A Question of Numbers

by Andrea Penrose

  The scuff was soft but unmistakable. Someone was moving in the courtyard just outside the tower.

  Chapter 19

  The doorlatch jiggled. The hinges creaked.

  “Shut the door and light the lamp,” hissed a male voice. “We need to look at the map.”

  French—he was speaking in French.

  Paper crackled as boots shifted on the flagging. Arianna couldn’t tell by the sounds whether he had one or two accomplices.

  “Merde,” hissed the man as a weak glow of light wavered within the stairwell. “The drawing is too crude. I can’t read whether the girl’s room is in the building to the left or to the right.”

  “I say we go right,” said a different voice. “If we’re wrong, we need to come back the other way to leave through the porter’s gate.”

  “You’re sure he won’t raise the alarm over us taking her?”

  “As you saw, he’s been very well paid to turn a blind eye on the night’s activities. He won’t give us any trouble.”

  “What about . . . the others?” asked a third voice.

  Arianna frowned. Did he mean there were more of them?

  A low laugh. “If they come, they’ll be in for a rude surprise.”

  She heard the snick of a pistol being cocked.

  “Blow out the flame and let’s get moving. Do what you must to keep the brat quiet, but remember, we need her alive.”

  The door creaked open and shut. Clenching her fists, Arianna hurried down to the landing. She waited several long, agonizing moments before slipping out into the night. They had made the wrong choice of buildings, but she had precious little time in which to turn it to her advantage.

  Think! As she raced through the shadows, she sought to cobble together a plan. The door to a convent dormitory for girls would, she imagined, be barred from the inside. A window—

  Veering sharply, Arianna ran along the side of the building and cut around to the rear. As she had hoped, the ground floor held only workrooms and storage areas. All appeared quiet as a crypt. Creeping closer to the first casement, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks. The day had been warm, and someone had left the mullioned sash open just a crack. Whipping the knife from the sheath strapped to her leg, she pried it up enough to get her fingers beneath the age-dark oak and then gave a hard shove.

  Once inside, she found the stairs. How much time had it taken? So far, there was no sign of Frenchmen. Thankfully, they were playing blind man’s buff, which would slow them down—but only for a short while.

  There were noises on the second floor—a child’s laugh, quickly silenced with a stern scolding . . . the rustle of fabric . . . the murmur of nighttime prayers.

  A peek into the main chamber showed two long rows of iron bedsteads facing each other. The children kneeling beside them looked to be no more than eight years old.

  Too young.

  Emma Pierson would be on a higher floor. And if the angels were looking kindly on them tonight, she would find the girl in her own room. Pray Heaven her father paid for such little luxuries.

  Arianna was up the next flight of stairs in a flash. The cramped corridor was unlit, with only a faint puddling of light seeping out from beneath the row of closed doors. She approached the first one, mentally cursing the fact that Grentham hadn’t been able to give her a physical description of her quarry. A terrified shriek from some sheltered schoolgirl would bring her adversaries running.

  Easing the latch open, she eyed the room through a slivered crack. The occupant, an elfin sprite with curling blonde hair, was hunched over a sheet of foolscap, copying a penmanship exercise. No—not Emma, decided Arianna after scanning the rest of the room.

  She moved on.

  No luck at the second room either, but at the third, Arianna felt her pulse kick up a notch. The shelf by the narrow bedstead had several rows of English books. Moving with a swift, light-footed step, she crept up behind the girl, who was seated at her desk, engrossed in reading. She raised a black-gloved hand, regretting the need to momentarily frighten a child. But a cry could cost them dearly.

  Closer, closer—

  The girl whirled around, a penknife clutched in her fist, and opened her mouth to scream.

  Arianna managed to catch her wrist and slap a hand over her mouth. “Emma,” she whispered. “I’m a friend of your father’s. You’re in grave danger—you need to come with me.”

  The girl’s eyes widened.

  “Now!”

  A sudden thumping echoed up from the main floor, punctuating the warning.

  Pierson’s daughter ceased her struggling, and Arianna took the gamble of releasing her.

