How To Distract a Duchess

by Mia Marlowe

  “No, Your Grace. Don’t give it to them,” Mr. Shipwash said. His captor shook him like a rag doll.

  “Stop this instant,” she ordered Lubov. “Your Excellency, I must protest. I thought better of you. As a diplomat, you must realize your country’s reputation is in severe jeopardy through your actions. There’s no honor in abusing the defenseless.”

  Artemisia doubted her appeal to the ambassador’s sense of decency would be effective. To her surprise, he raised a hand to restrain his lackey.

  “Enough, Lubov. Time there will be to play later if Her Grace does not give key ,” he said before turning back to her with lowering brows. “Honor is small matter to diplomat. I am man under orders and not dare disobey. We do what we must do.”

  Artemisia detected a smidge of remorse in the sigh that followed, but then the ambassador’s face hardened and he took a step toward her.

  “You must give key. Or you force me hurt your friends.”

  She bit her lip. The key must not fall into the wrong hands. She owed Trev that. But Kharitonov was right. She was out of her depth. She didn’t have it in her to make this choice. She never should have tried to do this. How could she let Mr. Shipwash and dear Naresh pay for her failing?

  “Very well,” she said. “After you have helped Mr. Shipwash and I move Naresh into my waiting hansom, I give you my word I will shout out the location of the key to you as we drive away.”

  The ambassador threw his head back and laughed unpleasantly. “Nyet, Your Grace, I will have key first.”

  Artemisia knotted her fingers together. She was running out of cards to play.

  Kharitonov made a low growl in the back of his throat, impatient at her delay. “Kill the Hindoo.”

  “No!” Artemisia fell to her knees, trying to shield Naresh with her own body. “I will take you to the key, but you must not hurt him.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.” The ambassador extended a beefy hand to her. “Wise choice. We go now, da? Bring prisoner,” he barked to Lubov.

  “What of him?” Oranskiy pointed to Naresh’s prone figure.

  “Tie him and leave him,” Kharitonov said. “Him, no one find till morning. By then, we out of England and back to land of borsch and stroganoff. Not too soon either.” He laughed mirthlessly and grasped Artemisia’s arm. “Come, madam.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but dragged her up the stairs and back through the silent nave. She heard the shuffling of Mr. Shipwash being propelled behind her by Lubov and Oranskiy. For a moment, she thought one of the statues on the right side of the narthex moved. She decided it was only a quirk of moonlight as Kharitonov hurried her through the darkened central aisle. Just before they reached the tall western doors, he broke the silence.

  “Where we go, Your Grace?” he asked as if he were offering her a pleasure ride in his barouche.

  “Westminster Bridge.” She swallowed back the knot in her throat. It had seemed a good idea at the time. With Cuthbert positioned dead center on the aging structure, he could see an advancing party from any direction. At her word, he was fully prepared to throw the key into the Thames and devil take the hindermost. “But I must warn you, Ambassador, if Mr. Shipwash and I do not present ourselves there unharmed by a certain hour, the key will be destroyed regardless.”

  “Then haste we must make, da?”

  If only Naresh hadn’t been taken, she might have been able to bluff her way through and see Mr. Shipwash free right there in the crypt. She’d made a mistake of thinking of Kharitonov as the slightly bumbling functionary she’d met at her masquerade. Now that notion was crushed like a bug.

  At least part of her plan was still intact. Cuthbert was waiting for them, ready to act at her command.

  She just didn’t know now if she could give it.

  * * *

  As soon as the door closed behind the duchess and the rabble that held her, the statue broke his pose and headed for the crypt at a run. Trevelyn thanked the stars for his training as Larla’s figure model. He doubted he’d have been able to hold himself motionless like that without it.

  He’d tried to arrive at St. Paul’s in time to stop Artemisia from going into the crypt. It had taken him longer than he anticipated to liberate a horse from his father’s stable. He was slipping silently through the church’s side yard when Naresh succumbed to the big Russian’s superior size and strength. Trev considered engaging the man in hand-to-hand combat, but he was more interested in Larla’s whereabouts, so Trev followed him and the unconscious Naresh into the cathedral. Thanks to a trick of acoustics, he was able to listen to the conversation in the crypt from the top of the steps.

