by Randol, Anna
How long had Ian been in? Ten minutes, perhaps? Surely even a man as skilled as Ian needed longer than that.
She tried to use Leucretia’s trick and let passion enter her eyes. “Perhaps I do not want to wait.”
From the way the ambassador’s mouth gaped she must have come close to accomplishing it, but it wasn’t good enough. “Sorry, Your Highness, I must go with my best option.”
None of them pretended he was speaking of the brandy.
A footman came and murmured to the duke, then hurried away.
What was it? Had Ian been discovered? Were they out of lemonade?
The duke’s expression betrayed nothing.
But the duke began to walk away and the ambassador followed. He strode across the grass with only brief nods and greetings to the guests seeking his attention.
She couldn’t let the duke reach the castle.
She was out of options.
She hurried after them a few steps, then fell to the grass with a cry.
Sommet and the ambassador both glanced back.
“My ankle. I think I’ve twisted it.”
She was close enough that the duke was forced to come to her side. To walk away from her would have been too callous for a man who claimed to be a gentleman.
He loomed over her. “What happened?”
She winced. “I stepped on my ankle poorly.”
Several other gentlemen and ladies had surrounded her.
“I’ll fetch your aunt,” Sommet said.
“No.” She turned to one of the other men. “Sir Thomas, can you find her?”
A muscle in Sommet’s cheek twitched. “Then I will find a footman to bear you inside.”
“No, not yet. I need a moment to compose myself. I would appreciate your assistance.”
The duke’s eyes narrowed, and his lip curled slightly. He dropped to his knee beside her and rested his hand on her shoulder as if giving comfort. But his words were for her ears alone. “Your diversion is naught but wasted effort. Your spy is already dead.”
Chapter Thirty-one
“I could have found my own way in,” Abington murmured as they crept along the corridor. “I was a competent spy.”
He probably still was competent.
When he was sober.
“I arranged a distraction for you, nothing more.” The maid bringing supper fifteen minutes early to the guards at the bottom of the stair, to be precise. Not too early so as to raise suspicions, but enough to allow Abington past if he was paying attention. “You were smart enough to use it, good for you.”
And now Ian knew that Abington wasn’t drunk enough to be a liability.
They walked past the office he and Juliana had hidden in before. He would have liked to examine it again, but they didn’t have time.
The next room was a parlor. Again, Ian doubted it held anything. His years as a thief and his eons as a spy had given him a nearly unfailing sense about these things.
The next three rooms were equally pointless.
But then Ian had expected them to be. There were no extra guards on this level. And Sommet wouldn’t have placed anything valuable this close to the ground where a smashed window would have allowed access.
People always thought they were hiding their valuables in places no one would think to look. They never realized it usually came down to the same three or four places.
Sommet would like to think he was more clever than everyone else, but Ian had found many men who thought the same thing.
That tavern keeper in Cheapside, for instance, had been paranoid as a pig in a butcher’s shop. But at the end of it, his valuables had been hidden under a floorboard beneath the chamber pot.
Rich people just didn’t understand that men of Ian’s ilk didn’t have the same squeamishness that plagued everyone else.
The next floor proved no more fruitful.
Sommet would be the type to have a secret something. A secret safe. A secret compartment. Perhaps even a secret room.
That might explain how Sommet had disappeared so thoroughly last night.
Ian held up his hand to halt Abington as they climbed the stone stairs that spiraled to the next level. There was someone at the top of them. Ian could smell the footman—yet another skill neglected by noble spies like Abington. The servants always smelled of ale and wig powder.
With silent steps, Ian closed the distance, peering around the curve of the stairs. He could see black leather shoes—the toes. The footman was facing the stairs.
So Ian sprung toward him. He took advantage of the split second of shock and moved behind the servant, clamping one hand over his mouth and his arm around the man’s throat.
Thirty seconds later, Ian dragged the unconscious man down the stairs. Abington’s eyes widened but he simply moved into position behind Ian.
The final corridor contained six doors. The sixth footman was guarding the door at the end. It was the room Sommet had taunted him from last night.
Which mean Ian was definitely going inside.
If he had a fatal flaw—like that Greek fellow in the play who’d gouged out his eyes—it was curiosity. He just couldn’t not know what Sommet intended him to find.
Besides, they were down to two servants. Ian could handle two servants if need be.
Make that one. Ian dispatched the servant at the door with a quick blow to the side of the head.
Ian would need to talk to Sommet about the quality of his guards. This was rather embarrassing for all of them.
The final footman must be inside. And it would be Sommet’s boxer, which meant he would be more skilled than the rest.
After checking the handle, Ian eased the door open. It was Sommet’s other office. There was no sign of the last footman. So Ian walked to the desk. The locks on the drawers were slightly more sophisticated than he expected.
But it opened easily under his picks. Abington reached past him to open the drawer.
There was a faint click. Ian jerked Abington’s hand out of the way as a blade popped out of the edge of the drawer.
