Earlier today, Miss Stranje suggested Daneska might roll up her papers and hide them inside a boot. That’s the first place I check. Nothing but empty shoes. I run my arm beneath her mattress, and look inside every vase in the room. She has a large portmanteau. It makes me nervous to tap the sides, but I must check for secret compartments. I find one, but it holds a sapphire necklace and a jewel-handled dagger. No papers.
I check under the liner on the wardrobe shelf, behind the curtains, beneath the washstand. I hunt for false bottoms in every drawer and bandbox in the room. There’s a small pistol hidden in one drawer, but that’s all. I remove the sear spring, rendering the pistol useless. Where would she hide her sensitive papers?
The ticking in my head won’t stop. Only eight minutes left. I sit down to think. A small escritoire stands against the wall. It can’t be that easy. Lady Daneska would never leave important correspondence in a desk. Not in a palace like this, where everybody is inclined to spy on everybody else.
Or would she?
Is she so clever that she would hide her secrets in plain sight? I open the lid. There, innocent as lambs, sit a half-dozen letters. I grab the stack and quickly thumb through them, carrying them with me as I go to listen at the door, making sure I still hear the faint sound of music. Sorting through them, I stop by the lamp. One letter in particular draws my interest. It bears the royal seal. I do not need to decipher a code to read what’s in it. The words in the short letter knot my stomach into a monkey’s fist.
I flip over a second parchment, holding it above the heat of the lamp to see if they’ve used one of the old methods of invisible ink. When it looks clean, I move on to a third letter. The sentences are contrived and stilted, which means this one is definitely employing a code. I try counting the fourth word in every sentence. No good. The capitals in every sentence. Still no luck. The third letter of every fifth word. Closer. It’s a sentence code. I can almost see it. My heart drums. I hear the music upstairs has stopped, and the crowds are shuffling. I hurry to the door and listen. No footsteps outside, but my time is running out. One more minute and maybe I can crack this wretched code. I hold it closer to the lamp, struggling to concentrate while still staying alert for footsteps.
The door flies open.
“Lady Daneska!”
“Bonne chance, Lady Jane. I’m surprised to find you here.”
“Are you?”
“Of course I am, ma chère. In my experience, the mouse seldom prowls through the cat’s lair.”
“There’s your mistake. You think me the mouse.” I toss the letters onto her bed and reach for my dagger. She already has hers out.
She kicks the door shut behind her and laughs. “You are full of bravado today, aren’t you?”
I ignore her false compliment and we circle one another. Not as growling wild dogs might do, but as two wary lions. Slowly. Calmly. Calculating when to strike, or if to strike.
“What is your game, Lady Daneska? We both know you intend to assassinate the Prince Regent. The only question is when and how.”
“This is what you truly think?” She chuckles, her posture appears relaxed and languid, but I sense alertness prickling beneath the surface. One wrong move and she will spring. “You malign me, Lady Jane. I would never do such a terrible thing.”
“Why else would you be here, instead of in France with your beloved Napoleon?”
Lady Daneska’s smile is as coy and false as a harlequin’s mask. “Perhaps I missed your company.”
It’s my turn to smirk at such an absurdity. “Oh come now, we both know you’ve always disliked me.”
“Yes, well, I may have underestimated you. Turns out you’re a tiny bit more entertaining than I’d thought.”
“I doubt that. I’m still just plain Lady Jane. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you’re up to.”
“Plain? Ah yes, I see what you mean, physically the dull hen.”
“As poisonous as ever, I see.”
Her nostrils flare and I expect her to lunge at me. Except she doesn’t. She buttons down her hatred and presses her lips into a conniving curve. “Why this pretense of humility?” she demands. “Do you think I haven’t heard what they whisper about you?”
Whisper?
She anticipates my question. “You are Miss Stranje’s pet. Her protégée. Her young mastermind in training.”
“No one says anything like that.” I raise my blade and point it at her. Except they had. I’d heard the Patronesses suggesting it, but I hadn’t believed my ears. How could I? Miss Stranje is my beacon, my hero. I want to be like her. I hope to be like her. But the idea that it might ever actually happen is …
Impossible.
