The Chemickal Marriage

dropped to a whisper. ‘Captain-Surgeon of the Macklenburg Navy. Surely you know him – he is a
fugitive
!’
    Svenson whipped the pistol from behind his back. The Contessa gave a yelp and leapt to the side of Pont-Joule, who stammered angrily, even as the Ministry men – evidently unarmed – advanced towards the Doctor with earnest, awkward stances copied from boxing matches.
    ‘Now, sir!’ cried Pont-Joule. ‘That will not do – you must surrender! You cannot escape! You will not harm the lady –’
    His next words were lost in a gurgling choke, his stiff white collar dark with spurting blood. Pont-Joule’s aides turned in time for the first to take the Contessa’s spike into his throat. The second stood in shock, covering his mouth with one hand. The Contessa came for him, but before she could land her blow Svenson struck the man behind the ear. The man arched his back and fell. Without a pause the Contessa knelt down, hiked her dress out of the way and opened his throat with a stroke of her hand.
    ‘Are you a savage?’ cried Svenson. ‘Dear God –’
    ‘He has seen us both,’ she answered flatly. A bead of red had caught her cheek. With a grimace of irritation the Contessa wiped it off with a fingertip, and then impatiently stuck the finger in her mouth. She stepped carefully past the spreading pools and called to Svenson, white-faced, rooted to the spot. ‘Pont-Joule is the Queen’s Master of Comportment.’
    ‘Comportment?’
    ‘Etiquette and safety – if we are past
him
, we are past the cordon of soldiers, who will now be posted at every exit. But
our
way should be clear – come.’
    ‘Then we cannot escape?’
    ‘O Doctor, for shame! When the cradle waits unguarded at our feet?’
    Svenson hurried after her into what could only have been the Marble Gallery – a gaudily elegant chamber draped with crystal. Their footsteps echoed across the chequered parquet floor. They were alone.
    ‘Is it not a lovely room?’ the Contessa called, her voice echoing. She spun like a girl, arms outstretched, laughing. Svenson came doggedly after, glancing at the wide chair on a dais that must have once held the Queen. Two more were set near it for Axewith and Vandaariff. Tables were still laden for tea, with plates of thickly iced pink petits fours. The Contessa snatched one up, took a bite with a satisfied growl, then dropped the rest onto the floor, walking on.
    In the sickroom of his heart, Doctor Svenson condemned these three new murders … but again found himself shrugging off the guilt. The Contessa paused at the double doors, her composed features studying his face. He could imagine how she had seized every chance to flirt with poor Pont-Joule over these past weeks, just to make possible so deft a slaughter. The wall panels framing the door were set with mirrors, but the man reflected there bore scant resemblance to the officer he had once been. This figure was unshaven and hollow-eyed. Even his hair seemed to signal with its lack of colour the weight of withering experience.
    It had not been fear that kept him from shooting her in the bedchamber. He knew it was better for anyone who remained in the Doctor’s affections that
he
had been the one to collide with the Contessa di Lacquer-Sforza. Phelps or Cunsher would have hesitated and been slain. Miss Temple and Chang would have shown no quarter, killed her or been killed in turn. But their principles were founded on hope, and his reflection showed a man cut free. Svenson admitted expediency. Alone amongst his comrades, he might sacrifice himself – might make such an alliance, murder innocents, sink to unanticipated depths – and so spare them all.
    ‘What a stricken face,’ observed the Contessa. ‘I tell you we are on the verge of a most profitable collaboration –’
    Svenson seized her wrist and pinned her spike-hand against the door. Shestared at him, eyes questioning and fierce, but his face was calm – indeed he felt altogether absent from his own body as it moved. Her left fist was ready to swing the jewelled bag. He deliberately shoved the pistol into his belt.
    He caressed the soft curve of her jaw. She did not move.
    His hand slipped lower, trailing the soft pulse in her throat with a fingertip, and then with a deliberate slowness slid his outspread palm over her bare collarbone, her bosom, and down her torso, feeling the silk and whalebone, until he reached her thin, cinched waist and the exaggerated sweep of her hips.