They both stared at it. It would have slit open his wrist.
But that meant there was something worthwhile inside the desk. Inside the first drawer were financial records. Ian withdrew the most recent and tucked them away to examine later. But there were no incriminating letters from Gregory.
And where was that missing footman? It was possible Sommet had sent him on some sort of mission, but Ian doubted it. Sommet would want him close where he could be useful.
They searched the other hiding places in the room, finding nothing.
“I suspect Sommet has some sort of hidden room.”
Abington took off his jacket and shoved it in the crack under the door to the corridor, then he gathered some blank papers from the desk and lit them in the fireplace. He motioned for Ian to remain still and after a moment, he fanned the smoke into the room.
Perhaps Abington was competent even drunk.
Ian held his shirt over his nose as the smoke dispersed evenly through the room.
Except by the base of the bookcase. Small eddies swirled in the smoke, clearly highlighting the unexpected location of the draft.
Abington nodded and they both slowly approached. There was no obvious secret door, the bookcase appeared solid, but then Sommet would only have paid for the best.
Ian reached up and ran his fingers around the shelves searching for some sort of latch. Abington did the same. The wide mahogany bookcases reached to the ceiling, and when they couldn’t find anything, they began removing books. But after they’d cleared all the shelves they still had nothing.
They were out of time. They should have left five minutes ago. This was far longer than Ian usually spent at the scene of any of his other investigations.
They had one last option. Ian lifted his hand and knocked loudly on the bookcase. “Hello. Just so you know, we are robbing your master blind.”
After a second, there was a click. The space in the bookcase slid open, reve
aling the taciturn footman; he had one hand over his mouth, coughing in the smoke.
In the other, hand he had a pistol. He pulled the trigger.
Chapter Thirty-two
Sir Willowby had insisted on carrying Juliana back to her room when no footmen had been available. Juliana was grateful. She wasn’t certain if she could have managed to walk with the shock that had drained her ability to move. And she wouldn’t give Sommet the satisfaction of seeing her falter, especially now.
If what he’d claimed was true.
Her aunt walked silently beside them. Other than a single inquiry as to Juliana’s current state, she hadn’t spoken.
Sir Willowby stopped by her room and gingerly set her on her feet. “I wish you the best, Your Highness.”
“You’re too kind.” She smiled, even as she was already peering into her room, searching for Apple. Perhaps the girl had heard something. Or Ian might be waiting.
Sommet could have been lying. He was always lying. He must have been lying about this.
But neither of them was there.
He couldn’t be dead.
He was practically omnipotent. An old, ferret-faced duke didn’t stand a chance.
She didn’t have to feign the instability in her step as she walked to her bed. She couldn’t breathe and yet she was breathing too fast. Her chest burned, yet was as cold as ice.
How could she look for him? Where did she go?
She would have to storm the duke’s tower. But what if Sommet was merely looking for Ian and she led Sommet straight to him?
She pressed her knuckles against her mouth until her wrists trembled from the pressure.
Leucretia stepped into the room, observing. “I warned you about Sommet.”
Rage seared across Juliana’s thoughts. Ian might be dead. And her aunt and her prevarications were at least partially to blame. Juliana embraced the anger. This was at least something she could resolve. “You’ve been mining in the Palas.”
Leucretia stepped back. “How did you—”
“No.” Juliana cut her off and stalked toward her. “How long has it been going on?”
Leucretia seemed to deflate on herself. “Since we came to England. The duke came to me with the proposal. The ore was there just waiting to be sold.” Her aunt’s back stiffened. “And it was my land. It was my right.”
“And the people living there?”
Leucretia shrugged. “The war forced many people to move. Ourselves, for instance. We survived.”
Had she ever known this woman? “What changed at the end of the war?”
Her aunt’s fingers turned into claws. “After Versailles, the duke told me the mining had been suspended. The mountains were in the part of the country that was to go to the Spanish.”
“Why would that matter?”
Her aunt sighed. “He’d been selling iron to the French.”
“But Spain controlled Lenoria during the war.”
“Spain had no time to keep watch on the mountains. Not when they were fighting for their survival. That is why he needs Gregory. If the Spanish get the mountains and they find out just how much Sommet was aiding the French? Sommet loses everything.”
Juliana stared sat her.
She finally had her leverage.
If the duke had been selling ore to the French during the war, that was treason. And it was something she could prove. “But Sommet told me if Gregory doesn’t challenge me tomorrow, the ambassadors have agreed to ignore the treaty and move forward with the division. Why would he want that? ”
Leucretia’s kohled eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t.”
He’d lied. Again.
And she’d gobbled up every word.
She glanced at the door again. Still no Apple. Still no Ian.
Enough.
She’d demand to see him. If he was dead—Juliana’s chest tore open at thought—the duke should be able to present a body. If he could not, that meant he was lying about this, too.
She flung open the door to reveal a startled Abington. He was missing his jacket but other than that appeared unscathed.