Daneska blinks. She draws back in surprise. “You did not know?” She laughs, breaking up my thoughts with the grating sound. She snaps into form again. “How very amusing.”
“Lies. You’re making it up.” I accuse her of this, knowing that even though she’s telling the truth, she’s baiting me. Trying to make me lose focus. I can’t think about my future. Not right now. My mouth turns dry. I lick my lips and ready my knife. She’ll attack if I show weakness.
“Fah!” She dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. “Miss Stranje is wasting her time with you. In my country, we have a name for fools like you. What is it you call such a person here?”
I block out her words.
They mean nothing.
Deadly games.
Diversions.
“Ah yes, now I remember, a cabbage head.” She sneers at me and points her dagger at my skull. “Thick.”
“Stone.” I aim my silver point at her black heart. “Isn’t that what it takes to be an assassin?”
“Mon Dieu. You truly think this? An assassin? Moi? You give me too much credit. You miss the boat for the trees.”
“Forest,” I correct.
“Forests. Boats. What does it matter? You have misjudged me. I am not like you and your sneaky Miss Stranje, I have no hidden purpose. No secret plot.”
“Ha!” I force a laugh. “You always have a scheme.”
“Think what you will.” She juts her chin. “I am here by the invitation of his Royal Roly-Poly-ness. I can show you the letter. Or did you already find it?”
I had, but I’m not about to admit it to her. “How you tricked him into that, I’d like to know.”
“Silly girl.” She waggles her knife at me with a scolding frown. “I did not have to trick him. If you read the letter you will know I am here as an emissary of his highness, the Emperor of France.”
“Emperor of the world, if Napoleon has his way.”
“Mais oui. Ask yourself, would that be such a bad thing? Think on it, Lady Jane. There would be peace. No more war. No more bloodshed.” She says this while shifting the dagger to a dangerous angle, the perfect angle for cutting my throat.
“You’re wrong.” I edge out of her reach. “There would still be war. One man cannot rule the world. It is impossible.”
She draws back, as if she doesn’t intend to slit my throat after all. “Oh but, ma chère, that is where we come in. Don’t you see? Emperor Napoleon will do what he always does. He will place his loyal subjects in positions of power.”
“You? He’ll put you in power?” My blood churns at the thought. “It sickens me to think of you ruling over us, or men like Ghost. Tyrants, who have no love for the people they govern. That is precisely why Napoleon must be stopped. We already have a king. We don’t need you, or your emperor.”
“That’s where you are wrong, my dear cabbage head. You don’t have a king.” She sneers, and I know she is once again gauging how best to carve my throat. “Have you forgotten? Poor King George is out in the pasture chewing grass and running mad. One wonders if he even knows his own name. And now? Who sits on the throne of England? His son. A spotty fat man with more gout than brains.”
I hope she comes at me. I would like nothing more than to put a stop to her wicked tongue. “Be that as it may, Prince Geo
rge is our sovereign, and we mean to protect him.”
“Protect your royal dumpling all you want. I told you, I didn’t come here to kill Georgie-Porgie. Why should I? When he is so very receptive to Napoleon’s invitations.”
Invitations. Suddenly the code for the second letter snaps into place.
“Enticements, you mean?” My stomach does an unsuccessful somersault and lands in a twisted worried mess. It can’t be what I think it is. Surely not. Prince George would never ally with Napoleon. Would he?
“Enticements. Offers. C’est la vie. It is all the same.” She spreads her arms wide, daring me to make a move.
“Bribes.” I forgo her open stance. It is a tempting gambit, but I resist, even though I need this dance to end. Every fiber of my being wants to turn and run to find Prince George, and give him a violent shake and shout at him, whatever Lady Daneska is telling you to do—don’t!
For mercy’s sake, don’t do it.
“Either way … his fat goose is cooked.” Lady Daneska moves into attack position again. “Mark me, plain Lady Jane. If I wanted your pudding-headed prince dead, he would already be laid out in his funeral clothes.”
