Explosive
CHARLOTTE MEDE
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
For K., as always
Art! Who comprehends her? With whom can one consult concerning this great goddess?
—Ludwig van Beethoven, 1810
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
London, May 1818
A murmur cut through the smothering darkness. The Marquess of Blackburn kept his eyes closed, heavy lidded from the streams of opiate coursing through his veins. The voices moved nearer, the blend of French syllables mingling with the blood throbbing to the rhythm of his heart.
“He didn’t offer much resistance—that alone is suspicious.” The words were muffled, as though coming from the other side of a heavy door or thick wall.
Aware of dampness seeping into his bones, Blackburn fought the lure of sleep, lulled by the numbness of his body. Only the voices pierced through the haze clouding his mind.
He rose through layers of consciousness, carefully turning his head from side to side, planks of wood grinding into his spine. In a corner, water dripped slowly and, inexplicably, he sensed the Thames nearby.
He was parched, the back of his throat as dry as sandpaper. His limbs remained leaden, his soul pitiless and emptied. Gray Dalton, Marquess of Blackburn, was a patient man not by nature, but by hard-won experience. In this dark prison he would lie in wait.
“If I could say so, guv’ner, there was the four of us, guv’ner. He didn’t have much of a chance. And drugged, he was, too.”
“This isn’t your usual dupe, you fool. He would never let himself be taken prisoner unless it suited his purposes.”
“But the Lady Treadwell drugged him, guv’ner. And we was right there, waitin’ fer him, outside.”
Clarity slashed through a layer of his physical numbness. A Frenchman and an east Londoner, judging by their accents. The rasp of his breathing was shallow and steady and he could feel the dry grit of blood crusting his knuckles, hours old, he guessed.
Forcing himself to remember, Blackburn pushed aside the shadows clouding his thoughts and recalled Susannah Treadwell and their interlude after the ambassador’s reception. Everything had gone according to plan, his and hers, he recalled with a cynicism that ran miles deep.
That cat-and-mouse game they played so well together. He didn’t know who was the more ruthless: Susannah with her abundant allure which she used to feed her bottomless appetite for money and intrigue. Or perhaps he was the more cold-blooded, armed with a brutal and callous disregard for anything and anyone who stood in his way.
He was tired of the game, bone weary, but he had convinced himself that the next round would be his. Just one more time.
The thought brought with it a burst of energy. He moved his arms experimentally, the stiffness in his broad shoulders easing. Threads of sensation began flowing back into his muscles as his eyes opened to a windowless cell.
Pitch blackness met his gaze except for the scarcely lighter shadow along the bottom of what he perceived was the door. No way to know whether it was day or night, yet again his instincts told him it was late—close to midnight. He was lying on a hard wooden bunk with his hands expertly bound, the situation an echo of the past, insistent and strangely welcoming. Damned if he didn’t feel vaguely nostalgic.
The sound of footsteps on flagstones scraped closer. A new voice this time, low and female, just outside the cell.
“He’s still useful to me, I trust?” the woman asked, words like chipped ice. There was a shuffling of feet, the jangle of keys.
“Somewhat bruised you’ll discover, Mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman. “But I’m certain neither you nor Le Comte will be disappointed.”
Le Comte and his bait, thought Blackburn in the darkness. He began to work the ropes around his wrists and ankles, the cords burning into his skin like a physical memory. He’d escaped from far more dangerous situations and, after all, this was one scenario he had planned himself.
The voices ceased abruptly, and he could hear nothing but a faint whisper to his left, the door opening quietly. With the smooth movements of someone in absolute control of his body, he twisted his upper torso a fraction, ignoring the jab of pain slicing through the back of his head.
He saw clearly now, with the kind of detachment that comes only once or twice in a lifetime, a pale nimbus of light surrounding a figure on the threshold. Dark red hair, alabaster skin, the sensuous rustle of black silk and the muzzle of a silver-mounted pistol aimed straight and unwaveringly at his heart.
The woman he’d been waiting for.
Chapter 2
Blackburn stared hard, hard as the head-splitting pain on his right side allowed.
She was beautiful, his angel of death, sporting a small ladylike pistol in an admirably steady grip. Silhouetted in the light of the open doorway a few feet away, he could see that her eyes were the color of the North Sea and just about as cold.
“Sit up.” She left the door partially ajar, her glance quickly appraising.
“I suppose it would make for an easier target.” He struggled to an upright position, the pain giving way as the room slowly stopped spinning. The light from the outside hallway lit the small space, bare except for his bunk and a wooden stool in the opposite corner.
Like a general surveying a battlefield, she walked toward him out of the dimness, taking dispassionate note of his physical condition, his securely bound hands and legs. “Such wit.” Her soft low voice dripped contempt, strangely enticing given the circumstances. “You probably should not have put up such a struggle, Blackburn. Three men to one are hardly in your favor.”
“The opiate did help those in your camp,” he said. “And I’m assuming my attackers were your emissaries.” The footpads had posed very little challenge as a matter of fact. But then if he hadn’t let them wrestle him to the ground and into this small corner of hell, he would not be facing Devon Caravelle at this moment, a critical link to one of the most dangerous men in Europe—and a most convenient outlet for his own plans for vengeance.
“Now I suppose you’re here to tell me how I might be of help?” He scanned her face with a professional expertise, searching for something he couldn’t yet define.
She refused to be pushed into any quick answers. “In good time.”
The diffuse light cast a sheen on her dark auburn hair and threw into sharp relief the delicate planes of her face. Her English appeared perfect and unaccented. And she was clearly accustomed to brandishing revolvers. Without lowering