The undercurrent of murmuring stopped as the guests held their collective breath, glancing from Solange to Lafarge and back again.
“What do you propose to do?” Lafarge addressed her as though she were an insignificant gnat. “Do you plan to tell them I am the devil? That they would be better served standing against me and bringing me down?” He paused, then faced the guests to say, “They all know that I have information regarding the lies, deceits, and affairs of every person here, and that I will make those secrets public without hesitation. How many of them will go down with me? Which one of you is willing to take the leap of self-destruction in order to condemn me?” He answered his own question by turning back to Solange and saying, “None of them.”
The guests shifted uncomfortably, most of them looking around at their neighbors as if to see who looked the guiltiest and whose secrets might provide the most salacious gossip. The way they seemed to shrink in the face of Lafarge’s words turned Solange’s stomach. She should have known that few people would stand up to a man like Lafarge if it meant their own reputations would be damaged.
“They don’t have to stand against you,” Louis said, moving forward from where he stood, watching Solange with deep admiration. “Not one of them needs to put themselves in jeopardy, because you have done that all on your own.”
A ripple of excitement passed through the guests as Louis dodged through the crowd, making his way to the dais. A feeling of hope suddenly zipped through the air. Lafarge seemed to be unaffected, though. He merely stared at Louis as though he were a rat his housekeeper had failed to kill.
“Enjoy your moment while you can, Sinclair,” Lafarge growled. “You’ll be dead before midnight.”
Louis didn’t humor the man with a reply. He merely glared at him, then turned to face the guests. Without skipping a beat, he reached into his jacket and drew out the documents Solange had taken from his trophy room.
“Monsieur Lafarge is guilty of political collusion, corruption, and treason,” he said, holding the papers up.
For the first time, Lafarge looked uneasy. “Give me those,” he said, attempting to move closer to Louis.
Solange stepped between the two men. She was no match for Lafarge’s strength, if he chose to use it, but he was no match for her anger or her will to bring him down.
Louis went on. “These documents, and a great many more hiding away in Lafarge’s home, are clear proof that he has bribed and blackmailed his way into French politics. He is guilty of at least a dozen crimes against the republic and her allies. Not one of you needs to cower before the man in fear that your scandals will grace the pages of his magazine because the crimes he himself is guilty of far eclipse any other petty disgraces you may have committed.”
“This is preposterous,” Lafarge said, growing more anxious by the second. “You have nothing. Give me those papers.”
He tried to surge toward Louis, but Solange stopped him. She twisted to take just one of the letters she had stolen from the trophy room, then held it out so he could read it. “Do you see?” she asked. “Do you see what sort of proof we have of your sins?”
Lafarge’s face lost all color as he scanned the letter in her hand. “This is nothing,” he said in a weak voice. “You cannot prove anything with this.”
His expression told a different story.
“Perhaps not with this alone, but with everything else I took from your blasted trophy room, I can.”
She held her breath, hoping and praying Lafarge hadn’t taken inventory of his trophy room or even seen that she had discovered his documents. She had enough to condemn him, but if he believed she’d taken much, much more, everything that had to happen would be much easier.
For a moment, the two of them stood face to face, frozen. Lafarge seemed to search her face for some clue that she was bluffing or that she didn’t have what he must have feared she had. She stared implacably back at him, willing him to challenge her, to give her even the tiniest excuse to use everything she had against him. The entire room watched the tableau in silence.
Lafarge cracked. Whatever inner debate he had ended with him leaping off the stage with sudden, jerky movements and pushing his way through the crowd of guests toward the door.
“Go after him,” Louis shouted, jumping off the stage as well, Solange right behind him.
The confused guests burst into movement, but none of it was helpful to Solange and Louis’s pursuit. They impeded their progress as they followed Lafarge out of the ballroom and into the hall.
“You cannot prove anything,” Lafarge shouted over his shoulder as Louis and Solange began to catch up to him in the hall. He may have considered himself powerful and cunning, but he was already winded and flagging after a short chase.
“We can prove everything,” Solange shouted as the distance between them shortened. “I saw what you have in your trophy room.”
“I will ruin all of you,” Lafarge screamed as he bolted for the front door.
The footmen attending the doors were taken by surprise and rushed to open them wide without thinking. Solange cursed under her breath, but knew Lafarge didn’t have anywhere to go once he burst out into the night. It was a stroke of pure luck that a carriage parked at the bottom of the long, marble stairs to the drive was, at that moment, in the process of letting out its passengers—Dorothy, Damien, Lord Reith, and Lord Gregory. Lord Lytton and Miss Sewett weren’t far behind.
“Lafarge,” Lord Reith shouted, taking a step toward the stairs as Lafarge dashed through the doors.
Lafarge stumbled in shock, his eyes going wide. His ankle twisted, and he tumbled over the top stair. Solange watched, as though time slowed down to a snail’s pace, as Lafarge spilled forward, his body twisting, then falling head over heels down the stairs. Halfway down, there was a sick crunch and a snap as he continued to roll and thump all the way to the gravel drive.
Once he landed, splayed on his back, his neck bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring vacantly up at the starry sky, everything went silent. Solange and Louis skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs as Lord Reith and the others rushed forward, then stopped in a half circle around Lafarge. The man was clearly dead. Blood stained the pale gravel under his head, but it was the disturbing angle of his head that made it clear he’d broken his neck.
Solange could barely move. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. “He’s dead,” she breathed at last. “It’s over.”
Beside her, Louis shook his head. “It’s not over,” he insisted, looping his arm through Solange’s and drawing her down the stairs. “You heard him. His press is in the process of printing an issue exposing the McGovern’s secrets. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he can’t still ruin the family.”
“You’re right,” Lord Reith agreed grimly as they reached the gravel drive. “We have to go back into Paris and destroy the press.”
“We have to destroy everything,” Solange agreed. “Everything in that trophy room. If any of that information makes it into public hands, lives will be ruined.”
“Come on,” Lord Reith said, gesturing for them to climb into the carriage, whose driver looked as though he were having the adventure of a lifetime.