A Spark Unseen

Though a brew of anger and betrayal simmered just beneath my rib cage, I was also silently willing Henri to stop being an idiot.

“Or perhaps you have not had much time for talking,” Henri continued, smiling at me. “That blood on your face is not your own, is it, cherie?”

My hand jumped to my cheek. Of course I had Lane’s blood on my face, which would explain the way Joseph had stared, and Mary’s offer of a handkerchief. And since when had Henri ever called me his “darling”? I dropped my hand and lifted my chin. Henri probably deserved whatever he got.

But Lane only said, “I will ask you again.”

He had not even changed his position in the chair, yet there was something behind his words, something that riveted the attention. From the corner of my eye, I watched Joseph straighten and Jean-Baptiste’s knife go still. There wasn’t a man in this room that was not going to do exactly as Lane said when he spoke like that, including Henri, I realized, and the revelation startled me.

Henri shrugged against the ropes. “I was told to find out about his background, to mingle in his society. But he was a man favored by the emperor, high in the imperial circle. …”

“Then you knew him,” I said, “before the ball.” This hurt me. I could not help it. “And Mr. Babcock? Did you know about that, too?”

Lane looked back at me. “Is Mr. Babcock here?” Before Henri could respond or I could think how to answer, Joseph started speaking rapidly in French. Joseph almost never spoke in English, but it was good to remember that he understood his share of it. I watched Lane’s face darken and, when Joseph had finished, Lane said, “I’m sorry, Katharine.”

I took a breath against the pang in my chest and looked back to Henri. “Did you know? Is that why you took me to the morgue?”

Lane’s gray eyes slid between us, but Henri was looking directly at me. “I swear to you I did not. And I did not intend to lose sight at the ball. On the grave of my mother.”

“And what did you intend?” asked Lane.

Henri grinned. “Why, to find you, of course. Wickersham said she would lead me to you if she could and so she did, though the lady is not the talker. But I am guessing you know this. You should take her dancing more, mon ami.”

I held my breath as Jean-Baptiste watched Lane, waiting for a sign. Nothing came. But I had seen the muscles in Lane’s back tightening. I came to stand just behind him. When the low voice spoke again, it was dangerously quiet.

“And what did you find about Ben Aldridge?”

“Nothing at all since my assignment was changed.” Henri’s eyes went sly. “Since Wickersham asked me to find the traitor who had left our ranks.”

By “traitor” he meant Lane, and then my own temper was igniting. “That is quite a word coming from you, Mr. Marchand.” I nearly spat the words. “Remind me what country you were born in again?”

“I am no traitor to France,” he replied, once again serious. “I do not betray France if I wish to see the emperor overthrown.”

“You favor the royal line, then?” Lane said.

Henri lifted a shoulder. “I would see a king in France.”

“So you help those that are the enemies of France?”

“I aid the enemies of Napoleon,” he corrected.

Lane smiled. “I sympathize. But you are not helping the enemies of Napoleon.”

“Allies or not, England will see the emperor overthrown,” Henri said. “She must.”

“England may. But Wickersham will not.”

Again Lane had not moved, or significantly changed his voice, but somehow the entire room had fixed its attention.

“Let me explain,” he said. “When you have information you are to write to Wickersham’s secretary, Mr. Johnson at the British Embassy, in English, with a particular wording that tells Wickersham when and at which of your chosen places you are to meet. Am I right?”

Henri remained silent.

“I know I am right,” he continued, “because those were the instructions I followed for over a year. Until the day I arranged my meeting, and Wickersham didn’t come. My information could not wait. It was so important, in fact, that I boxed up a silver service and took it to the embassy, said it was to be an imperial gift, that the order was late and that I’d been instructed to put it directly into Mr. Wickersham’s hands. In short, I made such a nuisance of myself that they showed me to Wickersham’s office. Only the office didn’t belong to Wickersham.” Lane spoke directly into Henri’s gaze. “It was Ambassador Cowley’s office. Wickersham was his secretary, unexpectedly sent to London for a few days. And the man Johnson, our contact? Always taking down Wickersham’s notes? Wickersham’s valet.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. I shook my head in confusion, and he reached up to find one of my hands, absently rubbing a thumb across the back of it. Henri stared.

“It explained a good deal,” Lane said. “Like why we were not allowed to take Ben Aldridge, only watch, even when I told Wickersham what he was buying and what I was sure he was building. And why the British government didn’t just come and take Mr. Tully in the first place. And why, the very next day after Wickersham returned from London, I began an annoying routine of having bullets whizz past my ears.”

I tightened my grip on Lane’s hand.

“My trip to the embassy was unappreciated. A new residence seemed wise. And why would that be, do you think, if all of these doings had the blessing of the ambassador? Wickersham is making a play for power, or position, or both. Or he’s working for someone else. Russia, maybe … Who knows who he’s dealing with, or who he might be double-dealing with? Anyone who wants the weapon for themselves or wants to keep someone else from getting it. I found Wickersham’s rooms. I searched them, and Johnson’s. I even watched him meet with you. …”

That surprised Henri, I saw.

“But he is careful, and in the end all I knew was the one government he was not working for, and that was the British. He played us all for fools. I don’t enjoy being played for a fool. Do you?”

A heavy silence filled the attic, the sound of truth settling in. I thought of Wickersham’s brash behavior in my morning room, his ungentlemanly overconfidence. I’d never once thought to question his credentials. I realized that Lane and Henri were now staring at each other, like two dogs circling, Lane’s thumb very deliberately tracing the veins of my hand.

“Oh, stop it,” I said, jerking my hand away. “Both of you.” I saw Henri’s brows go up at that. “I don’t care who Mr. Wickersham is at the moment. How do we get Uncle Tully back?”

Instead of answering, Henri asked suddenly, “What is the weapon?”

Lane and I glanced at each other before his gaze slid back to Henri.

“Listen to me.” Henri’s voice was grave. “I do not know this man, this Mr. Tulman, except for what Wickersham has said, that he was a lunatic caged and badly treated by his niece. I can see this lie, and I can see that you are not lying to me now, mon ami.” This last had been to Lane. “And as for the so-called emperor of France, I think we can find agreement, there, yes?”

Lane did not answer, but the gray eyes held Henri’s brown for some time.

“What is the weapon?” Henri asked again.

Lane glanced at Joseph and Jean-Baptiste, still standing ready, and then again looked at me. I gave him one tiny tilt of my head. He turned back to Henri. “It will sink an ironclad ship.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Quite certain,” I said. I saw him eyeing the discarded brass wheel I had snatched from him earlier, now sitting on the righted workbench beside us. I didn’t need to explain the importance of such a weapon to him.

“Your uncle,” Henri said, “he made the bells ring?”

I saw Lane’s brows go up. “Yes,” I replied.

“And he can make this weapon, to sink an iron ship?”

“Yes.”

Henri turned to Lane. “Then I have three questions, my friend.”