  “H-how can I be sure my father sent you?” demanded Emma. “You could be the enemy, and the knocking downstairs could be my rescuers.”

  A clever girl. “You’re right, I can’t prove it,” replied Arianna. “In fact, I wasn’t truthful with you just now. Your father didn’t actually send me. He’s a prisoner of the French. And if Napoleon’s henchmen seize you, they’ll be able to force him to betray his country.” She held out her hand. “Please trust me. We have to go.”

  Emma swallowed hard, then pushed up out of her chair and thrust the penknife into the pocket of her schoolroom apron. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll cut out your liver.”

  “Fair enough.” Arianna grabbed the girl’s arm and drew her into the corridor. From below, she could hear a man shouting and the confused gabbling of the nuns. “Is there an attic?” she demanded. “And does it have a window?”

  “This way.” Emma led the way to a recessed alcove. Set in the wall was a low door.

  With an iron padlock.

  “Damnation,” she muttered, but the girl gave it a tug and pulled it free.

  “My father taught me how to pick locks,” explained Emma as she shouldered through the portal. “I sometimes go up here, just to escape and . . . let my imagination wander.”

  Their steps on the rickety stairs stirred puffs of dust. The pinched space smelled of old cobwebs and moldering wood. A girl, thought Arianna, ought to have a better place in which to dream.

  A single window was set in the far wall. Arianna threw open the sash and peered out into the gloom. There was a drop down to a narrow ledge. From there, they needed to shimmy across the ridgeline of a peaked roof to reach the steep pitched side roof that slanted up to the belltower.

  Dangerous, but not overly so.

  “Come, I need to lower you down—”

  “No need. It’s an easy jump.” Emma pushed past her and pulled herself up to the sill. “I take it we’re going to the tower. It’s the only way back to the ground.”

  “Yes, we’re going to the tower, but from there I’ve another alternative for our escape.”

  Thankfully, the girl proved as dexterous as she claimed. Betraying no flinch of fear, she dropped to the ledge and scrambled over to the roof. Arianna was just a few steps behind her. No sign of the Frenchmen, but she knew they would be coming.

  “Be careful—the tiles are slippery with moss and the footing is treacherous,” she warned. “But we also need to move as quickly as possible.”

  Emma’s face looked pale and taut in the scudding moonlight, but she nodded in understanding.

  “Your father would be proud of you,” murmured Arianna as the girl hitched herself up and straddled the roof’s peak.

  “How do you know him?” asked Emma, over the scrabbling of her shoes.

  “We’ll speak of that later—” A light came to life within the attic. Arianna looked away from the dormitory to gauge the distance to the belltower. She didn’t think her pursuers would start shooting—at least not at the girl.

  Slowly—too slowly—they inched their way across, and hopped down to the adjoining tiles.

  “I see them!” came a cry from the window. “They’re on the roof.” But strangely enough, no pursuit followed.

  “We need to hurry,” she murmured, urging the girl forward and taking up a position behind her. Slipping,
sliding, Arianna quickened their ascent as she guessed what they were planning. It was now a race to see who reached the bells first . . .

  There was one frightening moment when Emma’s feet slipped out from under her and she started to tumble over the rough tiles. But Arianna caught her collar.

  “Steady. We’re almost there.”

  The pelter of boots over the courtyard’s cobblestones warned that the Frenchmen were fast approaching.

  Emma swiped her sleeve over her scraped cheek and started moving. They crossed the last stretch of roof and Arianna helped her scramble through the opening to the bell room. For a moment she was alone on the roof, and as she reached up, a loud crack shattered the stillness of the night. An instant later a bullet clanged off one of the bells.

  “Bloody hell.” Grabbing hold of the ledge, Arianna pulled herself up and somersaulted into the shadowed space, the shot still ringing in her ears.

  “I think I hear them—they’re coming up the stairs,” said Emma with a show of steely calm.

  Arianna snatched the small coil of rope from her pocket and hurried to the door. A series of deft tugs and knots quickly wove a spiderweb of crisscrossing lines.

