was able to mount the stairs unobserved.
The suite was on the second floor, just above the porte-cochere; Sinclair had occupied it himself once or twice. And he knew that its door�like all the doors in the Salon d'Aphrodite�was not locked while occupied. Mme. Eugenie had long since discovered that exigencies of the trade required her, or John-O, to have immediate� if judiciously employed�access to any chamber.
He kept his feet to the carpet runner as he went to the door, and quietly put his ear against the wood. There were two small rooms, he knew�an antechamber with a few sticks of maple furniture, and a bedroom with a massive, canopied four-poster. He could hear the rumble of Fitzroy's voice, in the bedroom, and then a low sob from the girl.
�You will,� Fitzroy said, his voice raised.
The girl cried again, repeatedly calling him sir, and it sounded as if she were moving slowly, warily, about the room. A vase, or bottle, smashed on the floor.
�I'll not pay for that!� Fitzroy said, and Sinclair heard the whistle of a whip cutting the air, and a scream.
He threw open the door and ran through the antechamber to the bedroom. A bare-chested Fitzroy was standing, his white trousers still on, with one suspender hanging down; the other suspender he held in his hand.
�Sinclair, I'll be damned!�
The girl was naked, holding a bloodied sheet around her. All of her powder and rouge had run down her face in a flood of tears.
�You've got a bloody nerve to break in here!� Fitzroy said, moving toward his clothing thrown on the settee. �Where's John-O?�
�Put your things on and get out.�
Fitzroy, his belly hanging down like a market sack, said, �It's you who'll be leaving.�
He fumbled in his jacket, and pulled out a silver-plated derringer, the kind a cardsharp might carry. Sinclair should not have been surprised. The girl, seeing her chance, ran past them both and out of the room.
The sight of the gun did not diminish Sinclair's determination. Rather, it inflamed it. �You bloody fat coward. If you aim that thing at me, you'd better plan to use it.� Sinclair took a menacing step forward, and Fitzroy fell back toward the windows.
�I will,� he cried. �I will use it!�
�Give it to me,� Sinclair growled, throwing out one hand.
Sinclair took another step, and Fitzroy, closing his eyes, shot the gun. Sinclair heard a loud pop, the sleeve of his uniform ripped away, and an instant later he felt a wetness�his blood�running down his arm.
He lunged at Fitzroy, glass crunching beneath his boots. Fitzroy flailed at him with the gun, but Sinclair was able to grab it and yank it from his grip. Fitzroy twisted, looking for somewhere to run, but where could he go?
Sinclair heard the heavy tread of John-O running up the main staircase, and Fitzroy must have heard it, too.
�John-O!� he shouted. �In here!�
He leered in victory at Sinclair, and Sinclair, in a blind rage,whirled him around, snatched him by the seat of his trousers, ran him three paces toward the closed windows, and hurled him straight through the glass. Fitzroy, screaming in terror, tumbled out and landed with a huge thump and a rain of shattered glass a few feet below, atop the bricks of the porte-cochere. The horses of a carriage parked beneath it whinnied in alarm.
John-O stood stunned in the bedroom door, as Sinclair turned around, a bloody patch of his sleeve flapping loosely from his left arm.
�Please advise Madame,� he said, brushing past the Jamaican, �to send me the bill from her glazier.�
Rutherford and Le Maitre, along with several others, anxiously awaited him at the bottom of the stairs.
�Good God, you've been shot?� Rutherford exclaimed, as Sinclair descended the stairs.
�Who was it?� Frenchie insisted. �Was it that blackguard Fitzroy?�
�Take me to that hospital we passed,� Sinclair said. �The
The suite was on the second floor, just above the porte-cochere; Sinclair had occupied it himself once or twice. And he knew that its door�like all the doors in the Salon d'Aphrodite�was not locked while occupied. Mme. Eugenie had long since discovered that exigencies of the trade required her, or John-O, to have immediate� if judiciously employed�access to any chamber.
He kept his feet to the carpet runner as he went to the door, and quietly put his ear against the wood. There were two small rooms, he knew�an antechamber with a few sticks of maple furniture, and a bedroom with a massive, canopied four-poster. He could hear the rumble of Fitzroy's voice, in the bedroom, and then a low sob from the girl.
�You will,� Fitzroy said, his voice raised.
The girl cried again, repeatedly calling him sir, and it sounded as if she were moving slowly, warily, about the room. A vase, or bottle, smashed on the floor.
�I'll not pay for that!� Fitzroy said, and Sinclair heard the whistle of a whip cutting the air, and a scream.
He threw open the door and ran through the antechamber to the bedroom. A bare-chested Fitzroy was standing, his white trousers still on, with one suspender hanging down; the other suspender he held in his hand.
�Sinclair, I'll be damned!�
The girl was naked, holding a bloodied sheet around her. All of her powder and rouge had run down her face in a flood of tears.
�You've got a bloody nerve to break in here!� Fitzroy said, moving toward his clothing thrown on the settee. �Where's John-O?�
�Put your things on and get out.�
Fitzroy, his belly hanging down like a market sack, said, �It's you who'll be leaving.�
He fumbled in his jacket, and pulled out a silver-plated derringer, the kind a cardsharp might carry. Sinclair should not have been surprised. The girl, seeing her chance, ran past them both and out of the room.
The sight of the gun did not diminish Sinclair's determination. Rather, it inflamed it. �You bloody fat coward. If you aim that thing at me, you'd better plan to use it.� Sinclair took a menacing step forward, and Fitzroy fell back toward the windows.
�I will,� he cried. �I will use it!�
�Give it to me,� Sinclair growled, throwing out one hand.
Sinclair took another step, and Fitzroy, closing his eyes, shot the gun. Sinclair heard a loud pop, the sleeve of his uniform ripped away, and an instant later he felt a wetness�his blood�running down his arm.
He lunged at Fitzroy, glass crunching beneath his boots. Fitzroy flailed at him with the gun, but Sinclair was able to grab it and yank it from his grip. Fitzroy twisted, looking for somewhere to run, but where could he go?
Sinclair heard the heavy tread of John-O running up the main staircase, and Fitzroy must have heard it, too.
�John-O!� he shouted. �In here!�
He leered in victory at Sinclair, and Sinclair, in a blind rage,whirled him around, snatched him by the seat of his trousers, ran him three paces toward the closed windows, and hurled him straight through the glass. Fitzroy, screaming in terror, tumbled out and landed with a huge thump and a rain of shattered glass a few feet below, atop the bricks of the porte-cochere. The horses of a carriage parked beneath it whinnied in alarm.
John-O stood stunned in the bedroom door, as Sinclair turned around, a bloody patch of his sleeve flapping loosely from his left arm.
�Please advise Madame,� he said, brushing past the Jamaican, �to send me the bill from her glazier.�
Rutherford and Le Maitre, along with several others, anxiously awaited him at the bottom of the stairs.
�Good God, you've been shot?� Rutherford exclaimed, as Sinclair descended the stairs.
�Who was it?� Frenchie insisted. �Was it that blackguard Fitzroy?�
�Take me to that hospital we passed,� Sinclair said. �The
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