  It took every ounce of his will not to vault down the stone stairs to come to Artemisia’s rescue. He would have happily shaken her till her teeth rattled for going down there alone, but the odds were three against one, and he couldn’t be sure he could extricate her without endangering her further.

  Such action violated all his intelligence training. If he followed his instinct and tried to save her from this predicament, he jeopardized his mission to retrieve the key.

  What a perfectly vicious little circle.

  His gut churned. So this was why the Service recommended men involved in the Great Game remain bachelors. It was too hard to choose between personal and state interests. If push came to shove, he had no doubt Queen and country would fall a distant second to the Duchess of Southwycke.

  “Westminster Bridge,” he repeated under his breath. On horseback, he could beat the ambassador and his captives there by taking a few judicious shortcuts. But he needed reinforcements now that he knew where to send them.

  He found Naresh struggling against his bonds. With a few slashes of his penknife, he cut the man free. “Are you well enough to run for help?”

  Naresh nodded. “Where shall this help be coming from then?”

  “Take this.” He pulled off his signet ring. “Show it to Ezekiel Rakestraw at the Blind Dog on Beacon Street. Tell him Mr. Doverspike is in need of assistance on Westminster Bridge. Tell him the key is in play. He’ll know what to do.”

  Naresh rose to his feet. “There is no code phrase? Always when I took a turn at the Great Game with Angus—”

  “The ring will serve. There’s no time,” Trev said, suddenly impatient with the cloak-and-dagger nonsense surrounding his clandestine activities. Once it had all seemed so romantic and exciting. Now that Larla was caught in the middle of the Game, it lost its allure. “Tell him not to dally. Send as many as he can. Tell them to come quietly and wait for my signal.”

  Then he and Naresh ran up the stairs, through the nave and into the deepening night.

  Chapter 31

  Trevelyn waited in the dark alley, listening for the clatter of the ambassador’s coach. His horse’s withers were lathered and the beast heaved beneath him. He regretted the necessity of pushing his mount so, but he had to cut Kharitonov off on the way to Westminster Bridge. They were sure to come along this street from St. Paul’s. Trev only hoped he’d beaten them to this point.

  The gelding he’d ‘borrowed’ from his father’s stable was unshod in preparation for the coming turn of the season. But even so, the horse had delivered every ounce of speed Trev had required. He’d ask more of the gelding before the night was over.

  “One more push, old boy,” he whispered as he leaned down to pat the horse’s quivering neck. “Then so help me God, I’ll see you’re sent out to the country estate with nothing but soft grass under foot for the rest of your life.”

  The gelding snorted a horsy laugh, as if he’d heard that promise before.

  Then the ambassador’s coach rumbled past, its running lanterns swaying. One of Kharitonov’s henchmen was lashing the pair of matched bays into a canter. The other stood on the rear rail, clinging for dear life.

  Trev smiled. A chance to even the odds.

  He dug his heels into the gelding’s sides and the horse leaped into a gallop, head down, ears laid back, surging after the coach. With a
ll the rattle and clatter the ambassador’s vehicle made, Trev hoped the Russian perched on the rear rail wouldn’t hear the pounding tattoo of his approach until it was too late.

  He leaned over his horse’s neck, crooning soft encouragements, as they gained on the coach with each stride. He was almost close enough to reach out and grab the man’s flying coat tails, when the carriage made a sharp turn. The Russian must have seen Trev from the corner of his eye, for he gave startled shout to his companion. The driver tossed a look over one shoulder and whipped the bays into a gallop.

  The coach inched away from Trevelyn as his horse tired by the moment.

  “Yah!” Trev exclaimed as he whacked the gelding on the rump. The startled horse erupted in a fresh burst of speed and brought him even with the rear wheels of the coach.

  Trev grasped the brass rail that topped the vehicle, hauling himself out of the saddle. As he dangled there, fighting for a toehold, his horse fell swiftly astern, like a punting boat in the wake of a royal barge.