  “Come,” she urged, drawing Emma to the other side of the bells and lifting her to the ledge. “At the base of the roof below us there’s a rope that will let us slide down to where a friend is waiting with a horse. If something happens to me, don’t stop.”

  Giving the girl no time to reply, she swung her down and joined her on the tiles. They were halfway down the slope when the bells began to toll, softly at first, and then louder and louder as the Frenchmen threw themselves against the door, trying to break through.

  The noise would at least rouse the city’s watchmen, and if things went wrong, it would make it harder for the dastards to kidnap Emma.

  The girl reached the rope. “Take hold of it and walk yourself down the wall,” called Arianna as she drew her pistol. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Hurry!” urged Sophia from the shadows below.

  Showing the same steely nerve as her father, Emma didn’t hesitate.

  Arianna darted a look at the bell room. The rope was holding. Her gaze swiveled back to the girl. And so, thank the heavens, was the lifeline leading an innocent child to safety. Holding her weapon ready, she slid down to the edge of the roof. Shouts were starting to rise from near the convent’s main gate.

  “Go!” she called to Sophia as her friend caught Emma in her arms. “Get her away from here!”

  Sophia spun around and flung the girl onto the saddle, then thrust a foot in the stirrup and vaulted up behind her. Spurs flashed, the reins pulled taut and with a foam-flecked snort, her horse kicked up its hooves and shot off at a gallop.

  The bells stopped ringing. Arianna seized the now-limp rope and rolled off the roof just as a bullet whistled over her head.

  Where the devil is Grentham? The thought suddenly struck her as she slithered down to the ground. He had been keeping guard at the rear of the convent, where the various entrances for supply carts and tradesmen were deemed the most likely spots for trouble.

  Surely he must know that something was amiss.

  A lantern flashed at the top of the alleyway. Whirling around, Arianna set off at a dead run for the opposite end. The carriage. She reminded herself that they had agreed to make their way back to the carriage separately, to avoid attracting attention. No doubt he was waiting there—and grumbling over the fact that she had managed to cause all hell to break loose.

  The corner loomed just ahead. Heading left would take her to the rendezvous spot. And yet, as she slowed to make the turn, Arianna suddenly veered around to follow the convent wall. Let him mock her for feminine intuition if he wished, but something didn’t feel right.

  The side street was unlit, and with the ink-dark shadows cast by the high walls, she couldn’t make out anything more than amorphous shapes and murky flutters within the gloom. She paused to cock an ear, but heard only the soft whisper of the breeze against stone. Then, step by tentative step, she crept forward, all her senses on full alert.

  The wall jogged inward, creating a small loading area just outside the back gate. Her eyes, now adjusted to the muddled moonlight, could make out a long, low lump atop the cobblestones. Dropping to a crouch, Arianna drew back the hammer of her pistol and scooted forward.

  A body—lifeless and lying face down. Her breath came out in a sharp sigh of relief. Not Grentham, she realized. The man was mostly bald, with only a scraggle of greasy hair fringing his pate. A finger to his throat found no pulse. By the odd angle of his head, it appeared his neck had been broken.

  Arianna got to her feet. Voices were echoing in the alleyway—she had to hurry. Moving away from the dead man, she swept her gaze over the cobbles, looking, looking, looking . . .

  There, deep in the shadows—a knitted black toque, identical to the one she was wearing, was lying up against the wall.

  And as she picked it up, her fingers turned red with blood.

  More shouts rang out as blades of lantern light cut through the night.

  Not daring to linger any longer, Arianna stuffed the hat in her pocket and made herself disappear.

  Chapter 20

  As the carriage turned into the mews, Arianna threw open the door and jumped down to the ground before the wheels stopped turning.

  “José,” she called to the coachman. “See to the horses, then hurry to the house.”

  “Sí, milady.”

  “And bring your pistol.” All of their male servants were former partisan fighters who had served with Saybrook on the Peninsula. They were highly skilled at handling both firearms and blades.

