Louisa Rawlings by Promise of Summer Page B

business?”
    “And a man of honor.”
    “Honor? And Foure? By Saint Vincent, how do you know Foure is waiting for Lucien? Couldn’t he just take the money from the sale of the lace and be on his way?”
    “It’s not likely. Lucien had him draw up papers assigning the ship to us, against his return with our portion of the profits.”
    What was it Lucien had said? The tiger recognizes its kin. Topaze had to admire the man’s cunning: the rogue outwitting the knave. Foure would find betrayal difficult.
    A gust of cold wind from the opening door blew Lucien into the tavern. He joined them, allowed himself a hasty swallow of cider, then stood up. “Come on. I don’t like to linger.”
    “You have the gold?”
    Lucien’s hand moved to the breast of his coat. “Two fat sacks. But Foure is a sly one. The sooner we’re quit of this place…”
    Martin took hold of Lucien’s sleeve and pulled him back into his chair. “Give me one of the sacks. At least until we’re safely in the carriage.”
    “A wise idea.” Lucien slipped one heavy purse to Martin, who tucked it into his coat, rose to his feet, and gallantly offered Topaze his arm.
    “Madame, will you accompany me?”
    They went out into the street. Night had fallen. A frosty moon glazed the cobbles, gilded here and there by the glow of a candle in a window, lamplight from a suddenly opened door. Topaze glanced nervously about. There were far more men in the cul-de-sac, braving the cold night air, than there should have been. It made her uneasy. She clung more closely to Martin, matching his long strides with her own hasty steps. Lucien was filled with the same unease, that was apparent. Even as he quickened his pace, he unbuttoned his greatcoat, putting his sword hilt close at hand.
    But it was too late. With shouts and curses, half a dozen men closed in on them, wielding clubs and belaying pins. Lucien drew his sword; Martin, caught off guard, was knocked to the cobblestones. For a moment the men swarmed over him; then, with Lucien flailing away with his weapon and Topaze kicking at the ruffians, he struggled to his feet. He unsheathed his own sword.
    Topaze drew back against a wall as the fight began in earnest. She saw the flash of a cutlass in the swirling confusion. Several knives. There was the clash of steel on steel, loud grunts when a blow or a thrust hit home. Martin defended himself well enough, but Lucien was a fierce demon. Lunging, parrying, striking with the fist of his free hand when an attacker managed to get closer than the end of his sword.
    “Damned assassins,” he muttered, and leaped at the largest of the men. His voice was low and controlled; his face—as much as Topaze could see—was carved stone. Merciless. His sword arm shot forward. The man cried out and sank to the pavement. Even as he fell, Lucien thrust again. A savage blow, straight for the gut.
    Topaze gasped as the man shrieked in pain. His companions froze, cowed by the sight of his tortured writhing and moaning. Topaze scarcely had time to feel horror at Lucien’s ruthlessness; he and Martin reached for her, pulled her, running, to where the carriage and safety waited. They tumbled into the coach and sank back against the cushions, panting for breath.
    “ Merde ,” said Lucien. “If that was Foure’s doing…” He rapped sharply on the roof of the coach, which set off at once, barreling through the dark streets until it reached their inn.
    The fire was already lit in the hearth of their room. Lucien threw himself into a large armchair and laughed softly. “By Lucifer, I’m hungry.”
    “And I swear I’m covered with bruises.” Martin moved toward the door. “Well, I’ll order us some supper. I can find out about tomorrow’s coach at the same time.” He stopped and shook his head ruefully. “Name of God, Lucien, I must have been mad to listen to you. What a wild adventure!”
    “Yes. But we’re three thousand livres richer for it.”
    “And not worth a pinch