  A Russian fist came flying at Trevelyn’s head and he managed to dodge the blow by releasing one hand to swing away from it. Then Lubov brought his hammer-fist down on Trev’s knuckles, trying to break his hold on the brass rail. He clenched his fingers all the tighter and swung his other hand back up.

  Trev knew he couldn’t match the larger Russian blow for blow, so he lashed out with his feet. He knocked Lubov’s boots off the coach rail and his weight and gravity did the rest. The big man lost his hold and cartwheeled to the pavement.

  Trev scrambled to secure his own footing on the rail and then turned to look over his shoulder. Lubov rolled to a stop in a tangled heap, his limbs splayed in unnatural angles. The big Russian would trouble no one else this night.

  One down, two to go. Wonder if that driver has a blunderbuss under his seat?

  As it always did, the intoxication of The Great Game sent blood screaming through his veins. But the Game had taken a deadly turn and Larla was still in the middle of it. He shoved the thought aside. If he let himself dwell on her danger, it would paralyze him and he needed to act to save her.

  Now.

  * * *

  From inside the swaying coach, Artemisia heard the shouts but couldn’t understand the Russian words. The ambassador fidgeted in his seat and craned out the window trying to see what disturbed his subordinates.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” the ambassador snarled.

  Several loud thumps sounded over head, as if someone were on top of the coach. Before Artemisia had time to wonder what it meant, the vehicle swerved wildly, knocking her from one side of the seat into poor Mr. Shipwash’s already battered form and back again. Then there was another cry and the coach bounced into the air as first the front wheels, then the back lurched over a large bump in the road. Artemisia knew the condition of several London streets was deplorable, but surely not so bad as that.

  Her breath hissed over her teeth. Had a person fallen beneath their carriage? If someone were trying to interfere with their progress, that someone could only be Trevelyn. The thought of him lying broken along the cobblestone street almost caused her to be sick on the spot.

  The coach continued to rumble into the night, and she heard the deep tolling of Big Ben’s chimes sounding three-quarters past the hour. The ambassador settled back in his seat, satisfied that his men had dealt with the problem. If Trevelyn had intercepted them somehow, surely they wouldn’t still be clattering toward Westminster.

  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to give the ambassador the pleasure of seeing her weep.

  “We are near bridge.” Kharitonov reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a derringer. “Do not to try my patience, Your Grace.”

  The coach rolled to a stop at the west end of the bridge.

  “Out,” the ambassador said to Mr. Shipwash. “And do not run or I have to shoot you. That would give to me pain.”

  “Heaven forefend we should cause you pain,” Artemisia observed tartly. She climbed out of the coach after her assistant, relieved that he was able to stand on his own. In the waning moonlight, a lone figure stood at mid-span on the dark bridge. Faithful Cuthbert was there with the key in hand. At the far end of the bridge, a carriage waited to bear them all away.

  “Call to come here your man.” Kharitonov hauled his bulk out of the coach.

  “He is under orders to remain where he is no matter what. The only thing he will do now is toss the key into the Thames at my command,” Artemisia said. “Cuthbert has given me his word of honor he will not respond if I countermand my previous directive under duress. Believe me; the gentleman has a will of iron. If you want the key, you must release us. Once we are settled in the far coach, I will direct Cuthbert to leave the key on the stone railing.”

  “Clever, Your Grace, but I more clever,” Kharitonov said, one bushy eyebrow cocked. He brandished the derringer in her direction. “Come. To him we go.” Without taking his gaze from her, he barked an order to his driver. “Stay with coach, Oranskiy. Lubov, come.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Ambassador, but Mr. Oranskiy left the coach some blocks back,” a cool-sounding voice came from the driver’s perch. “Along with the unfortunate Mr. Lubov.”

  Artemisia looked up to see the face she wished most to see in all the world. Trev grinned down at them, despite having one eye nearly swollen shut. A blunderbuss rested comfortably on one knee, the barrel cocked and ready to fire at the ambassador. Relief flooded her at finding Trevelyn well and whole—barring the shiner, of course—and most especially, firmly in possession of a wicked-looking firearm.

