Kicking her legs free of the enveloping folds of her skirt, she lurched to her feet. Delaroche followed her movements with the pistol. Behind Delaroche, Amy could hear the sounds of Lady Uppington’s scrimmage with Slingshot, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the gleaming pistol barrel pointing directly at her heart. To her left, she could hear Richard’s labored breathing and the desperate scrape of the dagger against the ropes that still bound his legs.

“You, Mlle Balcourt”—Delaroche stepped deliberately forward, forcing Amy to slink backwards, her eyes fastened on the pistol—“have outlived your usefulness. You have become . . . how do you say in your barbaric tongue? Ah, yes. A nuisance. But not, I think”—Delaroche herded Amy inexorably backwards—“for much longer.”

Amy skittered to a stop as a disquieting smile disfigured Delaroche’s thin face. Wrenching her head around, she froze as her horrified gaze encountered the bristling embrace of the iron maiden, two feet behind her. Amy made an inadvertent mewing noise of distress. That . . . he couldn’t . . .

“You fiend!” she gasped.

“As you wish,” he replied with a smirk. “Now, if you would be so kind?” Delaroche waved the pistol in a macabre parody of politeness.

Amy cast a quick, panicky gaze around her. To her right, the open lid of the iron maiden blocked a sideways leap. To her left . . . Amy’s breath rushed out of her lungs in a grateful sob as Richard bounded to her side. With one fluid movement, he yanked her out of the path of the iron maiden and positioned himself between Amy and Delaroche. A ragged tail of rope still trailed from his left leg.

“You’ve had your fun for the night, Delaroche,” he said grimly, brandishing Amy’s dagger. “Now it’s time for you to fight like a man.”

Delaroche snarled.

“Richard,” Amy whispered, “he still has a pistol.”

“Mother!” Richard’s eyes didn’t leave Delaroche. “Is that blasted thing loaded?”

“I don’t—urgh!” Slingshot tried to clap his hand over Lady Uppington’s mouth, but she administered a sharp elbow to the rib. “—know, darling!”

“Brilliant,” muttered Richard, circling Delaroche to put the maximum distance between himself and the iron maiden. Trust his mother to bluff her way into the dungeons of the Ministry of Police with a possibly unloaded pistol.

“There is one way to find out,” Delaroche chortled. He aimed the pistol at Richard’s heart. “Farewell, Selweeeck.”

Amy struck at Delaroche’s arm as his finger closed over the trigger, knocking his aim sideways. The pistol discharged, knocking a fragment of stone off the wall. Make that a loaded pistol, Richard concluded, as he came up from his defensive roll. The force of the recoil sent Delaroche reeling several steps backwards. Amy sneezed uncontrollably as acrid black smoke trailed from the pistol.

Delaroche stared in alarm at the smoking firearm. With a sudden movement, he dropped the useless pistol and darted for the double-sided ax.

“Richard!” Amy screamed. She tugged at a broadsword mounted on the wall between two grinning skulls. The weight of the weapon sent her stumbling backwards. Richard raced to her side, grabbing the sword from her just as Delaroche wrenched the ax free of its mount. “Here, take this,” he ordered, pressing her dagger back into her hand. “Free Mother.”

Delaroche swung at Richard, the double blade arcing in a deadly circle through the torchlight. Richard jumped back, leaving the edge of the ax to strike sparks against the stone of the wall. Richard tried to heft his sword one-handed, as he would an epée; his wrist nearly snapped under the strain. Hastily readjusting both hands on the hilt of the weapon and raising it with an effort, Richard cursed softly. Angelo’s fencing academy had never prepared him for this. Devil take it, this was the sort of sword one of his ancestors might have wielded at Agincourt. It had been made for burly barbarians wearing armor and riding massive warhorses—not a civilized nineteenth-century gentleman accustomed to dealing with the niceties of epées. Hell! Richard swung again, a clumsy stroke that missed Delaroche by half a foot.

Clang! The ax clashed against the broadsword, taking a chip out of the blade. Reverberations trembled up Richard’s arms.

Who would have thought that Delaroche would have so much strength in him?

Richard retreated, trying to remember everything he had read in his inquisitive boyhood about medieval warfare. It wasn’t much. Just something about having to strike from above rather than stab with a broadsword, and he wasn’t even sure that was right.

Delaroche’s ax whistled by him again; Richard jumped back as the blade passed within an inch of his abdomen. Delaroche staggered with the force of the swing.

Getting the feel of his weapon, Richard swung again at Delaroche, hoping to catch him off balance. He missed, but the weapon moved more smoothly this time, and his adversary stumbled backwards, the ax dragging visibly. Richard’s lips curved into a predatory grin.

Amy’s ears rang with the wild clatter of their weapons as she ran to the aid of Lady Uppington, still struggling with her captor on the other side of the room. Lady Uppington’s kerchief had been torn off and her sooty hair straggled wildly around her face. The skin around one eye was already beginning to purple and swell, but Lady Uppington fought on undaunted, kicking at her assailant’s calves with her bare feet as he tried to pin down her flailing arms. Blood trickled down Slingshot’s face from a series of nasty scratches that raked from eye to jaw.

“Unhand me, you vile, vile man!” she panted. “Didn’t your mother”—kick—“teach you any manners?”

“Don’t you be saying anything about my mother!” With a growl, Slingshot’s hands shifted from Lady Uppington’s arms to her throat. Lady Uppington made little choking noises as he began to squeeze.

“Nooooo!” Amy launched herself at the guard. Her dagger tore through his sleeve, opening a long, bleeding rent along his upper arm. Roaring with pain, he dropped Lady Uppington, who stumbled, gasping, backwards. Enraged, he turned on Amy. Amy was dumbly regarding the blood darkening the keen metal of her dagger. Oh goodness. She had stabbed a man. And might have to do so again, if the expression on the guard’s face was any guide. Amy hastily yanked her bloodied dagger back into ready position.

