What Darkness Brings

Chapter 47



T

hat afternoon, Kat Boleyn drove her high-perch phaeton to the Physic Garden in Chelsea. Leaving her horse in the care of her groom, she walked briskly down a dripping, mist-shrouded path to a secluded pond. When the days were fine, Kat could lose herself for hours in the old apothecary garden’s lush border beds and vast plantings. But on this day, she was in no mood to linger.

The man she had come to meet was already waiting for her at the water’s edge. He turned as she approached, a tall, powerful figure in shiny Hessians, fawn-colored breeches, and a well-tailored dark coat.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to you,” he said, exaggerating his brogue. His name was Aiden O’Connell, and he was the younger son of the Earl of Rathkeale, an ancient Irish family long infamous for their enthusiastic cooperation with the invading English. Kat still found it difficult to believe that this man—young, handsome, rich—had chosen to risk everything by quietly working for Irish independence. Like Kat before him, he had decided that one of the best ways to help the Irish and weaken the English was to assist their enemies, the French.

He tipped his hat, a lazy smile deepening the two improbable dimples in his lean cheeks. “Is it too much to be hoping that you’ve had a change of heart and are willing to work with us again?”

“You know me better than that,” she said as they turned to walk along the banks of the pond, the mist wafting cold and damp against their faces.

“Ah, so I feared,” he said with a mournful sigh. “Then why, pray tell, are we braving one of the coldest September mornings I can remember to meet?”

“Because Russell Yates is about to hang for a murder he didn’t commit, and more people are dying every day.”

When the man beside her remained silent, she said, “You know about the French Blue?”

He squinted at the ghostly shapes of the chestnut trees on the far side of the pond. “I do, yes.”

“I need to find out who Napoléon has tasked with its recovery.”

“That I don’t know.”

She swung to face him, the heavy woolen skirts of her carriage dress swirling around their ankles. “Don’t know—or won’t tell?”

A soft light of amusement gleamed in the depths of his hooded green eyes. “Don’t know . . . but wouldn’t tell if I did.”

“Then at least tell me this: Is he English?”

“In truth, I don’t know. It may even be a woman, for all I’ve been told. But I do know this: Napoléon is not happy with his agent’s performance. He’s dispatched someone else—someone from Paris—to assist in the gem’s recovery. Someone who’s said to be quick and clever and very dangerous.”

“A man with a pockmarked face?”

“I don’t know; I haven’t seen him.”

“I have. He tried to kidnap me from Covent Garden Market.

O’Connell’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I heard about that.”

“From your French masters?”

His nostrils flared, his head rearing back. “Bloody hell. Is that what you think? That I had a hand in that?”

“What else am I to think?”

“I heard about what happened the same way everyone else in London heard of it—it’s all over town! Besides which, why the devil would Napoléon’s agents want to get their hands on you anyway?”

“It makes sense if they think Yates killed Eisler and took the French Blue. Steal Yates’s wife, and offer to make a trade.”

O’Connell was silent.

“Well, doesn’t it?” she said.

The Irishman drew in a long, ragged breath. “I suppose it’s possible. But if it is true, I know nothing about it.” He reached to gently touch the back of one hand ever so briefly to her cheek. “And remember this: The French are no more my masters than they were yours. I work with them—not for them.”

She searched his deceptively open, handsome face. But he was a man who, like Kat herself, played a dangerous game and had learned long ago to give nothing away. She said, “Is there anything you can tell me that I might be able to use?”

O’Connell shook his head. “Only this: I don’t envy whoever has been set to this task. The potential rewards are undoubtedly great. But should they fail to recover the diamond, Napoléon is bound to suspect he’s been betrayed—that his agents have simply decided to keep the gem for themselves.”

“In other words, if they fail, they’ll be killed,” said Kat.

“More than likely, yes. And they know it. Which means that whoever you’re dealing with is doubly dangerous, because their very survival depends on the successful completion of their mission. Get in their way, and you’re liable to end up dead.”

He hesitated a moment, then added, “You might consider giving the same warning to Lord Devlin.”