The Mask of Night by Tracy Grant Page B

wasn’t the only one with a hidden weapon.
    Mélanie pressed the knife deeper into Lucan’s flesh. “St. Juste is dead.”
    “Jesus. How?”
    “Stabbed. Last night,” Charles said.
    “You bloody bastard.” Nan rounded on Lucan. “What have you got my brother into?”
    “Your brother?” Mélanie asked.
    “Shut up, Nan,” Lucan said.
    “You’re forgetting I have the knife,” Mélanie said.
    “Go ahead, use it.”
    “Don’t tempt me.”
    “You’re not a cold-blooded killer, Mélanie. Unless marriage has changed you.”
    “Damn it, Sancho—“
    As she spoke the door burst open. Four men ran into the room. Charles barely had time to see the rush of movement before a blow knocked him into the wall.
     

Chapter 9
    Never forget that anyone can turn against you, querida.
Even those you hold most dear.
Raoul O'Roarke to Mélanie Lescaut,
18 March 1811
    The world spun like a barque in a gale, then stretched into dream-like slowness. Charles recovered his balance and drew back his arm to counter attack only to feel the press of a pistol barrel against his temple. He caught a glimpse of the unconscious form of the guard through the open door. Then a yank on his arms forced his gaze back to the center of the room. One of the men who had burst into the room had him by the arms, the pistol held to his head. Another had hold of Mélanie. There was a fresh cut on the second man’s cheek. Mélanie must have managed to stab him before he wrested her knife from her. He now had the knife pressed to her throat. Another knife showed in his belt. A third man, apparently unarmed, was holding Nan.
    The fourth, pistol in hand, walked up to Lucan. This man wore a snuff-colored coat, out of style but of a cut that bespoke a good London tailor. The product of one of the second hand clothes dealers in Petticoat Lane, most likely, and a cut above the rough homespun and corduroy of the other three men.
    The man in the snuff-colored coat stared at Lucan for a long moment, then struck him a blow across the face. “Mr. Eckert wants to see you.”
    Lucan returned the man’s stare. “Then he can bloody well come here himself.”
    “He knows you peached on him to Bridges.”
    “ What?”
    “No sense denying it. Got a tip this morning.”
    “Who from?”
    “Doesn’t matter.” The man flicked a glance at his companion who was holding Mélanie. “Come with us quiet, Lucan, unless you want your mort’s throat cut.”
    Lucan’s gaze went to Nan and then to Mélanie, with the knife to her throat. “She’s not—“
    “Sam,” Mélanie yelled in perfect North London accents, “do what he says or I’m dead for certain.”
    Lucan stared at her. Nan was sensibly holding her tongue. Charles met Mélanie’s gaze across the room. Two possible exits: the windows that overlooked the court and a door behind the table. Four of them, four of the others. Two guns. Two knives visible, possibly more concealed. Her hand moved at her side, thumb and forefinger curved in. A count of three. Charles inclined his head a fraction of an inch.
    Three seconds later, Mélanie sank back, twisted her head, and bit her captor’s shoulder. His knife went flying. At the same moment, Charles jerked against his captor’s gun arm and rolled to the ground. A pistol ball whistled over his shoulder and lodged in the floorboards.
    Mélanie kneed her captor in the groin and lunged for the fallen knife. Nan yanked against her own captor’s hold. Lucan dived for Snuff Coat’s pistol hand. Charles pushed himself onto his hands and knees, spun round, and sprang forward as his former captor flung himself on him. The impact carried them both into the wall. Charles caught himself on one hand and slammed his fist into the other man’s jaw. The man slumped to the ground.
    Charles pulled off his greatcoat and threw it over his erstwhile opponent. He turned round to see Lucan and Snuff Coat in the center of the room grappling over the remaining pistol. Nan was still