Dubois had once witnessed a runaway wagon crash into a carriage containing a wedding party. He had seen the wagon rattling down the street; he had watched the carriage driving straight into its path. He had known a disastrous wreck was imminent, and he had been helpless to prevent it.
He felt the same way now as he had felt then.
Captain Stephano de Guichen was going to walk into this cafe and the first thing he would see was the man who had tried to kill him and his friend.
And all Dubois could do was sit there and watch.
Chapter Thirty
Rule 23. If the cause of the meeting be of such a nature that no apology or explanation can or will be received, the challenged takes his ground, and calls on the challenger to proceed as he chooses; in such cases, firing at pleasure is the usual practice, but may be varied by agreement.
– Codes Duello
SIR HENRY SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFE in his guise as a benign old priest and dunked bread into his beef-and-barley soup with a palsied hand. He liked the disguise mainly because the fake infirmity of a bent spine allowed him to take inches off his height, while his mild and gentle demeanor earned “Father Alfonso” much goodwill from customers and wait staff. Sir Henry had already established the character of the elderly priest in the Four Clovers. He had dined there several times before in this guise, telling the owner in his best Rosian accent that he had traveled to Westfirth from Caltreau to observe the building of the new cathedral.
“I won’t live to see it finished,” he said cheerfully. “But I wanted to see it started.”
The elderly priest had immediately become a favorite. He was given his usual table and a glass of dandelion wine, compliments of the house. At his feet was the worn leather satchel he always carried everywhere with him. He said the satchel contained notes on a biography of Saint Stanislaus, notes he would drag out and read during his meal, offering gladly to expound upon the life of the saint if anyone made the mistake of asking. Concealed in the satchel, beneath the pages and pages of documents, was the pewter tankard. Sir Henry carried the tankard with him wherever he went by day and slept with it beneath his mattress at night.
The Four Clovers was known among Sir Henry’s agents as a place where they could meet with him if an emergency arose. The sign was a bunch of clover left at any one of several locations throughout the city. Every agent had his own color of ribbon. A black ribbon around the clover indicated the request for a meeting came from James Harrington, who was supposed to be in Evreux, but who was at this moment now in Westfirth.
Harrington was in his guise as Sir Richard Piefer, wealthy and rakish Freyan nobleman. He doffed his hat and made a graceful bow to a party of three ladies and two gentlemen seated at a table beneath a rose tree. He stared balefully at several Rosian naval officers and gave them a cold bow, which the officers returned just as coldly. Rosia and Freya were nominally at peace, but the wounds from the last war were still raw and bleeding.
Harrington sauntered over to the table near Sir Henry, sat down with a languid air, and adjusted the long and frilly lace at his cuffs so that it would not come into contact with his food. He flirted with the serving girl, who gave the handsome nobleman a sweet smile, and brought him a flagon of red wine.
Harrington then exchanged a friendly greeting with his closest neighbor, the elderly priest, who smiled upon him beatifically. Harrington inquired politely what the priest was studying so intently. Sir Henry asked if the “young gentleman” would be interested in hearing about the life and travails of Saint Stanislaus. Harrington, with a wink for the serving girl, indicated that he would like nothing better.
“But I believe, Father,” said Harrington, “that you have mislaid one of your documents.”
Sir Henry glanced down to see a sheet of paper lying at his feet. The paper was covered with handwriting-not his, Harrington’s. A written report. Henry reached a shaking hand to pick it up. Harrington politely intercepted the elderly man, picked up the report, and gave it to Sir Henry, who felt, hidden beneath the single sheet of paper, a folded, sealed note.
“From Sloan,” Harrington said in a low voice.
Sir Henry knew immediately something was wrong. Sloan, his confidential secretary, would not have risked writing unless the matter was of the utmost importance. Sir Henry’s first concern was for his pregnant young wife. Had something happened to her? He longed to read the note, but he dared not in such a public place. And he needed to know why Harrington was here in Westfirth. Sloan could have sent the letter by courier.
Sir Henry, shuffling and rattling papers, began to ramble on in a cracked voice. He was, in fact, reading the report that Harrington had just handed him. Harrington flung himself back in his chair and drank his wine, affecting to listen. As Sir Henry read, he began to frown. He stammered to a halt, pretending to have lost himself in his notes. Harrington heard the ominous silence and shifted uneasily in his chair and ordered more wine.
“Won’t you join me, my son?” Sir Henry asked with a smile. “I have something here I think will be of interest.”
Harrington did not evince any great pleasure at accepting this invitation, but he did not have much choice. He shifted his chair to the old priest’s table. Sir Henry shuffled papers and leaning close said in a tone of barely controlled fury, “What the Hell were you thinking?”
“I initiated part two of the Braffa scenario as you ordered, sir,” said Harrington. “The assassination of Ambassador de Villeneuve went as planned.”
“Of course it did,” Sir Henry stated coldly. “Because I planned it. I did not plan for you to murder young Valazquez and try to murder the son of the Countess de Marjolaine!”
He flicked his hand at the report. Harrington squirmed, his attitude became defensive. They both stopped talking as the serving girl brought a plate of cheese, grapes, apples, and walnuts and set it down in front of Harrington. He began ripping grapes off their stems and tossing them moodily into the bushes.
“You told me, sir, I was to act on my own if I saw anyone snooping around about Alcazar. When I saw that she-bitch of a countess set her whelp on the trail, I figured you’d want him off it. At the same time, I could remove Villeneuve, who might prove to be a nuisance if he started asking questions about his father’s death. My idea was that a duel involving Villeneuve would have solved everything-take him from the picture and upset the countess’ son. He’d forget he’d ever heard the name Alcazar. That damned imbecile Valazquez ruined everything.”
“Valazquez ruined it,” said Sir Henry.
“Yes,” said Harrington sullenly, hearing the sarcasm. “If he hadn’t gone softhearted-”
“-then you wouldn’t have gone softheaded,” Sir Henry finished.
The elderly priest leaned close to the young nobleman, as if about to enlighten him on a discovery of immense importance about Saint Stanislaus. The old man wore a smile on his lips, but the look in his dark eyes caused Harrington to shove aside his plate and fiddle nervously with his fork.
“Who was the third man?”
“What third man?” Harrington asked uneasily, his eyes on the fork.
Sir Henry referred to the report. “The man who shot at you from the woods, knocking the gun from your hand as you were about to kill the captain.”
Harrington again shrugged. “I assumed he was one of my hired guns who was a bad shot or maybe of the countess’ agents looking after her bastard son. How should I know?”
“It is your business to know,” said Sir Henry. “Especially as you have undoubtedly led this man right to me. He could be sitting in this cafe this moment.”
Harrington looked shocked. “No, sir! I swear to you, sir-”
“Shut up and listen to me.” Sir Henry rattled his papers and held them up to his face and peered over them, concealing his lips.
“Your plan might have succeeded, but you lost your nerve. You have imperiled an operation on which I’ve worked for years, laying the groundwork so that Rosia would be sucked into war over Braffa, expending money and resources while Freya remains neutral. We watch Rosia bleed and when she is weak and gasping, we strike.”
Sir Henry touched the satchel containing the tankard reassuringly with his foot. The time for Freya to strike might be closer than even he had anticipated.
“So much depends on this and now… Now, because of your bungling, the son of my most implacable enemy, who was only moderately interested in Alcazar before you shot at him is now intensely interested in finding him and