There! That is the Lady Daneska I know—cold, beautiful, and threatening. Hell-bent on murder and destruction. If he doesn’t agree to parley with Napoleon she will kill him. My world tips back into balance, and I see a way to stop her.
Or, at the very least, a way I can slow her down.
The cost is minimal. What is my one life against the thousands of lives in an entire nation? I straighten to my most dignified posture and slip my dagger back into its hidden sheath. “If you intend to kill me, do get on with it.”
Her gaze narrows. “What game are you playing?”
Game? How ironic that she should say that. I sigh, remembering Lady Jersey’s prediction. The Patroness is right. I do gamble. Except these stakes are much higher than anything my parents ever wagered.
Here are the cards in my hand.
If Lady Daneska kills me in her bedroom, she will come under heavy scrutiny. True, she might claim I was thieving, but who would believe her? She may be a guest of the Prince, but she is also a foreigner. I am the daughter of an earl and a guest of Lady Jersey. It will be difficult to explain my death. At minimum, Daneska will be detained for questioning. My murder will throw a smelly blanket of scandal over her visit. The upshot is, the charming Lady Daneska will be kept away from Prince George, and her overtures from Napoleon will be received with considerably less cordiality.
I lace my fingers and await my fate. “Do you intend to stand there all day gaping like a slow-witted baboon, or are you going to get to work and stick me with that hat pin you call a knife?”
She hates me now more than ever. Lady Daneska doesn’t even bother to disguise her vicious expression. With a bark of anger, she throws the dagger.
Daneska’s blade is fast. Too fast. I’m unable to dodge even an inch before it cuts through the sleeve of my dress, slices the edge of my arm, and plunges into the door. The quivering thwang of the blade as it sticks in the wood, rings in my ear.
Stunned. I slump back against the door. “You missed,” I whisper.
“I never miss.” Daneska sneers. “Do you think I can’t see what you’re doing? Playing the martyr. You little fool.”
I’m surprised she hasn’t thrown another knife. She already has it drawn. She would like to cut me again, I see it in her. But not kill me. That would be too inconvenient.
“As if I would be stupid enough to kill you here. I’ll do it, mind you, and with pleasure, but not here.”
A shadow moves over her left shoulder. Suddenly the air freezes in my lungs.
“What took you so long?” Daneska asks without turning. “Did you not see my signal?”
Ghost steps into the light and I suck in my breath. I’d seen him once before, in Calais. But now he seems so much bigger than I’d remembered.
He is even taller than Lord Ravencross, same dark hair and broad shoulders but that is where the resemblance ends. This man is as cold as a grave. His shrewd eyes are like those of an adder, dark and pitiless. Yet there’s something spellbinding about him. I cannot look away.
He doesn’t respond to her question. Clearly, he is a man who never answers unless he chooses.
Daneska yammers away, but his presence is so commanding I can scarcely hear what she’s babbling about. “You see, my cabbage-witted mouse. We were expecting you. The minute you snuck out of the musical, I knew you had taken the cheese.”
A trap.
I slowly reach into my pocket for my knife.
“Lucien, are you going to do it or not?” She offhandedly points her dagger at me. “Oh, and mind her right hand, dearest. Lady Jane carries a blade these days.”
The corner of Ghost’s mouth curls. He’s hoping for a fight, and I intend to give him one. I whirl away from the door, knife drawn. But before I can complete my turn, he grabs my throat.
Fast. He’s blazing fast.
I thrust my blade backward, aiming for his thigh. But he clamps hold of my knife hand and holds my wrist in place with a grip like an iron vise. In one powerful movement he yanks me against his chest. His hand on my throat presses the tender place at the base of my jaw. My knife clatters to the floor.
“Careful, my dear, mustn’t kill her. Not yet.” Daneska cautions him, but he doesn’t let up on my throat.
I tug frantically at his arm. He presses harder. Blood throbs in my ears. Slow. Too slow. I feel the need to vomit. The room spins. Still he squeezes.
“Sleep well, Lady Jane.” His rough rumbling whisper frightens me more than a knife ever could.