  “You, sir, will kindly allow the lady and her friend to leave unmolested,” Trev said, his tone even, almost cordial, but there was a glint of steel in his eyes as he glared down at the ambassador.

  “Nyet, Shipwash can go, but I keep duchess.” Kharitonov grabbed Artemisia and yanked her in front of him. She felt the cold circle of the derringer’s barrel at her temple. Her blood pounded against the steel. “Don’t move, Your Grace. This trigger, very—what is word?—touchy. For it to go off by accident I would hate.”

  “I’m sure none of us want that. Please, Your Excellency, I’m not really large enough to make do as a shield, you know. We’re rational adults here. We can come to an agreement we can all live with,” she chattered, knowing she did so, but unable to keep her mouth from rattling on.

  “Here is agreement Her Grace can live with,” Kharitonov said to Trevelyn with menace. “You blunderbuss to put down and I bullet do not to put in her brain.”

  “If you harm the duchess, you’ll never leave this bridge alive.” Trevelyn was unmoving as granite.

  “In game of chance, man who cares least wins. Who cares least I wonder, whether this lovely woman alive tomorrow? I give to count of three. One . . . two . . .”

  “Stop,” Trev said with an upraised hand. “I agree to your terms. Now I’m going to move very slowly and stow the weapon under the seat.”

  “Da, that will do.”

  Without taking his eyes off Kharitonov, Trevelyn uncocked the blunderbuss and slid it back into its niche. Then his gaze flitted to Artemisia.

  In that split second, she read his frustration, his fear and his love for her. She also saw that every muscle in his body was tense as a watch spring.

  “Better,” the ambassador said.

  Artemisia felt the derringer ease away from her skin, still perilously close, but no longer touching.

  “Now what?” Trev asked the ambassador.

  “Now, Mr. Thief.” Kharitonov turned the derringer on Trevelyn. The gray muzzle glinted in the moonlight. “Is your turn to die.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Artemisia cupped her mouth to shout. “Cuthbert! Toss the key!”

  As time expanded and contracted around her, Artemisia was acutely aware of a multitude of things at once. She turned to see her butler heave a small weighted packet into the sludgy water with the force of a cricket pi
tch.

  “Nyet!” Kharitonov screamed in fury.

  Trev leaped onto him and they rolled together to the pavement, fists flying. The pop of the derringer was followed by a man’s groan. Then from the darkness on the far side of the bridge, there was a flash of light, followed by the stench of sulfur and a gray cloud.

  Another flash and cloud burst closer to them. Then another. She was robbed of her night sight by the brief brilliance. Westminster Bridge came alive with tiny explosions, followed by expletives about burned fingers. Artemisia distinctly heard a voice ask “Did you get the picture?”

  It was Mr. Wigglesworth and his fellow members of the press slinking belatedly from their places of concealment to capture the story. Artemisia had hoped the journalists would show themselves in sufficient numbers to warn Kharitonov off from his plans, but they cowered overlong in the darkness waiting till the opportune moment had passed.

  She waved away the choking smoke. Trevelyn and the ambassador lay in a heap, neither of them moving. She ran to them and found the big Russian’s inert form on top of Trev.

  “Trevelyn, are you hurt?”

  There was no answer.

  She tried to push the ambassador off, but couldn’t budge him. However, her hand did come into contact with something wet and warm and sticky. A coppery tang filled her nostrils.

  Blood.

  And she had no way to tell whose.

  Chapter 32

  A soft rap on the guest room door roused Artemisia from lightly skimming the surface of sleep. She rubbed her eyes and rose from the chair next to the bed.

  “Come,” she said softly, massaging the crick in her neck with both hands.

  Cuthbert poked his head in. “Has Mr. Deveridge wakened yet, madam?”

  Artemisia looked back at the still form under the clean linens and shook her head. She waved the butler in without a word. Cuthbert bore a silver tray heaping with buttered scones and a fresh pot of chocolate, which he set on the desk by the shuttered window. He pulled back the drawn drapes and let the full light of midmorning wash the room.