“Delany lies. I never had such a scar,” Guy said. “I believe he is the charlatan here.”
“The baron I met had a scar.” Delany appealed to the men in the room. “He suffered the wound fighting alongside Napoleon. I swear it!”
Forney stood, his gaze fixed on Guy.
“Kill the carroty-patted harridan. Kill them both I say,” the tall thin Englishman said, his clipped voice chillingly unemotional, his eyes like pale blue ice.
“My hair isn’t red,” Hetty whispered. What had she done? Oh, what had she done!
“Ridiculous! Who else might he be if not the baron we have urgent need of?” Forney said. “He has already uncovered a serious fault in our plan.”
“I am the man Napoleon calledLa Renard!” Guy strode around the room looking every inch a dangerous spy. “Why do you doubt it?”
The tall Englishman nodded. “The Fox! The baron must be he. How would he know this otherwise?”
Delany scowled. “I tell you he had a scar.”
“I need time to think,” Forney said. “To be sure.”
Delany pointed at Hetty. “Let him prove his loyalty. The woman must die tonight.”
“I need to prove nothing,” Guy said coldly. “But I can withdraw my support to your plans. See how well you do without me.”
“Shall we put it to the vote?” Delany asked.
“Oui.” Forney handed the big man a pistol. “Watch them both, Smith.”
The men retired to the end of the room and spoke in low voices.
Guy’s arm stole around her. She straightened her back, desperate not to give in to the urge to collapse against him. “When I tell you, run for the door,” he whispered in her ear.
“Get away from her.” Smith shoved the pistol into Guy’s side.
Hetty tried to quell her shaking. She did not want to leave him, French wife or no. But knew she must. Her presence here only complicated it for Guy.
The men began to argue in loud voices, their ranks split by indecision. Forney asked for time to prove Delany’s theory. “If truth be told, the baron is more important than you, Delany,” the other, shorter Englishman said in a threatening tone.
Delany cursed and leapt at him.
“Stop this at once,” Forney cried as the men struggled to keep the two apart. “We must keep cool heads.”
Smith became distracted by the fight at the end of the room, and his pistol wavered.
“Run, Hetty,” Guy hissed. He leaped forward and administered a lightning kick to the gun in Smith’s hand. It clattered away over the floor.
Hetty stumbled to the door, leaving her shoes behind. She hauled it open. It banged behind her as she ran blindly into the dark, straight into the solid body of another ruffian.
A pistol shot echoed behind her. “Guy!” she cried with a sob. Strong hands picked her up and shoved her aside as several men rushed past her, kicking down the door.
“Get right away from here Miss Cavendish!” There was a lethal note in Strathairn’s quiet voice.
Hetty ran, stubbing her toe, her hand against the rough wall as she felt her way toward the glow of carriage lanterns at the top of the lane.
The hackney was empty, the horse eating from a nose bag.
“Pete?” she rasped, staring around her.
Pete emerged from behind the vehicle, adjusting his breeches. “I’m mighty glad to see you, miss.” He paused and eyed her askance. “Although I don’t much want those feet of yours on me floor, that I don’t.”
