On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

The young lady swallowed; dizzy, she felt ill, faint, panic choking her breathing, fear chilling her.

Releasing her, Kirby stared down at her, eyes narrowed.

She wrung her hands. "I told you." Her voice broke on a sob. "I can't take anything more. You said one more thing, and I gave you the thimble. There's nothing more—"

"Stop sniveling." Kirby cut across her words, cut her like a whip. "There's patently more, but if you want free of me, I'll offer you a deal."

The young lady quivered, then drew in a small breath. Steeled herself. "What deal?"

"That necklace — the one the old Dowager's wearing." Kirby ignored the slumping of the lady's shoulders, the hopeless denial in her eyes. "I need a lot more, but I'll settle for that." He studied her, unmoved by the tears that welled in her eyes, ignored the shaking of her head. "I could milk you for years, but I'm willing to cut our association short if you get me that

bauble. You heard the old dear — it'll be lying in her room tonight just waiting for you to pick it up."

"I won't." The lady straightened, tried to raise her head. "You lied before — you won't keep your word. You've kept drawing me along, first telling me it was all for Edward, later saying you'd go if I just got one thing more… and here you are, still, asking for that necklace. I won't steal it — I don't believe you!"

That last was uttered on a spurt of defiance. Kirby smiled. "The worm turns at last. I won't pretend you're wrong, given the situation, to distrust my assurances. However, you're overlooking one thing."

The lady tried to keep her lips shut, tried to deny the need to know. "What thing?"

"If you steal that necklace under my orders, because I've blackmailed you into it, and you give it to me, then I have to go away. Because if anything went wrong and you pointed the finger at me, then I'd be the one in trouble, not you. No one would worry about you in the least. I would be the obvious villain. You would be viewed as nothing more than the silly chit you are." He let his words sink in, then added, "Getting that necklace for me is the surest way to protect yourself from me for all time."

He let silence stretch while she fought an inner battle against a conscience that had risen far too late to save her. The story he'd so glibly spun had holes he could drive a coach and four through, but he doubted she'd see them, or the danger one hole in particular posed to her.

She hadn't been the sharpest apple in the basket to begin with; with fear and panic clouding her mind, she wouldn't be able to see her way clear. See her way to safety.

Eventually, as he'd expected, she clasped her hands even tighter, and looked up at him. "If I get you the necklace, you swear you'll go away? That once I hand it to you, I'll never see you again?"

He smiled, held up his right hand. "As God is my witness, once you bring me that necklace, you'll never set eyes on me again."

The fireworks were a wondrous success, a perfect moment bringing the first half of the entertainment to an end. When the last flare died into the now-midnight black sky, the entire gathering sighed. Then, slowly, collected itself.

As their neighbors filed back into the ballroom for the formal part of the evening, Luc and Amelia stood on the terrace steps and farewelled their happy and tired tenants, the villagers and other local attendees.

After expressing their delighted thanks for the evening, groups wended their way through the gardens, around the wings to the drive where some had left their gigs and farm carts; others headed on foot past the stables and the home farm, still others onto the path leading past the folly on the rise, carrying sleepy children home.

When the last had departed, with a contented sigh of her own, Amelia turned and let Luc lead her inside.

The rest of the evening went precisely as planned. The string quartet that earlier had entertained the older ladies not given to strolling the lawns now provided the company with waltzes and cotillions. Their neighbors laughed and danced, and the hours inexorably rolled by.

This, however, was the country. By eleven, all the guests had gathered their parties and departed; many had some way to drive to reach their beds. The family retired upstairs, as they normally would. Everyone smiled and wished all others a good night — everyone watched Luc's four sisters and Miss Pink disperse to their rooms before dropping their own masks.

But that was all they dropped. They couldn't be sure the villain wouldn't hide in the house; no matter that the ladies' skins crawled at the thought, they did not, by word or deed, allow any inkling of their plans to show.

Minerva and Amelia walked Helena to her room. With fond good nights, Minerva parted from the other two before Helena's door, and went on to her own room farther down the west wing. Amelia entered Helena's room with her; she sat and chatted idly about the events of the night while Helena's maid tended her mistress and prepared her for bed. The maid dismissed, Amelia came to the bed. She squeezed Helena's hand and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Take care!" she whispered.

"Naturellement." Helena returned the kiss with her usual unwavering confidence. "But the necklace," she whispered back. She gestured to the round table in the center of the room. "Put it there so I can see it."

Amelia hesitated, but the necklace did have to be left out somewhere — the maid had as usual locked it away in Helena's jewel casket — leaving the key in the lock — and if she didn't put it where Helena wanted it, her aunt would only wait until she left the room, get out of bed, and do it herself.

With a reluctant nod, she crossed to the casket, unlocked it, and retrieved the necklace. She left the matching bracelets and earrings where they were; if anything went wrong, something would remain of her grandfather Sebastian's gift. As she draped the fabulous strands of the necklace across the polished surface of the table, the value of the piece had never seemed so clear — so much more than material wealth; the magnitude of the risk Helena was so selflessly taking gripped her.

Fingers sliding from the necklace's iridescent strands, she looked across the room at Helena, propped high on the pillows in the shadow of the bed. She wanted to thank her, but this wasn't the time. With a last, shaky smile, she nodded. Helena imperiously waved her to the door.

She left, closing the door softly behind her.

Elsewhere in the huge house, the servants had cleared and cleaned, then, under Higgs's and Cottsloe's watchful eyes, they'd retired to their own quarters. Cottsloe did his rounds as usual; the house was locked, the lights doused in the usual pattern.

That done, Cottlsoe retired — to the kitchen, to keep watch. Higgs had already taken up her post at the top of the servants' stair, to guard against anyone hiding in the servants' quarters and sneaking into the house that way.