Chapter Twenty-Seven
Titus raised his hands. It was impossible not to: The maid sounded as though she meant it.
“Sit!” she barked at Baynes. “And you too, Monsieur Pilcrow. You, dog, turn, and keep your hands in the air.”
Laxton, face red under a splatter of cream, turned as ordered. The maid jammed her pistol aggressively into his back, pulled the other gun out of his waistband, then stepped back. “Now sit, dog, with your friend. Bon. Entrez!”
Two more men came in at her call. One of them was Nico.
He looked dishevelled, even battered, with a dirty face, and no coat or waistcoat over his linen. His hands were behind his back as if the wrists were tied. The other man gave him a hard push, and he stumbled, tripped, and fell to his knees.
“Nico!” Titus yelped. “What—?”
“Quiet, mon ami,” Nico said. He sounded tense and afraid. “Just obey, I beg you. They are mouchards. Agents of the Bourbons.”
“Oui. Silence,” the other man said, in a voice that was resonant, commanding, and almost excessively French-accented.
Titus stared at him, utterly bewildered. The maid walked over to the French agent, keeping one pistol levelled on Baynes and Laxton, and gave him the spare. He took it with some care. Nico, on his knees, was breathing in a shallow, panicked, noisy way.
“You are indiscreet, La Motte,” said the French agent. “But it hardly matters now. Ah, that is the painting, mais non? Hand it over. A moi.”
“What? No!” Baynes said, and grabbed it.
The maid took three steps and levelled the gun directly at his forehead. Baynes said again, “No! It’s mine!”
“Take it from him, Monsieur Pilcrow,” the French agent said. “Carefully.”
Titus crept over, avoiding the line of fire, and took the edge of the frame. Baynes wailed. There was a brief tug-of-war that ended when the maid suddenly moved as if to club Baynes around the head with the butt of her pistol. He recoiled, and Titus jerked the painting free.
“Now give it to her, tout suite,” the French agent ordered. Titus handed it over. The maid took it, examined it critically, and shoved it in the grate.
“No!” Baynes screamed, and leapt to his feet.
“Keep him down,” the French agent ordered Laxton and Titus. “If he makes trouble, I will shoot you all.”
Titus and Laxton both grabbed Baynes, pulling him down on the settle. He struggled wildly as the maid doused the painting in oil from a phial and struck a light. There was a soft whoof as the dry canvas and paint ignited.
“No, no, no!” There were tears running down Baynes’s face. “Stop them! My Queen!”
“Shut your mouth, espèce de putain,” the maid said with entire contempt. She waited until the Queen blistered and burned and the painting was beyond any salvage, then retreated to stand by her colleague.
“Bien,” the French agent said. “Now it remains only to tidy up the loose ends, and the affair La Motte is concluded. Have they all drunk the wine?”
“Rapidly, it seems,” the maid remarked, slanting her eyes at Laxton.
“Bien. La Motte, you will drink now.”
“No,” Nico said, voice rising in panic. “No, please, not that. No, I will not!”
“Pour him a glass, Monsieur Pilcrow.”
“No!” Nico shrieked. “It’s poison, Titus! Poison!”
Titus gaped at his stained napkin. Laxton said, “What?” and turned to stare at his own, twice-emptied glass.
“You will drink, La Motte, or you will meet your end another way,” the agent said implacably. “You cannot live. You know what you should not.” He glanced around the room. “None of you can live.”
Laxton was shouting. Baynes gaped and gabbled. Nico leapt to his feet, babbling, “No, I beg you, not the poison, please, please—”