The man drew his own sword and taunted him with a beckoning finger. “Come, my brave cock.” Niccolo gave a shout of anger and hurled himself forward.
He was facing a master, he realized within moments. The man danced in front of him. He felt the tip of the man’s sword rip easily through his sleeve. He tried to back away, his eyes fastened on the sword slashing toward him. He saw a flash of silver and felt a searing pain in his belly. The man had neatly slashed through his breeches, drawing blood.
Niccolo struck out wildly, but only for a moment. The man’s sword slipped through his guard and embedded itself in his shoulder. He shuddered with the pain of it, and fell to the street when the sword was jerked from his flesh.
Niccolo clutched his shoulder, and felt sticky blood seeping between his fingers. “Do not kill me,” he whispered. “I know nothing.”
The figure sheathed his sword and stepped back. “No, I will not bother.”
Adam turned at the sound of approaching voices. “I will leave you to the queen, signore,” he said, and slipped quietly into the darkness.
Adam stepped quickly back into the shadows and hugged the side of the house. So Daniele had been right. The fool had returned to his lodgings.
Adam heard Gervaise curse softly as he twisted his key into the lock. Slowly, bent over, Adam moved forward. The house was dark, save for the flicker of a candle flame in Gervaise’s parlor. Adam straightened, strode to the door, and quietly pushed it open. The entrance was dark. He walked softly to the drawing room and stepped inside.
“Pietro.” Gervaise whirled about, his hand on his sword hilt. “You startled me, my friend. I am glad you are come. I would warn you of our danger.”
Adam smiled at him. “It is not our danger, Gervaise, but yours.”
The comte moved to the sideboard and poured himself a snifter of brandy. “You speak in riddles, my friend, and I have not the time for them tonight. As soon as I have gathered a few mementos, I am off to France.”
“So it was your greed, comte, that brought you back here. It was not wise, you know.”
“No, likely not,” Gervaise agreed, tossing down the brandy. “If you wish, you may accompany me. We shall fight with our emperor.”
“Ah, but I am not bound for France,” Adam said.
“The little chick holds you here? Take her with you. We can share her now that you’ve taught her how to please a man.” He shrugged. “Perhaps I shall even marry her.”
“You will never touch her, Gervaise. Now, I must know the truth from you. Where is Arabella Welles?”
Gervaise set down his goblet, a fair brow arched upward. “You are fickle, Pietro. I fear you must forget that beauty. I doubt anyone will ever see her again.”
“But I must see her again, Gervaise,” Adam said. “You will tell me where she is.”
The comte’s eyes narrowed at the hint of menace in the marchese’s soft voice. “I do not have time to enjoy the evening with you, Pietro. If you want the girl, you will have to sail to Oran. She was sent to some harem there. That is all I know.”
Adam sucked in his breath. The Barbary pirates. It always came back to those savages. But why? “Who sent her there? The Contessa di Rolando—your mistress?”
“I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell you,” Gervaise said.
Adam gently unsheathed his sword. “I suggest that you will, comte. Now.”
“What is this?” Gervaise demanded. “Have you lost your wits?”
“No, comte. You see, Arabella Welles is my sister.”
“Your—sister.” The comte stood perfectly still, rage washing through him. The miserable contessa and now this man. Both had betrayed him. “You bastard.” He drew his sword, his eyes narrowed.
“No,” Adam said, a grim smile on his face. “I am not the bastard. I do not seduce foolish men to betray their country. Behold, comte, an Englishman who despises your precious emperor.”
Gervaise lunged toward his pistol that lay atop a table. It was nearly in his grasp when Adam’s sword sent it clattering across the floor. “Your sword, comte. Try for honor, for once in your life.”
Adam stood back, at the ready, as Gervaise pulled his sword from his sheath. “En garde.”
Gervaise was well-trained, but his fury dimmed his skill. Adam nimbly parried his lunges. Beads of sweat broke out on the comte’s forehead. He tasted fear, cold and cramping in his belly. He cursed, executing a swift thrust he had learned from a master in France, but the Englishman neatly deflected the death blow aimed at his heart, his sword sliding along Gervaise’s until they were locked together, but inches apart.
“It is the contessa, is it not, comte?”