Lady Uppington rushed for the fallen muskets, grabbing one off the pile.

“I’ll do it again!” Amy threatened shrilly as the guard advanced on her, his face mottled with rage and blood.

But there was no need. Behind the guard, Lady Uppington laboriously raised the musket. The heavy wooden stock crashed down on his head. Slingshot dropped, unconscious, to the ground.

“Ha!” Lady Uppington exclaimed raggedly. “And about time, too.”

Littered with bodies, the interrogation chamber was beginning to resemble the last scene of Hamlet. In the center of the room, Richard and Delaroche continued to bludgeon each other with weapons that had been old when Shakespeare was young. It wasn’t like any duel Amy had ever imagined; there was no graceful interplay of blades, no quicksilver parries, no lightning footwork. Instead, the combatants lurched awkwardly backwards and forwards, propelled by the sheer weight of their weapons. Both were breathing heavily; both clutched hilts slick with perspiration. Richard limped slightly where Delaroche’s ax had nicked him just above the knee. Delaroche favored his left arm, where Richard had whapped him with the full force of the flat of his blade.

“We should stop them,” Amy breathed, as a reckless swing of the ax passed uncomfortably close to Richard’s left arm.

Lady Uppington’s color was as high and her eyes as bright as her son’s. “Don’t, my dear. You’ll only be in the way.”

Delaroche lunged; Richard whacked the blade away. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he scolded, breathing heavily. “That wasn’t very polite.”

“I don’t need lessons in etiquette from you, Selweeck!” snarled Delaroche raggedly.

“Given what I’ve seen of your entertainment of guests, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Delaroche growled with rage and swung wildly—too wildly. “For our first lesson”—Richard’s blade thrust under his guard—“we’ll discuss the rules of surrender.” With a hearty heave, Richard levered his sword against the handle of the ax, sending Delaroche’s weapon spiraling out of his hands.

Delaroche skidded back. “Your surrender, Selweeck! Not mine!”

Richard advanced. “Your surrender, Delaroche. Or next time my blade strikes home.”

“Arrogant . . . ,” sputtered Delaroche. “English . . .” He whirled, and ran for the door to the dungeon. Richard dropped his broadsword and sprinted in pursuit.

“Guards!” hollered Delaroche.

But only a strangled “Gua—” emerged from his mouth, as he tripped over a fallen musket and plummeted heavily to the floor. Richard skidded to a stop just in time to save himself from tumbling over Delaroche’s prone form. Seizing the advantage, Amy grabbed the closest object to hand—Lady Uppington’s discarded bucket—and emptied the contents over Delaroche’s head just as he opened his mouth to bellow again. A whoosh of dirty water turned his cry to an indignant splutter. A sodden rag flopped from one ear.

“Quick!” Lady Uppington grabbed the rag and shoved it into Delaroche’s mouth, just in case he harbored any more thoughts of calling for reinforcements. Amy quickly bound his legs, while Richard secured his flailing arms. With his trussed limbs, his popping eyes and the ball of fabric in his mouth, Delaroche made a particularly unappetizing suckling pig.

Lady Uppington stood back and glowered at their adversary. “I say we throw him into the iron maiden.”

Whack! Delaroche’s head sagged forward as Richard dealt him an economical blow with a musket barrel. Richard grabbed his mother with one hand and Amy with the other. “I say we leave—now!”

Amy and Lady Uppington were only too happy to comply.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

An air of suppressed excitement emanated from the small group in the Balcourt courtyard. Even the horses harnessed to the plain black carriage that stood in the center of the cobblestones seemed to feel the tension, moving restlessly back and forth, swishing their brown manes. As three disheveled figures stole through the gates, the group let out a ragged cheer.

“You made it! Huzzah! I knew you could do it!” Henrietta flung herself at her mother and brother.

“What took you so long?” demanded Miles, pounding his best friend on the back.

Amy hung back behind Lady Uppington, watching as Richard was overwhelmed with joyful welcome. Henrietta clung to Richard’s arm, chattering and exclaiming, Geoff kept shaking his head and muttering, “Thank God,” Miles bounded by Richard’s side like a faithful hunting dog, and Lord Uppington took Richard’s hand with a solemnity that was enough to make anyone tearful. Even Miss Gwen unbent enough to announce that she was pleased to see him return unharmed, which, for Miss Gwen, represented a great excess of emotion.

The courtyard resounded with good cheer. Except for Amy, who wanted nothing more than to sit down heavily on the cobblestones. It had, after all, been a long and anxious night, after all the excitement of planning the raid on the Swiss gold, and the fight with Richard, and the anxiety of his rescue . . . not to mention running across half of Paris in the dead of night. Anybody’s legs would feel wobbly after all that exertion.

Amy tried to join in the jubilant spirit. After all, they had rescued Richard. Huzzah! Even in Amy’s head, the huzzah lacked conviction. She might have rescued Richard—with a great deal of help from Lady Uppington and her antiquated pistol—but there was the pesky matter of why Richard had needed rescuing in the first place. How he must despise her! He hadn’t said anything on the way back—Lady Uppington had spoken enough for all three of them—but, then, he didn’t have to, did he? She knew what he must be thinking. She had vindicated his mistrust ten thousand times over; she had done what even vile Deirdre had failed to do: She had ended his career as the Purple Gentian.

It was all over. Not only Delaroche, but fifteen—fifteen!—of his men had seen Richard unmasked, by his own hand, as the Purple Gentian. It would be all over Paris by morning, and in the London illustrated papers by noon the next day. Richard could never return to Paris again. He might not be dead, but the Purple Gentian was. Delaroche would be proud, Amy thought bitterly.