Page 90 of To Love A Spy
And the first telltale signs of fear.Sweat was beading on Rochambert’s brow, and his flared nostrils betrayed a quickening of his breath.
Would the man dare to risk an instant inferno?
“Stop.” Rochambert drew the knife back a touch. “I am willing to talk.”
Lynsley’s own palms were damp as he stilled the glass vial. He was not only playing with fire, he was playing with Valencia’s life. Forcing his eyes from the glittering blade, he waggled a last little taunting challenge. “Let her go and then the two of us will duel it out like men, eh? After all, it’s me you want, not one of my Merlins. Think of what a feather in your cap it would be if you were able to hand over the Head Hawk, so to speak, to your master.”
“Who are you?” demanded Rochambert.
“I will tell you exactly who I am?—”
“Thomas, for God’s sake, no!” exclaimed Valencia.
“It’s quite alright, my dear. Monsieur Rochambert is not going to live long enough to pass on the information.” A swirl of red spun in a slow vortex. “I am Lord Lynsley.”
Rochambert appeared to be searching his memory to place the name. “Lynsley,” he repeated, then laughed. “The aging aristocrat who pushes pencils around in the back warrens of Whitehall?Sacre Coeur, the English government must be truly desperate or demented to send a crippled female and dottering old dandy to cross swords withmoi.” His steel once again caressed Valencia’s throat. “Pray tell, why would the Emperor give a rat’s arse for your worthless carcass?”
“Because I am the Head of British Secret Intelligence,” replied Lynsley. “The dottering old dandy who has foiled Napoleon’s every attempt to parade his People’s Army down Piccadilly. I imagine your Emperor might wish to pick my brain about the details of my operations.”
Rochambert gnawed on his lower lip. “What sort of duel do you propose, Lord Lynsley? If I do as you ask and release the ladybird, you will hold every advantage. And please, do not insult my intelligence by offering your word as a gentleman to put the glass down.”
“I daresay it would be a waste of breath. The reptilian mind can’t comprehend the notion of honor.” The marquess took some measure of satisfaction in seeing Rochambert’s face mottle with rage. “What I had in mind was this. Shove the lady outside. Your special lock should ensure we are not interrupted.”
Valencia’s gasp was cut off by a rough jerk.
“Keep your mouth shut,” ordered the Frenchman. His voice was sharper, shriller.
“Do as he says, Val. Don’t try any pirate tricks.” Lynsley locked eyes with her for a heartbeat, and saw a glimmer ofunderstanding. “Trust me, and be ready to move quickly when Monsieur Rochambert releases you.”
“So, you are suggesting that we fight hand-to-hand for possession of the explosive?”
“I’m not likely to risk blowing myself or the lady to Kingdom Come if I have any hope of winning.”
“Let me consider it for a moment.” As he spoke, Rochambert slid a step closer to the pistol. Another few inches . . .
Now or never.
“Too late. Why don’t we let the Almighty decide.” Lynsley flung the vial at the Frenchman’s head.
With a wordless cry, Rochambert let go of Valencia and grabbed for the glass.
She ducked and spun away into the shadows.
Lynsley threw himself forward, snatching up his knife as he tucked into a tight somersault. The Frenchman’s slash grazed his scalp as he hit the floor.Tuck. Twist. Turn.A fraction off and he would be impaled on his own blade.
Rochambert struck again, quick as cobra. But the split second needed to catch the vial had given Lynsley the edge. He hit the other man’s legs in a hard roll, and as Rochambert fell, he uncoiled his body, driving the knife upward into his enemy’s gut.
A scream pieced the gloom and suddenly the hilt of his knife was slippery with blood.
Lynsley let his hand fall away.
“Thomas!” Valencia’s cheek was wet against his, tears mingling with sweat and the scarlet spill of his flesh wound.
“It’s naught but a scratch.” He touched her throat and the velvet softness of her skin nearly unmanned him. Burying his face in her hair, he whispered a kiss to the tangled curls. “It’s over, my love.”
Together they looked down at the fallen Rochambert.
The Frenchman’s gold-tipped lashes fluttered open. As did his lips. However, the obscenity was dulled by the death rattle of his breathing.