  Spotting Sophia’s lathered mount hitched to one of the stall, she felt a spurt of relief. The girl appeared safe. But now they must keep her so.

  As a precaution, Arianna kept her weapon out as she hurried across the back terrace. One of the footmen was guarding the door. He had a rifle in his hands and the butt of a pistol protruding from his pocket.

  Good man. She nodded approvingly as he let her in and then reset the bolts. “Miss Kirtland and the child are down in the pantry, along with Lady Sterling,” he informed her. “Antonio and I thought it best for them to be in a windowless room.”

  “Thank you, Tomás.” Arianna hurried for the stairs leading down to the kitchen area. As she crossed the flagstones and approached the storage room’s doorway, the mellow glow of the lamplight inside showed Emma perched on a stool, a steaming mug of hot chocolate cradled in her hands. A table and several other stools had been moved into the cramped space. And someone—no doubt Antonio, who had a special fondness for the dowager—had carried one of the upholstered armchairs down from the drawing room and set it in a corner.

  Constantina shot from the cushions, her face betraying a spasm of relief. “Thank God you’re safe.”

  Sophia smiled a welcome, but her gaze was on the shadows outside the door. “Where’s Grentham?”

  “I don’t know.” Arianna fished the knitted toque out of her pocket and set it on the table. “But I’m afraid,” she added, quickly wiping her blood-smudged fingers on her black trousers, “that we had better be prepared for the worst.”

  Sophia uttered a string of unladylike curses that made Emma’s eyes widen to the size of saucers. Her fist hit the tabletable with a bone-rattling thud. “A pox on that devil-damned hussy. She sent us into a trap.”

  “It’s quite possible.” Arianna compressed her lips to a grim line, painfully aware that her decision to trust Paloma Marone-Cinzano had perhaps sent the minister to his death.

  Click-click—she checked the priming of her pistol. “Be assured I mean to find out.”

  “But . . .” The dowager gripped her cane, her frail hands turning white. “Shouldn’t you wait until Sandro returns? I don’t think he would wish for you to dash off into danger alone.”

  “There are a great many things Sandro doesn’t wish for me to do,” she replied. “Non
etheless, there are times when I must listen to my conscience, not my husband.”

  “And besides, you won’t be alone.” Sophia’s boots hit the flagging with a thump. “I’m coming with you.”

  Arianna was about to argue, but one look at her friend’s face and she merely nodded.

  “You know where the lady lives?” demanded Sophia.

  “Yes.” She had thought it wise to make some discreet inquiries about Paloma. And yet, she had still been played for a fool.

  It wouldn’t happen again.

  “Then let’s be off,” said her friend.

  “Arianna . . .” The flickering lamp flame caught the deeply troubled look pooled in Constantina’s eyes. “Do be careful.”

  “Wait here and stand guard.” Careful to muffle any sound from the metal, Arianna tested the door latch to Paloma’s residence and then drew a thin-bladed pick from her pocket.

  “Shouldn’t I come with you,” whispered Sophia, “in case—”

  “No.” A deft twist and the lock released without a sound. “You need to ensure that no one comes in.” This was personal. She wished to confront Paloma mano a mano.

  “Or out,” she added, carefully cocking the hammer of her pistol.

  Sophia gave a reluctant nod and flattened her back against the wall.

  The entrance foyer was dark. Arianna crept into the corridor. The stairs loomed as a black silhouette leading up into an impenetrable gloom. All appeared to be slumbering on the floor above. Inching past the newel post, she felt her way along the paneled wainscoting, looking for any sign of life behind the unseen closed doors.

  There it was—a faint razor-thin line of light caught her eye. She approached and placed a palm on the smooth oak. It eased open on well-oiled hinges.

  A brace of candles sat atop the escritoire, illuminating the long-fingered grace of Paloma’s right hand drawing a pen over paper. A fall of raven-colored hair curtained her face. A breath of air must have warned her of an intruder, for in the next instant, she shifted in her chair, revealing the pocket pistol gripped in her left hand.