”
“Yes. In the last three days he has killed a man, and tried to kill a few more. My betrothed is on his list.”
The Comte shook his head, the movement making him dizzy enough to need a second hand on the chair to steady himself. His lips worked as if he were trying to find the words to deny it, but he said nothing.
“I would have a word with your man. Immediately.”
The Comte shook his head again, winced, and began to edge away.
Parker moved, adder-quick. He still had the feel of Susanna on his skin, the deep green scent of rosemary, the smooth curves of her body. He would not have her threatened another moment.
In two steps he had the Comte lying across the table, his head resting on the lip of a plate of roast pheasant.
“Where is he?”
“He is dangerous, monsieur. You do not want to find this man.”
“You are wrong. I want to find him very badly.”
The Comte looked up with flat eyes. “I cannot tell you. I know him. He will kill you, then he will kill me. And if by some miracle you manage to kill him first, then my king will kill me when I return.”
“I will make this easy for you.” Parker lifted his knife and placed it just below the Comte’s right eye, so he could see it if he looked down.
“You will not get the Mirror back. You do not wish for a war with England while your king is a prisoner of the Emperor. But you will get one if you continue this madness.”
“You can arrange a war all on your own, can you?” The Comte’s mouth turned in a sneer, and his gaze was no longer on the blade against his cheek but on Parker’s face.
“Aye. I can do just that.” Parker spoke with quiet conviction. “It will not be difficult to convince my king to do that which he is already considering.”
The Comte looked away, down the table to where the last guest lay snoring into a dish of pastries.
“Perhaps the clever thing would be to make sure you don’t get the chance?” The Comte turned back, his eyes blazing with triumph.
The smug look of victory was a mistake.
As Parker heard the crack of glass smashing, he lifted his arm and threw his knife at the guest who had risen, cakemashed into his cheek, a jagged wine bottle drawn back to throw.
He dived left, too late, and the thud of the jagged bottle into his flesh was the only sound he could hear. White-hot pain seared down his arm, and then the shouts of the Comte pierced the thrumming of blood in his ears. A man screamed in agony, and something dropped to the floor with a clatter.
His knife?
Parker gritted his teeth and snaked under the table to retrieve it, sliding in blood.
It was not all his.
He rose cautiously, gripping the table. The assassin stood at an open window, panting, his face white against the night sky. He pressed a hand to his upper shoulder, blood staining his fingers, and Parker looked down and saw the bottle still buried high on his own right shoulder.
He pulled it out by the neck, refusing to make a sound, then lifted his gaze to the window again, knife ready. But the assassin was gone.
Parker looked after him, swaying. Then he blinked to clear his vision and turned to the door.
“Where are you going?” The Comte was still crouched by the table, his words a whisper.
Parker glanced at him. “Perhaps to start a war.”
He threw the bottle, dripping with his blood, at the Comte’s feet.
H e looked like a Viking from the old sagas. Wild-eyed, blood stiff in his hair, caking his clothes.
A dark stain sat high on his shoulder.
He held his knife in one hand, as if he’d carried it across London, expecting immediate attack.
Susanna had run into the hallway when she heard him on the front steps, and she stumbled to a stop, staring, as he closed the door behind him.
He watched her, waiting to see what she would do. A spray of blood, fine as the pattern on a butterfly’s wing, decorated the ridge of his cheek.
She felt a cry well up within her chest and she fought it, fought the way it wanted to twist her
“Yes. In the last three days he has killed a man, and tried to kill a few more. My betrothed is on his list.”
The Comte shook his head, the movement making him dizzy enough to need a second hand on the chair to steady himself. His lips worked as if he were trying to find the words to deny it, but he said nothing.
“I would have a word with your man. Immediately.”
The Comte shook his head again, winced, and began to edge away.
Parker moved, adder-quick. He still had the feel of Susanna on his skin, the deep green scent of rosemary, the smooth curves of her body. He would not have her threatened another moment.
In two steps he had the Comte lying across the table, his head resting on the lip of a plate of roast pheasant.
“Where is he?”
“He is dangerous, monsieur. You do not want to find this man.”
“You are wrong. I want to find him very badly.”
The Comte looked up with flat eyes. “I cannot tell you. I know him. He will kill you, then he will kill me. And if by some miracle you manage to kill him first, then my king will kill me when I return.”
“I will make this easy for you.” Parker lifted his knife and placed it just below the Comte’s right eye, so he could see it if he looked down.
“You will not get the Mirror back. You do not wish for a war with England while your king is a prisoner of the Emperor. But you will get one if you continue this madness.”
“You can arrange a war all on your own, can you?” The Comte’s mouth turned in a sneer, and his gaze was no longer on the blade against his cheek but on Parker’s face.
“Aye. I can do just that.” Parker spoke with quiet conviction. “It will not be difficult to convince my king to do that which he is already considering.”
The Comte looked away, down the table to where the last guest lay snoring into a dish of pastries.
“Perhaps the clever thing would be to make sure you don’t get the chance?” The Comte turned back, his eyes blazing with triumph.
The smug look of victory was a mistake.
As Parker heard the crack of glass smashing, he lifted his arm and threw his knife at the guest who had risen, cakemashed into his cheek, a jagged wine bottle drawn back to throw.
He dived left, too late, and the thud of the jagged bottle into his flesh was the only sound he could hear. White-hot pain seared down his arm, and then the shouts of the Comte pierced the thrumming of blood in his ears. A man screamed in agony, and something dropped to the floor with a clatter.
His knife?
Parker gritted his teeth and snaked under the table to retrieve it, sliding in blood.
It was not all his.
He rose cautiously, gripping the table. The assassin stood at an open window, panting, his face white against the night sky. He pressed a hand to his upper shoulder, blood staining his fingers, and Parker looked down and saw the bottle still buried high on his own right shoulder.
He pulled it out by the neck, refusing to make a sound, then lifted his gaze to the window again, knife ready. But the assassin was gone.
Parker looked after him, swaying. Then he blinked to clear his vision and turned to the door.
“Where are you going?” The Comte was still crouched by the table, his words a whisper.
Parker glanced at him. “Perhaps to start a war.”
He threw the bottle, dripping with his blood, at the Comte’s feet.
H e looked like a Viking from the old sagas. Wild-eyed, blood stiff in his hair, caking his clothes.
A dark stain sat high on his shoulder.
He held his knife in one hand, as if he’d carried it across London, expecting immediate attack.
Susanna had run into the hallway when she heard him on the front steps, and she stumbled to a stop, staring, as he closed the door behind him.
He watched her, waiting to see what she would do. A spray of blood, fine as the pattern on a butterfly’s wing, decorated the ridge of his cheek.
She felt a cry well up within her chest and she fought it, fought the way it wanted to twist her
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