Chapter 14

On Savile Row, a similar bargain had been made earlier in the night.

The doctor came early in the afternoon to check Mark's condition. Teasdale said his ribs were not actually broken, just badly bruised. His hand was free of infection and his other assorted injuries were of no concern. The doctor then lectured him about the folly of fighting.

Mark took the lecture contritely. He had heard it before from his mother and uncle.

Things were tense for Mark from the moment the Foggs left that evening. He felt like a caged animal. The two Frenchman, true to their word, kept him from leaving the house. To distract him after dinner, Mark had been roped into a long game of cards where Verne showed off his new prowess at poker.

Passepartout, however, had skills of his own. The valet had shown several shuffling tricks to them, and then dealt everyone a full house. After that, he dealt everyone a royal flush.

Mark had watched intently the next time he passed out cards, but Passepartout was so good, he never caught his bottom dealing. In the next hand, Jules and Mark had decent hands, but Passepartout had four kings.

"And you're not as rich as Fogg by now?" Mark said in admiration. "Where did you learn to do that? That is the slickest dealing I have ever seen."

"Thank you," Passepartout said with less thankfulness than smugness. "I learn many things working in circus from other performers. This taught to Passepartout by magical man with bunnies in hats. Would not be fair using such trickery in real poker games. Passepartout cannot play for money after learning to deal winning cards."

"Does Fogg know you can do this?" Jules said in amazement.

"No," Passepartout said. "My secret, now your secret to keep."

"I will take it to the grave," Mark said.

Verne promised silence too.

When they had put away the cards around two o'clock in the morning, Mark was tired, but could not make himself sleep. Laying down hurt, so he paced his room in his socks to keep from waking Jules. Inactivity was not his natural state. He had forced himself to stay in his room despite the urge to prowl. He had been sure if he opened the door, Passepartout would have been on his heels.

As the sun came up, Mark redressed and headed downstairs. Passepartout was already up. The two men greeted each other and set about making breakfast. Mark commandeered a skillet and offered to show Passepartout how omelets were made in Texas.

The paper-thin masterpieces with fruit and crème that the servant made looked good, but Mark was used to meals of meat. He and his brother had grown up on Long Horn beef and, despite their four years at sea, had not changed to a sailor's diet of fish and hard stale bread with success or grace. After dicing up part of an onion, some greens, a tomato, and a portion of a leftover roast, Mark made a proper meal for the three of them. "This is a meal we could work the fields on. That is, if we had fields to work."

As Passepartout was setting the table for them, Mark headed upstairs to call Jules. On the way, the doorknocker announced someone at the front door. He started to open it, but Passepartout called to him not to. "It being deliveryman," the servant called. "I deal with it."

Mark continued up the steps and down the second-floor hall. He had nearly reached his room when he heard a crash downstairs. The sounds of shuffling feet and several cries of pain came next. One sounded like Passepartout's baritone.

Jules came out his door just as the commotion started. He led Mark down the backstairs to the kitchen. There, the two armed themselves with whatever had been handy.

Mark was no novice to fighting. Four years of wartime service on a blockade-runner dodging naval cannon along with wharf front confrontations had trained him well. He grabbed a good stout kitchen knife and handed Jules a heavy cast iron dipper. "Bury that in any head that comes through that door," he said, pointing to the back door. "I am heading upstairs to get behind the ones in the front."

Slowly, Mark worked his way back up, making no sounds on the steps. When he reached the upper floor, there were two men coming up the steps from the front of the house. One he recognized from his voice, Stiletto. The other one was dressed in a twill cape and the strangest headgear Mark had ever seen. It looked like field glasses made into eyewear.

Mark ducked behind the open guest bedroom door. Listening intently to the sounds of their footsteps, Mark timed his attack. When one of the two was half into the guest room, he hit the door hard, sending it crashing into the face of one in the lead.

The one with the strange glasses bounced off the door against the hall wall as his eyewear was smashed into his face.

Mark came out, stepped over the man on the floor, and threw a punch with his knife hand into the second.

Stiletto had been surprised by the attack, but quick enough to avoid getting knocked down. The little man had slipped back out of Mark's punch. It missed him, but getting his pistol out was awkward. It hung on something coming out.

Mark saw the pistol coming and kicked out, square in the chest, catching the arm struggling with the pistol.

Stiletto slammed against the wall. His pistol fell to the floor. While Mark was busy kicking his pistol down the hall, Stiletto pushed himself back off the wall and reached into his coat again.

Mark saw it, knew he had attacked Matt with a knife and raised his own.

There were only four feet between the two men in the narrow hall. They threw their knives at nearly the same time.

Mark's kitchen knife was decently balanced but not the right kind, but it was heavier than Stiletto's. Standing in the middle of the hall, he swiveled, dancing out of the path of the incoming missile.

Stiletto had not been so well placed. Mark's heavy kitchen knife came in fast and straight. He tried to dodge, but it still hit him left of center in the chest. He hit the wall and slid down, dead, before he reached the floor.

Passepartout came up the stairs with a pistol in hand as Mark backed against the wall for support. The valet took in the dead man on the floor and cautiously checked the watcher. That man had a broken nose under his equipment and perhaps some other damage by the way the face was bloodied. He was out cold, unmoving.

"Jules?" Mark said panting.

"Well, in kitchen," Passepartout said. "Two men came in back door. He ladled them to floor. Good use of old dipper." He backed up a step and fell against the wall, sliding to the floor, leaving a messy red smear as his arm spilled out its blood on the wallpaper.