“I don’t know,” admitted Saybrook. “Let’s move on to the costume closets.”
“A bomb isn’t going to be concealed in a button,” groused Henning.
The earl picked up the lantern from its perch on the rack of lances. “The Carrousel is tomorrow. It has to be here, Baz. A clever assassin would ensure that there wasn’t a last-minute mishap in bringing it into the building. So I mean to go through every stitch of—”
The scudding beam caught the folds of an ermine-trimmed cloak draped over a stool. Dark as midnight, the spill of lush fabric was almost hidden by the corner of storage cabinet and the rough-hewn moldings of the door.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Henning gave a wordless shrug.
Saybrook hesitated for a moment, eyeing the square-cornered shape. “Let’s have a look.”
“Auch, we’ll be here all night if ye mean to poke through every bit of cloth.”
“Have you a more pressing engagement?” quipped the earl as he swept back the cloak to reveal an ornate brass box.
The gleam silenced the sarcasm hovering on Henning’s lips.
“It’s locked,” said the earl after trying the lid. The steel probe reappeared from his pocket and made quick work of the catch.
The surgeon crowded close, straining to see over Saybrook’s shoulder. “What—” He blinked as a flash of burnished gold momentarily blinded him. “What the devil is that doing in here?”
“I believe it’s the Champion’s Prize,” replied the earl.
Henning gave a low whistle as he watched the earl struggle to lift a large ornate eagle from its nest of purple velvet. “That bird must be worth a bloody fortune. Why, it looks to be made out of solid gold.”
Saybrook set the statue on the floor. “It’s heavy,” he agreed. “But there’s something odd . . .” Squatting down, Saybrook surveyed the intricate workmanship from several angles. “Baz, point the beam here . . .” He indicated a spot under the half-spread wing. “Hmmm.”
“What?”
Sliding a thin-bladed knife from his boot, the earl pressed the point to an emerald set discreetly in the precious metal.
Nothing.
Henning released a whoosh of air.
The sharpened steel moved to the ruby. Again, nothing stirred, save for the faint rasp of the surgeon’s breathing. It was only when the blade pricked against the pale peridot that the objet d’art came to life. The gem clicked a quarter turn to the right and sunk into the sculpted feathers as the eagle emitted a strange whirring sound.
The taloned feet rose half an inch out of the large round malachite base, revealing a hidden mechanism. Reversing his knife, the earl tapped the tiny lever with its hilt and sat back on his haunches as the top of the stone gave a shiver and a hairline crack appeared around the middle of the orb.
“Well, I’ll be buggered,” muttered Henning.
The eagle tilted forward with the top half of the base. Inside was a hollow interior, and nestled like a egg within it was a shiny metal ball. It too was hinged.
Saybrook gingerly nudged the lid open. And uttered a soft oath.
“Christ Almighty, don’t touch anything,” warned the surgeon. “Move over, and let me have a closer look.”
“Gladly,” replied the earl drily, edging over to allow Henning a better view of the glass vials, looped wires, and brass discs that were neatly embedded in a dark granular substance.
It was a rather lengthy interlude before the surgeon spoke. “Hmmph.”
“Would you care to amplify on that statement?” asked the earl.
“In a moment, laddie.” Flattening himself to the stone, Henning checked the contraption from a few different angles before giving another grunt. “Ingenious. I saw a recent scientific paper from the University of St. Andrews describing a chemical experiment on fuseless explosions, and the accompanying diagram looked almost identical.” Another slight shift. “And I had heard that Sir Humphry Davy was conducting some private work on the subject at the Royal Institution. However, I thought it was still in the theoretical stages.” Pushing up to his knees, the surgeon dusted his hands. “Apparently not.”
“Does that mean we should theoretically be running like the devil?”
“No, no. We’re safe.” Henning pointed out a thin brass rod welded to the inside of the lid. At its end was a small ring. “Right now the vial of acid is missing so there is little danger of the bomb going off.”
Saybrook eyed the elaborate coil of wires and disks as if it were a serpent ready to strike. “How does the cursed thing work?”
“Oh, very cleverly,” responded the surgeon, scientific enthusiasm overriding all else for the moment. “A glass vial of acid, designed with a tiny hole in the bottom, is inserted in the ring. When the top is closed, the liquid will drip onto this bit of wax here . . .” His finger indicated one of the disks. “Once it burns through—and that rate can be pretty much calculated in a laboratory depending on the thickness of the wax—it will allow the acid to touch the mercury fulminate percussion caps here”—he pointed again—“and spark a tiny explosion. From there, the fire will travel down the cordite-soaked twine wrapped around the wires to gunpowder, which has been specially corned to increase its volatility . . .”
A short technical explanation followed on the force generated by such a tightly contained explosion.
“So, what you are saying is that this bird is deadly enough to fell two people in one fell swoop.”
“Hell, yes,” said Henning. “Anyone within a half dozen feet will be blown to Kingdom Come.”
“Don’t sound so bloody cheerful about it,” snapped Saybrook.
“No need to get your feathers ruffled, laddie. I’m counting on you to make sure the eagle will have its wings clipped, so to speak.”
“Right.” The grim lines of worry etched deeper around the earl’s dark eyes. “It seems we have two options. We can disarm the thing now. Or we can wait and catch the miscreant in the act.” He pondered the dilemma for an instant before adding, “A damnably difficult choice, for I would like to have unassailable proof that Rochemont is behind this.”
“Perhaps we can do both.” Henning fingered his stubbled chin. “There can’t be any overt sign that the bomb has been tampered with. But if we are able to slip a thin piece of steel between the wax and mercury fulminate percussion cap, that will prevent the acid from setting off a spark.”
The lanthorn’s beam started a slow, undulating dance around the room. It flickered over the crates, the rack of long lances, the massive storage cabinet . . . and then darted back to the jousting weapons. A soft, silvery glow glimmered against the varnished wood. Each of the pommels was festooned with an elaborate design of hammered metal and studs of semiprecious stones.
“Will silver do?” asked the earl.
“Aye,” replied Henning.
The blade slid out of his boot. “Let’s get to work. Come tomorrow night, the comte is going to find that his highflying hopes of throwing Europe into chaos have been plucked of their last, lethal feather.”
Arianna took another turn around the room, her agitated movements impelled by a volatile crosscurrents of emotion colliding inside her. Impatience. Uncertainty. Anger. All churning with the ferocity of a storm-tossed sea.
Oh, be honest, she chided herself. Fear was the foremost force, spinning in a tight vortex that left her stomach lurching against her ribs. Strange how frightening a simple word could be. Strange how it could provoke such a visceral reaction. Fire sizzled up her arms. Ice slid down her spine.
“Love,” she whispered, the single syllable feeling so very, very foreign on her lips. Love. A part of her feared making herself vulnerable. Dio Madre, she had spent half a lifetime hardening her heart against its hurt. A father who loved brandy and the allure of money more than he did his own flesh and blood. She had forgiven him—but she had also vowed never to let its pain wound her again.