He shook his head slightly, then held up his hand to motion for her to stay inside her room, then he continued down the corridor.
What was that supposed to mean? Was it a condolence? Was she too late? Was Ian well and would come for her?
And why was she obeying his command to stay in her room rather than finding out?
“Your Grace?” She took a step toward him.
Abington turned around, surprised. He must have read the same panic on her face that Leucretia had because he returned. But he cast a long glance at one of the duke’s maids who was lingering nearby. “Don’t worry, Your Highness. I heard the news as well, but the duke can in no way think this reflects on you.”
She played along. “Of course not.”
“How were you to know that your groom would attack one of Sommet’s servants? Or that he’d flee afterward.”
“My servant fled?”
“The duke is hunting him now. His injured servant is ready to swear out a warrant against him.”
Ian was alive. She would have swayed if Abington hadn’t grabbed her elbow. “I’m sorry your servant’s perfidy has overset you.”
“Do they know his motive? Did he steal anything?” Did he have the papers they needed?
“Nothing, Your Highness,” Abington’s expression was grim. “Nothing of value. But do not worry. The groom is far away now. You have nothing to fear from him.” Abington bowed to a deep courtly level. “I must dress for dinner.”
Juliana stepped back inside her room.
Ian was gone. And if the duke was hunting him, she hoped he stayed that way.
She wouldn’t be so selfish as to wish for a final day with him. Another word of advice. Another taunt.
Another kiss.
His safety came first. To wish for him to be here would be the same as wishing for his death.
The void in her chest at his absence was just early, not unexpected.
She turned back to her aunt. “Where do your loyalties lie? With your money or with Lenoria?”
Her aunt’s chin lifted. “With Lenoria.”
Juliana nodded. She now had the tools she needed to bring about the destruction of the duke. And she would use them. “Well then, I will need your help to bring down the duke. Hand me some paper.”
Chapter Thirty-three
People could be so gullible. They always assumed Ian fled when he was chased. No one ever saw him slip into another room, then simply hide inches from where he’d started.
As fearful as the duke was, he still thought himself safe in his own room.
Ian watched Sommet prepare himself for bed. He must have been fearful of a knife to the back indeed if he’d forgone a valet.
When the old weasel had his breeches around his ankles, Ian stepped into the light.
“Going to bed early? Tired, perhaps? Getting old?” Ian drew his dagger.
The duke scrambled back, tripping over his clothing. “Mullins!”
“Mullins has stepped away to use the chamber pot. And since you’re inconsiderate with the facilities you allow him to use, that means you and I have seven minutes. Do you know what I can do with seven minutes?” He twirled his dagger around his fingers. A silly alley trick but one that made men quake.
Sommet struggled to pull up his breeches. “He’ll kill you when he returns.”
“Yes, because he was so successful last time. He’s still recovering from the blow to the head I gave him.” Which he’d even managed before the other man had seen Abington through the smoke.
Sommet’s eyes probed him. “He said he injured you.”
He had. His bullet had caught Ian in the shoulder. Ian had bound it with one of Sommet’s cravats while he was waiting. Thankfully, he’d managed to claim Abington’s jacket to hide his bloodstained shirt.
Ian shrugged despite the pain. “Of course he claimed that. He wouldn’t want to look as ineffect
ual as he truly is.”
The duke wasn’t the only one who could sow doubt and suspicion.
But neither was the duke fond of appearing vulnerable. “You think you’re so clever. But you have always been easy to manipulate.”
“With false missions?”
The duke paused. “With everything. The right information planted in the right place is all I need to convince you of anything.”
Ian very much feared this interrogation was about to spiral out of his control. So he stepped closer and pressed the tip of this knife to Sommet’s throat, enough to draw a bead of blood.
But the duke met his eyes with pure malice. “For instance, a letter to Napoleon hidden in a Lenorian king’s study. That was all it took to convince you that he was going to side with the French.” Sommet pressed his finger against the blade of the knife, moving it away from his throat, showing no sign of pain as the well-honed blade sliced into his finger. “He wasn’t, you know. He’d decided to help the British.”
Ian didn’t move. But everything inside him shriveled, coiling in on itself in cold, hard agony in his chest. The hand holding the knife felt numb, so numb that he feared dropping it if he tried to return it to Sommet’s neck.
“What, no witty response?” The duke smiled. “Have I shocked the all-knowing Wraith? I didn’t know that was possible. What will your princess think when I tell her?”
Ian knew he had to speak. “She already knows.”
“That you were a member of the Trio, perhaps. But does she know that if you were smarter, you might have been able to stop it all? You might have been able to save her parents? Does she know the rest of the Trio waited on your final order to proceed?”
He felt vile, like something that had been dragged through the filth of the gutters.
“Does she know that I have always outclassed you? That she never stood a chance against me, especially once she had your help?”
Ian was too empty to feel the blow to his pride.
Juliana’s parents had been murdered in front of her at his instigation. Because he’d been too blind to look past the information he’d been set up to find.