Daneska’s annoying titter fades. I can no longer hold on to my thoughts. The world darkens to a deep suffocating black.
Twenty
TRAPPED
I awaken, bound and gagged, lying in the back of a small horse-drawn wagon.
When faced with a crisis, you must rely upon your training. Miss Stranje’s refrain echoes through my rattled mind. I quiet my frantic thoughts and recite our training. If captured, first, determine where you are. Second, assess the best way to free yourself.
I try to orient myself, but there is a tarp thrown across the bed of the wagon blocking my view. I hear hooves and wheels clacking. We’re still on cobblestones, but seem to be angling downhill. I envision the maps we studied, but they don’t help me figure out if we are going east or west, only that we must be heading south, toward the river. The smell is unmistakable.
There’s a slender gap at the corner of the wagon bed, and I wriggle sideways so I might see something through it. Occasionally we pass a streetlamp or a lighted window; otherwise, it is wretchedly dark. There’s still traffic on the road. I hear the clip-clop of carriages drawn by teams, and the fast trot of high-perch phaetons whipping past us. The farther we go, the fewer conveyances I hear. We meet a large vehicle, and the drayman shouts at the driver of my wagon to move aside.
Maybe he will hear me if I make enough noise. I wedge myself sideways so I can try to kick the side of the wagon. Roaring as loudly as I can through my gag, I slam my feet against the sideboard. Our wagon bolts forward and we take a sudden turn. I slam my feet against the side again, hoping someone will notice, but there are no longer sounds from other vehicles. The wind is blocked and I feel the closeness of buildings. We’ve turned down a narrow street or alley.
The wagon stops. It creaks as my driver climbs down. He throws the cover back.
Am I to be let go?
Or killed?
I lift my head, struggling to adjust my eyes to the dark. Ghost’s broad shape blocks out the weak light of the London night. His fist slams into my jaw. The blow sends me sprawling against the floor of the wagon.
Whatever indignities I may have suffered in my life, I’ve never been punched in the face. I hate him for it. My jaw throbs, but pain isn’t what makes these tears. Fury and indignation burn through my veins. That’s what makes me cry. I do not want to. I w
ant to be like Tess, brave and tough. But I’m not. At least no one will see my wretched sobs. I clamp my lips around the gag, so he won’t hear. I don’t want him to know he brought me to this weak place.
Shameful angry tears soak my cheeks. They seep into the gag and make me want to spit.
Then they dry.
I will not cry again.
The faraway sound of laughter and music seeps under the tarpaulin. We must’ve passed a tavern and now the way grows steeper. We leave the cobblestones, and his wagon tilts and sways over an uneven rutted road until we come to a small, stone bridge. It might be a canal or sewer crossing.
I wish I’d studied those maps harder. The wagon soon levels off and we hit the hollow sound of wooden slats. A pier. We’re on a pier.
When the wagon comes to a halt, terror chokes me worse than this wretched sodden gag. If he throws me into the Thames bound and gagged like this, I will drown. Never mind that even untied, I would still drown because I don’t know how to swim. Count that as one more thing I wish I’d done—learned to swim when Tess was teaching Georgie. I’d foolishly thought I’d never have any use for it.
Ghost yanks the tarp back and slings me over his shoulder as if I’m nothing more than a sack of rice. He carries me up a gangplank onto a ship. At least I’m not going to drown. Small comfort. If we set sail, my friends will never find me. I try to fight him, but with my arms and feet bound, all I can do is thrash about uselessly on his shoulder and bang my head on the hatch as he climbs down into the ship’s hold.
Ghost wordlessly dumps me on the floor. It is pitch dark down here. Even so, there’s no mistaking Ghost’s presence. He sucks away the light and drains hope from the air around him. I strive to recapture the anger I’d felt at him earlier, anything is better than the racking fear chomping away at the marrow of my bones.
Except I can no longer summon anger. I shiver mindlessly. My lips turn dry as dust, and all I can remember is how to be afraid.
Refuge for Masterminds Page 19