paul put his hand on his own sword. “You swore an oath.”
“Huh!” cried Lord Alastair, drawing his sword. “A man doesn’t outwit the Devil by means of morality! So give me those papers!”
Paul took two steps back and drew his own sword. “Didn’t you say it was no use trying to defeat us with ordinary weapons?” he asked, raising one eyebrow as derisively as possible.
“We’ll see about that,” said his lordship. “En garde, demon!”
Paul would rather have gone on talking, but Lord Alastair seemed to have been just waiting for his opportunity. He lunged, obviously fiercely determined to kill Paul. That ferocity and his brilliance as a swordsman were not an ideal combination.
Paul realized as much when, two minutes later, he had his back to the wall. He had parried the attack as well as he could, had ducked down under the sheets, and tried to drive Lord Alastair into a corner himself. It didn’t work.
The cat from the windowsill, spitting, jumped down and ran away through the arched entrance. All was still behind the windows. Damn it, why hadn’t he listened to Lucy when she begged him to set the chronograph to a shorter window of time? Then he might have been able to hold out long enough to disappear into thin air before his lordship’s eyes.
Alastair’s weapon flashed in the sun. His next stroke was so hard and forceful that it almost knocked Paul’s sword out of his hand.
“Wait!” he cried, gasping even more than he really had to. “You win! I’ll give you the papers.”
Lord Alastair lowered his sword. “Very sensible of you.”
Appearing to breathe with difficulty, Paul pushed himself off from the wall and tossed the brown envelope to Lord Alastair. At the same time he rushed after it himself, but Lord Alastair seemed to have been prepared for that. He let the envelope drop to the ground, and easily parried Paul’s attack.
“I can see through any demon’s cunning tricks!” he cried, laughing. “And now let’s take a look at the color of your blood!” He feinted neatly, and Paul felt Lord Alastair’s blade slit open the sleeve of his coat and, under it, his skin. Warm blood ran down his arm. It didn’t hurt too badly, so he assumed it was only a slight scratch, but the malicious grin on his adversary’s face, and the fact that Alastair hardly seemed to be at all out of breath, while he himself was gasping for air, didn’t strike him as a promising state of affairs.
“What are you waiting for?” Lord Alastair called over his shoulder to the two servants. “We mustn’t give him time, or do you want to see him vanish into thin air before your eyes, like the last of them you fought?”
The black-clad men reacted at once. As they ran past the sheets and toward him, Paul knew he had lost. At least, the thought went through his head, Lucy was safe. If she had come with him, she would have died as well.
“Speak your last words,” said Lord Alastair, and Paul thought of dropping his sword, falling on his knees, and starting to pray. Maybe his devout lordship would wait a little while on the grounds of piety before murdering him. Or maybe he would be dead even before his knees touched the ground.
At that moment, he caught sight of a movement on the other side of the sheets and one of Lord Alastair’s men collapsed without a sound before he could finish turning toward it. After a split second of alarm, the other lunged with his sword at the newcomer, a young man in a green coat who now emerged from behind the sheets and casually parried the stroke with his own sword.
“Gideon de Villiers!” Paul exclaimed as he plucked up new courage and tried to defend himself against Lord Alastair’s swordplay. “I’d never have expected to be so glad to see you, boy.”
“I felt curious, that was all,” said Gideon. “I saw the coach with Lord Alastair’s crest on the panels standing out there in the street, and I thought I’d see what was going on in this deserted backyard—”
“My lord, this is the demon who killed Jenkins in Hyde Park!” Lord Alastair’s man gasped.
“Do what you’re paid to do,” Lord Alastair spat at him, seeming to redouble his own strength. Paul felt it himself for the second time, on the same arm but a little higher up. This time the pain went right through him.
“My lord…” The servant seemed to be in difficulty.
“You deal with this one!” Lord Alastair cried angrily. “I’ll see to the other!”
Relieved, Paul gasped for air as his lordship moved away. He cast a brief glance at his arm—it was bleeding, but he could still hold his sword.
“We’ve met before!” Lord Alastair was standing opposite Gideon, his sword blade dark with Paul’s blood.
